Thank you for your patience, kind readers! I've been doing the writer thing and pondering and supposing where/how/when I want Draco and Astoria to proceed. I wanted to really lift up the Prophet angle, since bad press becomes a big part of Cursed Child. No lemons in this one, alas. Just lots of inner dialogue.

As always, reviews and comments are life!

Chapter 5

The day after the party, Astoria stared into the mirror of her bedroom.

Is it worth it? She was inspecting her restored blue hair. After her conversation with Draco, she wasn't sure she liked it as much as she once did. Was he right? Was it just a weak attempt at rebellion?

But if I go back to the mousy brown, doesn't that signal to Mother and Father that they've won? That it was always just a phase, and that they were right in waiting it out?

She scowled reflexively at the thought. Even if it were just a phase, was she ready to end it so quickly? Wasn't this the beginning of a new chapter, where Astoria Greengrass learned to say "to hell with it" and really mean it?

The reflection looked back at her defiantly, and Astoria liked what she saw.

Blue it is, and blue it stays.

Daphne and Astoria were sitting in the dining room eating soft boiled eggs when their mother came in with the Daily Prophet.

"You'll be pleased to hear that our hard work paid off, and the event was described as 'one of the social highlights of the season'." Her mother, for once, didn't have worry lines marking her face. Instead, she seemed confident and satisfied. "It says 'the Greengrass family has reminded the Wizarding World in the grandest of fashions that there is indeed a need for tradition and elegance in these days of rebuilding and modernity.' And Daphne dear, they're very flattering to you." She looked over with pride. "'The eldest Miss Greengrass was the shining jewel of it all, dressed in perfectly-tailored leaf green robes and a delicate gold heirloom diamond jewellery suite. Hemera Greengrass shared with us that it has been handed down through the family for generations.' Lovely. I'm glad they included that."

"Congratulations, Daphne," Astoria said to her sister with no guile or ill will. Daphne actually smiled back politely, already taking on the prim manner of 'lady of the house'. Her mother looked up in approval of her youngest daughter's manners, only to double take in seeing her blue hair.

She's trying so hard not to react, Astoria thought with glee. After all, she did give me permission to return to it. I bet she never thought I would dare. It hit her that she wasn't usually the type to get a thrill from making others uncomfortable. And yet, here she was enjoying herself.

"What else does it say?" she asked, wanting to see how distracted her mother truly was.

"Oh, the usual gossip," she said offhand, looking back down at the Prophet. "A tedious mention about the Longbottom's appearance, and something pithy about the Malfoys as well."

Both Daphne and Astoria perked up. "May I see the paper, Mother" Daphne beat Astoria to the request. Astoria grimaced.

"Of course, dear." She handed it over. "You'll want to save that to show your children one day." She smiled dotingly at Daphne and caressed her cheek in an almost affectionate way. "You've done us proud, Daphne."

Astoria was starting to realize how much the event had obviously meant to her mother… and even to her sister. For her, it had been an excuse to see Draco again and nothing more. But there was definitely something larger going on. Was a little garden party actually a life-changing event for them? It seemed surreal and absurd.

Her mother got up to leave, saying "I'll be having luncheon with Annabelle Nott today, and your father was up early to travel to Paris to meet with associates. You've earned a day of rest after yesterday." And with a final nod of pride to Daphne, she left the room.

"Should I be reading the part about the Longbottoms, or about the Malfoys?" Daphne drawled, spreading out the paper lazily and eyeing her sister with interest. "I saw them both by your side yesterday. They looked liked they were ready to charge at each other like rutting stags."

Astoria rolled her eyes, something she'd have never done with her mother in the room. "You're as delusional as the person who wrote the article."

"It's not Rita Skeeter, if you can believe it," Daphne commented. "It's Lindy - sorry, Melinda Bobbin. She was a year ahead of me in Slytherin. Her family owns those apothecaries… not a society name, that's for sure. But she was part of that heinous Slug Club. I bet that's the only reason she got this job. She writes like she's jealous of me." She tossed her hair and sniffed, and Astoria saw her mother's pride reincarnated.

"What exactly does she say about Neville and Draco?" Astoria pressed.

"Nothing of consequence, really."

Astoria scowled. "Nothing?"

"Hardly anything. Only that 'the Longbottoms' presence at the party, while unexpected, demonstrates a strong commitment to building bridges between Wizarding classes.' Ugh. So trite." Daphne made a sound of disgust and continued scanning the article silently.

"And the Malfoys?" Astoria was trying to be patient, she really was. But it was hard when she knew her sister was drawing it out on purpose.

"Oh, just that their presence WAS expected. Lindy's inferring that the Malfoys are desperately trying to get society to forget the outcomes of the trials. Of course they are. Lucius Malfoy spent, what, two months in Azkaban? Out of a two year sentence? They probably bought the prison to get him out."

The offhand comment wouldn't usually have had any effect on Astoria. However, with her more recent brushes with a Malfoy, it reminded her how deeply the whole family had been involved with the war. They had all stood trial; Narcissa had been acquitted, and Lucius had been tried for only his early involvement with Voldemort. He (or rather, his very expensive solicitor) had somehow managed to convince the Wizengamot that since his breakout from Azkaban, he had been an unwilling participant who could not be held responsible for his actions. And since he'd already served time for the Ministry incident, his solicitor had negotiated an early release after two months. The Wizarding World had seemed initially to be up in arms about the whole debacle, but it had inevitably quieted down. Astoria could only assume that significant bribes and investments had been involved. Some things had changed since the war… but galleons still spoke loudest.

And then there was Draco. He'd had a private trial, due to his underage status when he had joined the Death Eaters, but the results of his sentencing had been front page news. "The Youngest Death-Eater" they'd called him. "You-Know-Who's Pupil" another jeered.

What was she doing, getting involved with someone like him?

Astoria had had enough of breakfast. "I'm going to go for a walk," she announced and stood to leave. Daphne didn't even look up as she responded. "Of course. I'm sure that would do you good right now.". Astoria knew a taunt when she heard one and ignored it.

She ended up in the gardens. Her bedroom and the library were home to vivid flashbacks of Draco (and his hands, and his lips), which didn't help with objective thought. There were so many questions bothering her: How far was she willing to take this? What exactly should she tell her parents… if anything? Did she even like Draco as a person? What had Daphne been up to in setting this up?

The manicured hedges of boxwood gave way to Astoria's favourite part of the grounds, where wild roses cascaded messily over a red arbour. They were well past bloom, a tangle of blushing hips. Through it, the garden extended into a partially walled area with a stone bench under a towering chestnut tree, looking out on a brook.

She hadn't brought a scarf, and there was a bite in the air. Astoria pulled her woolen sweater tight around her neck and made her way to the bench.

If she did meet with him, what would it lead to? Bashing around London together? Or would they just stay in his flat and find their own entertainment? Did he have any interest in her beyond this burning attraction between them? Did SHE have any interest in him?

He's a privileged, egotistical boy who was stupid enough to get involved with the Death Eaters at the age of 16. She sighed and watched the water flash silver as it rippled over stone and branch.

He had been a careless, reckless boy. But that wasn't the whole story, was it? She knew his parents, their unquenchable ambition for power and status. Her own parents were snobs, but they preferred to barricade themselves against change with their wealth, not gamble on it for more. And Draco was their only child.

If I'd been an only child, without Daphne to steal the focus off of me, who knows how I would have turned out? Maybe I would have rebelled years ago. Or maybe I would have become something harder, more rigid. Maybe I'd have broken.

True, she'd made her own stupid decisions. She'd ruined the best friendship she ever could have hoped for. She'd lied, even when she didn't need to. And she'd hurt people, intentionally, when she shouldn't have. She could have chosen differently. Draco could have too, whatever his parents' influence had been. And even though he wasn't a boy anymore, he was still casually cruel with his words, and his gut reaction to being challenged was to strike out first, harder.

But there was also something hidden and quiet and reserved about him, something lonely that she'd seen in his eyes that night in the club. He had been present… but he had seemed leagues away. It was as though he had severed his tether with reality and had no reason or purpose for being in this world. She recognized it immediately, because she often felt the same way.

The little brook sighed and shushed as it polished rocks and ate at the banks. There was barely any wind today, and the tall grasses stood by quietly, barely trembling. In the silver and amber of the flowing water, little golden leaves swept along. There was a stillness to the early autumn day that made Astoria feel as though someone had cast Immobilus.

And what about the curse?

The thought had come unbidden, finally surfacing. It had taunted her since her first reckless adventure with Draco Malfoy, and she had pushed it further and further back.

What of it? Why does everything I do have to serve that stupid, bloody curse? She kicked an early conker into the brook. It always seemed to come down to the mess her great-great-aunt had got herself into. She refused to let it rule her life.

Isn't why you got into this in the first place? To live whatever life you can? To take back any kind of control you can?

But then she thought of Draco's taunt about her having to control everything, not being able to let go. And how giving in to him had felt euphoric.

Maybe the lesson is not about taking back control. Maybe it's about giving it up.

She sighed, the sound of it disappearing into the brook's babble.

"I wish he'd hurry up and take it, then." She kicked at another chestnut.

"Take it back," she crooned seductively. "Take it all back, everything they stole from us. Take back their voice." The wizard in front of him began to gulp, as though swallowing his tongue. "Take back the blood." Patches of skin rolled off the wizard in front of him like vertical blinds, and cascades of blood flooding from the gaping flesh. "Take back the power, Draco. Make him suffer for the thief he is."

He cleared his mind, as his aunt had taught him, and pointed his wand at the wizard.

"Crucio," he said coldly. The wizard thrashed soundlessly, like a fish out of water. Blood spattered everywhere and Bellatrix's cackling laugh filled the room, echoing off every surface.

Draco didn't wake with a start. He'd become too used to the dreams, he supposed. The darkness of the room was tinged with the grey glow of deep night in London. Knowing he wouldn't fall asleep again right away, he got up and stalked down the three flights of stairs to the kitchen.

The flat was quiet as a grave. Draco had had a moment of reckless pride and told his parents that he didn't want a house elf while he lived there. As payment for his lack of forethought, he'd had to sort his own food out. So far, he'd managed three passable attempts at tea. More than passable, he assured himself as he reached for the teapot.

As he waved his wand wordlessly to fill it, he spotted the Daily Prophet he'd left on the marble countertop. It was still open to the page on the Greengrass party, just as he'd left it. He tried to ignore it, concentrating instead on summoning the tea canister and tipping the right amount of leaves in to steep. But the chant of "take it back" burned in the back of his head. The tea leaves gave a shudder, pouring more than he meant to in.

"Fuck!" he swore. He supposed he'd just steep it for less and see how drinkable it was, but it bothered him that he couldn't do something as simple as pour tea leaves into a pot. He replaced the lid, set it to steep, then returned to the Veela call of the Prophet.

There the words sat, silently mocking him. "Also in attendance were Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy accompanying their eligible son Draco. Narcissa wore a lovely couture robe of deep burgundy crepe that had all the elegant markings of famed Parisian tailor Gabriel Bisset. The Malfoys have been present at all the top social events this season, in a rather obvious attempt to take back their status as social leaders of the wizarding elite. It remains to be seen, however, if society wishes to restore their former status.

That mindless twit Lindy Bobbin, Draco fumed. She had no idea the true cost of what the Malfoys had lost. It wasn't just about social status, or respect. His mother had dipped deeply into the family's savings and influence to free his father from incarceration on that hellish island. It had worked, but the Malfoys now owed favours to more than half the wizarding elite. And what exactly had they taken back?

He poured out a cup and shot it back with an aggressive swallow. The liquid burned all the way down to the pit of his stomach. What is the point of this stupid game? You can't ever win. And what exactly are you trying to prove, living in this empty flat on your own?

He looked around, as if expecting to see someone else. There was, of course, no one.

Before he could think too hard about what he was doing, Draco took out his quill and a long thin curl of parchment. In his practiced, elegant hand, he wrote "7 Charles Street - Mayfair, London. Come."