Summary: That Astoria never assumed things was both a blessing and a curse in the courtship of Draco Malfoy.
Disclaimer: This story is based on the books and characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. The title and the lines of poetry come from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII. No money is being made from this. No infringement on copyright is intended.
Certain Dark Things
Chapter Four
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
But this…
-Sonnet XVII from 100 love sonnets, Pablo Neruda
On the first month after they broke up, he had taken to passing by St. Mungo's on the way to Gringotts and he always did so around the time trainee healers clocked in.
Months back, the Prophet had published a series of articles regarding untoward "incidents" involving early morning and late evening travelers. Most were befuddled and robbed, but a few were subjected to acts of humiliation, found naked and gagged in public places.
Since then he had always felt it unsafe for her and when they were together, more often than not, he would walk her to work.
A group had claimed responsibility for the act and while they remained unnamed, they signed their work with a stylized skull with a snake tongue.
Draco wondered if they were Death Eater wannabes because he doubted they were actual Death Eaters. Most of the higher ups were in Azkaban and the lower ranking members were either serving out sentences like his own or were being meticulously watched.
Now that they were apart, he had taken to waiting behind the corners of the buildings that bordered St. Mungo's, eyeing the warlocks and vagabonds that littered the street. Until the doors of St. Mungo's closed behind her, ensuring her safety, his apprehension boiled over.
Then she would walk down the street and up the steps of the hospital. And suddenly, the grip around his heart would ease, as if those quick looks were exhales and he had held his breath in anxiety.
She looked well so he was happy- if happy was the term for it- even if that meant that he was the only one falling apart.
On the third month after their break-up, a large, tawny, barn owl carrying a letter with an official looking seal arrived at the manor.
The next day, in what was supposed to be one of the best of his life, he made his way to the Ministry.
He steeled himself against the stares. He avoided public offices for this reason, which post-Dark Lord, were littered with the most loyal of Dumbledore's allies. The clock tower incident was unlikely to be forgotten.
To his surprise, he was mainly ignored and the Ministry workers walked around looking harassed, morose and indifferent to everyone but their bosses.
At the designated MLE office, a pimply man a couple years younger than him, reading some smutty magazine barely looked up at Draco, but he moved his fingers like he was asking for the bill and pointed a finger on the counter.
Not even bothering with a greeting, Draco dropped the letter on the counter. The clerk, reluctant to look away from the picture of the buxom witch pleasuring herself, read the note with a slightly pissed expression.
He returned with a box marked evidence.
Draco was struck by the thought that for two years, this day was supposed to be monumental. In reality, it was all so ordinary. Another claimed box of evidence, another Apparition license renewed, another ban lifted.
888
When Draco arrived home, Malfoy Manor was as dead as the Bloody Baron and twice as quiet.
"Mistress is visiting Master," their house elf squeaked.
A wave of blackness rose up in him and it took him awhile to identify it as resentment. He tried to justify the feeling: He admired the fact that his dainty mother braved Azkaban weekly, occasionally twice weekly, to visit his father. But his mother knew his sentence was ending today. She could have visited tomorrow. They were supposed to be celebrating.
His resentment towards Narcissa vanished the moment he approached his desk in the library which now doubled as his office. On top of the business documents was a letter with his name written in a neat, recognizable cursive.
888
It was nearly seven.
Draco tapped his foot as he waited at the bottom step of St. Mungo's. It wasn't impatience. Nervousness. Excitement. Anticipation. Maybe even a little fear. But not impatience.
Her letter burned a hole inside his coat.
Today's the day. Congratulations! You must be excited. It's a great achievement that you completed your sentence without breaking the law. I'm very proud of you. But more importantly, you should be proud of yourself.
She had addressed the letter: Yours, Astoria. There was a visceral ache in his chest as he hoped that she was still his.
He adjusted the collar of his silk shirt, centered his tie and checked to make sure the creases of his pants were sharp. He had made reservations at this elegant Muggle restaurant that she had mentioned before that she wanted to try.
She stepped out of the hospital with her high ponytail coming loose, her glasses perched low on her nose, and a big, toothy grin on her face.
In actuality, she looked like an overworked librarian who had just won a gift certificate from Flourish and Blotts, yet Draco felt his breath hitch.
She was perfect.
Then she turned towards the person next to her. The tall, chiseled, dark haired man wearing the same trainee healer's clothes had his hand low on her back and his head bent close to hers. An invasion of personal space, if Draco were to judge, but Astoria didn't seem to mind.
Draco felt like an idiot. He tore the tie from his neck. A poor substitute for what he wanted to rent asunder- the heavy weight in his chest.
He had hoped. He had assumed when he knew better. He knew that she didn't assume, didn't color her words with hidden meanings. He knew now that she wrote that letter for the exact reason that she said: she was happy for him and she was proud of him and she simply wanted him to know.
With a crack he was gone and in the wake of his disappeared shadow was a bouquet of roses, its white blooms crushed underfoot.
888
Astoria's letter fed the fireplace, an offering of anger. He watched as the flames drew closer and a corner of the parchment warped in the heat.
Then before he could second guess himself, he retrieved the letter, smoothed it out and pocketed it.
It was past supper time when his mother found him in the library, a glass balanced on the arm of his chair and a bottle of firewhiskey by his feet.
"Have you eaten?" Narcissa's voice a rope through the haze of his intoxication.
"Have you?" Draco returned sullenly. "Don't tell me Azkaban serves guests now," In a day that proved that nobody cared for him, his earlier resentment towards her returned.
"What are you trying to say, Draco?" Through the bogginess of his mind, Draco barely registered his mother's sharp eyes and equally cutting words. "I'd like you to remember that while I am your mother, I am also his wife."
His head dropped into his hands of its own accord, weary in body and in heart.
"Why today, mother? You knew what today was. Why today?"
When she spoke, he knew without looking up that she had stepped next to him, even before her hands threaded gently into his hair.
"Because today you are finally free, Draco. And he is not. And he will not be for a very long time." Narcissa tilted his head up. "He needed me today.
"I needed you too."
"Yes Draco, but you needed me to share something happy with you and we will have the rest of our days to celebrate. But today your father felt hopeless and alone and I couldn't bear that. Someday when you meet the woman you would want to marry you will feel the need to give everything of yourself. Sometimes even beyond that."
Narcissa sighed and pulled a chair next to him.
"I am so sorry I am not a better mother, Draco. What I'm going to tell you, it's not an excuse. But maybe you would understand.
"When we were all younger, your Aunt Bellatrix, my other sister Andromeda and I were sent to polishing school. Bellatrix did everything perfectly and with ease but that was typical of her, being the eldest and the heir. Andromeda hated it and took every opportunity to sneak out and avoid lessons. But I, I may have struggled but I loved every minute of it. I didn't have the same ease of your Aunt Bella, but I loved the painting and the language lessons. But most of all I loved the dancing.
"I had wanted to become a ballet dancer. So I practiced as hard as I could. And part of the dream was to run away and marry my dance partner and join the Russian troupe and tour the world. Then I met your father and I forgot all about the Russian troupe and my imaginary dance partner. But not the dancing.
"No?" Drao never knew this about his mother. He tried to imagine her as the laughing, dancing, wild child. Something shifted inside him.
It was a common enough practice to marry out of duty to bloodlines, but he was hit by the conviction that he didn't want to know if his parents' marriage was such. Part of him wished that they had married for love.
He realized that months ago, before Astoria, he wouldn't think like this.
"No, my Draco." Narcissa continued. "At first I pined away in silence. He was meant for Andromeda and I knew that our parents were already making arrangements. So I kept my feelings hidden. Then Andromeda eloped with that mud- muggle. Suddenly I had a chance. Then talks turned to us marrying.
"I knew from the start that he wasn't the dancing type of man. I knew that marrying him would mean that I would give up dancing. But I loved your father. Very much. And the Black family name was enough to convince him to marry me."
In the months after the war, Draco had spent a lot of time thinking. One of the conclusions that he arrived at was his father did not deserve his mother, and considering the way Lucius gave their home for the Dark Lord to use, he also did not deserve a family.
At first, Draco thought it was an honor. Then the werewolf and his pack polluted their rooms with his vile manners and poor hygiene. Then the Dark Lord started placing them under the Imperius for brief stretches of time. Then there were the screams in the middle of the night and the wails that kept him from sleeping, all coming from the cellar. And his father knew all about this, and he still volunteered their house, the one place a person was supposed to feel safe.
He never thought that his mother craved and felt insecure about his father's affections for her.
"He doesn't deserve you. Not the other way around."
"No, Draco. Don't say that." She tightened her grip on his arm and sighed. "He loves me."
"But you just said-"
"Yes, but over the years he has proved that he does. Maybe he learned to along the way. I don't know. But I know that he loves me. He loves you too. I remember very clearly the look on his face when I told him I was pregnant, then his happiness the first time he held you. There are times when I wish he was a better father to you, but that doesn't mean he doesn't love you. Sometimes bad acts have good intentions. What I'm saying Draco is this: He treats you this way because that was the way his father treated him and your father doesn't know any better. But that does not mean he doesn't love you. That's just who he is. And I can't love him any less because of it."
That still does not give him the right to do all of those things. But Draco kept that to himself.
"You see Draco, sometimes we cannot choose who we love."
And that was what silenced all the angry voices in his head. Because that he understood.
They sat silently like that for some time, with Narcissa occasionally taking sips from his glass of firewhiskey.
"Where did you go?"
"Out," Draco replied tersely.
"Ah," Narcissa said but didn't add to that. He had forgotten how perceptive her mother was when he was younger and he used to play Quidditch in her rose garden despite being told not to.
His mother gave him a small smile and ruffled the hair at his nape.
"Well, that's a nice shirt, Draco. When you take it off, don't wad it in a ball. You can destroy silk when you crumple it like that." She smoothed out the wrinkles on his shoulder then stood to leave.
"Mother."
Narcissa stopped and turned.
Draco stretched out his hand. "Would you like to dance?"
It was in the fourth month of their break up when he bumped into Daphne in Twilfitt and Tatting's. He had just entered the store when she stepped out of the fitting room and it took a moment before he realized what she was wearing. Swathed in several yards of white lace and tulle, Draco thought she looked like the talking wedding cake he once saw. All towering and blindingly white and quite hefty at the base.
"Draco." Her tone was as smug and icy as ever.
"Daphne," he returned in a bland tone while he revised his sentiment. A talking sheep, more like. While fluffy in white lace, there was a bleating, nasal tone to her voice.
"I suppose you would be available on my wedding. Not that there would be many social events in your calendar. Blaise insisted, you see."
But before he could open his mouth, Daphne continued. "I asked Astoria, naturally if it would be all right." Daphne's smile widened. "You know what she did?"
Draco waited for her to continue but it seemed she was waiting for him to fish for the information. Gritting his teeth he asked, "what?"
"She shrugged." Daphne tittered. "Just like that, shrugged. Of course Rodolfo would be going with her. Oh our parents are so happy about them. You know Rodolfo of the Ciano's of Italy. Related to a Marchese. You know how all those Italian nobilities are magical."
He knew it would happen at some point. Maybe that was the healer she was laughing with months ago. But the actual knowledge was bitter in his mouth.
Draco opted to shrug, not trusting his control over his temper, and even that action seemed strained. When the saleswitch approached him, he gratefully excused himself.
888
Five months after their break-up, a scroll was delivered to Malfoy Manor. It was white, inlaid with silver trim and decked with satin ribbons and lace. It said: You are cordially invited to the Zabini-Greengrass Nuptials.
The thought of Astoria, dressed in a ball gown dancing with some dark eyed Italian nobleman was enough to turn him broody and he had already written a carefully worded refusal when his mother started moping around the Manor.
It would seem that his father had been cold to her during her last visit, making Draco suspect some newly developed condition, some form of depression and he was half tempted to tell his mother to just force feed his father pepper up potion by the bucketful. But he couldn't bring himself to do so. Not after that night months ago. She loved his father and he understood choosing what was best for a loved one over one's own happiness.
So he asked his mother to come with him instead and bought her a French designer dress for the occasion. The way his mother kept on stroking the fabric for days before the wedding was the only thing that lightened his mood. At least one of them would be happy attending this wedding.
888
Draco straightened his tie absentmindedly as he trailed his gaze around the room. Daphne and Blaise were dancing and wearing wide smiles. His mother seemed safe enough despite keeping company with vultures that a few months ago were gossiping about her. He tensed a bit, deliberating whether he should rescue her from the group but when she laughed, he felt the tension in his chest ease a bit.
Then his eyes landed on Astoria.
The whole evening, he tried to avoid looking in her direction but his gaze was drawn back to her, again and again, until he finally gave up on the futility of the act.
He wanted to talk to her, to hold her in his arms, to dance and to laugh with her but all he had left were furtive glances in her direction. Unless he acted in an abominable manner, desperation his only excuse.
888
He shouldn't have done it, but pain makes one self destructive in unexpected ways.
They were back in the place where it all started, on the balcony of the Greengrass Estate. He had managed it most ungentlemanly, by practically dragging her along and had it not been for the distraction that Potter's attendance had created, he would not have managed it at all.
He hated it, but he was once again indebted to the git.
She fought him all the way to the balcony and it had colored her cheeks and darkened her eyes. He had once thought that she was attractive but was not quite as beautiful as Daphne. How wrong he had been. Even angry, she mesmerized him.
His hand unconsciously moved to touch her lips and was halfway there before he realized it. He changed its trajectory and locked the sliding doors behind them instead.
She eyed him suspiciously and despite the sliding glass doors and the potted plants that managed to hide them, Draco felt unbearably naked.
She raised her eyebrow in an unspoken question. She had no intention to start this.
"I got your letter two months ago. About my wand," he clarified. "Thank you."
"Oh, you wanted to talk about that." Her face was expressionless and he wondered if there really was none or she purposely kept it that way. "You're welcome."
Then she turned away from him and had the doors partially opened when she suddenly dropped her head.
"Did you read it?"
"Yes."
Her hand froze over the handle. But when she finally faced him, she refused to meet his eyes.
"And the others?"
"Yes," he said hoarsely.
They stood immobile, unspeaking, for a moment weighed down by the air laden with words unsaid.
Then she shrugged her beautiful Gaelic shrug. "You never responded to any of them."
What was he to say?
Instead of answering, he asked the question that had been bothering him since meeting Daphne months ago.
"You and that guy seem to be enjoying yourselves." Draco knew he sounded bitter and realized that he couldn't disguise it even if he wanted to.
Her eyes narrowed. "If there is an accusation there somewhere, Draco, I prefer you own up to it."
"Do you love him?" He ground out the words.
"That's none of your business."
"Did you-" he looked away and took a deep breath. He lost everything, including a big chunk of his pride. He wasn't planning on losing it so completely that it would become unsalvageable.
They never said I love you to each other. And he knew that he lost the right when he gave her up. Except that now he had to give her up to another man. And before he could do that gracefully, he needed to know that what they had was real.
Her hand reached for his cheek and she turned his face towards her.
"Did I love you? Is that what you meant to ask?" She met his eyes head on. Her question was without preamble. His incredibly brave Astoria.
He had to stop associating her with possessive pronouns.
The solemnity of her gaze struck him mute and he wondered if his grief showed on his face.
She dropped her hand and looked over her shoulder. Behind her, in the distance, Ciano was talking to her parents. Mr. Greengrass was patting his shoulder; Mrs. Greengrass had a smile as wide as the Great Hall in Hogwarts.
She deserved that kind of man and Draco never felt smaller in his entire life.
"Is there even a point to this?" She sounded plaintive. "I wrote you so many letters and you could not even be bothered to explain. I…." She shook her head, as if steeling herself and what Draco realized was that she was steeling herself against him. This was what they had come to- that she needed to choose her words around him.
"You made your choice, Draco. We both know you've lost the right to find out who I love." Her voice had turned resolute. Then she walked away.
With a faint click, the glass doors closed with an echoing finality.