Rated M: language, violence, sexual themes, self-harm, suicidal tendencies. This is a dark fic. Reader discretion is advised.
I don't own Harry Potter.
-Prologue-
"Nothing really matters..." - Queen
19 May 2006 10:54PM
She's exhausted. Physically, anyway. All limp body and aching limbs and swollen breasts. But for all the motherly hormones coursing through her, Hermione's mind is in overdrive about the office. She'd had to leave — she glances up at the clock on the hospital wall opposite her bed — exactly eleven hours ago now.
While she was giving birth to her baby, the only thing she could think about (apart from the excruciatingly painful contractions) was the state it will be in when she returns tomorrow. Maybe they missed out on some important meetings that could raise money for their campaign. There were fifty meetings scheduled on the calendar after lunch today.
It's not that Hermione doesn't trust her team; it's just that she trusts her own time management and self discipline better.
There's a soft knock on the door, which still makes her jump. Hermione's eyes travel across the small ward, lingering for a moment on the cot. There's a riot of crimson curls peeping from the horribly contrasting pink blankets. Her gaze continues moving and settles on the door where she summons the energy to wandlessly open it.
Her husband is standing there, all tall and gangly as ever, with a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates in his hands. He's grinning in a triumphant sort of way as his eyes flick back and forth between Hermione and his daughter, like he's just saved a goal in one of his Quidditch matches. She has to force a smile of her own.
"I can't believe it, 'Mione," he murmurs, stepping into the room. He quickly approaches her bed, placing the flowers and the chocolate box on her bedside table and bending down to plant a kiss on her forehead. "We're parents!"
"Yeah," she says with false brightness, her eyes settling on the cot. "Dream come true."
He places another kiss on her temple. "I'm sorry I wasn't there," he mutters into her hair, "the original portkey malfunctioned and we had to wait another few hours for the U.S Ministry to legally prepare us a new one. I was so angry…"
"It's fine," she responds, turning and giving him a quick kiss. When she pulls back, she looks into those sea blue eyes and wonders why they've seemed to change a lot since they were at school.
"Is she asleep? I'd like to meet her." Hermione urges him on by giving him a gentle shove away from her bed. As she watches Ron approaching their daughter's cot, she can't help but bite back a small grin at how nervous he looks in posture, back hunched, steps hesitant. It's cute.
Maybe it won't be so bad, this whole 'family' thing.
31 October 2006 2:45PM
Just before he got the Dementor's Kiss, Lucius Malfoy grabbed his son by the shoulders and stared him straight in the eye. Grey clashed with grey as he said, "I've made many decisions that I've regretted in my life, but you were not one of them. I was proud the moment I first saw you. Never forget that."
Draco had been determined to forget the sincerity in his father's voice. He avoided the Manor (and hence, his forlorn mother) at all costs, because in its gloomy hallways the haunted screams of tortured people would echo, the phantom blood of the Dark Lord's victims would be splattered across the walls… And Draco will never wear a short-sleeved shirt. Not at home. Not in bed. He's ashamed to even look at himself in the mirror when he has a shower. That was all his father's fault. Draco hated him. He believed he deserved to be a soulless shell in Azkaban.
Then Scorpius is born, and Draco sees him for the first time. His father's words come to life.
He cradles his son, smiling down at the dozing boy. His hair is, if possible, even paler than Draco's, and he'd gotten a glimpse of steely grey before the baby's eyelids had fluttered shut. Malfoy through and through. A soft hand grazes the back of his, and Draco's gaze turns to his wife.
His faint smile drops into a frown. Astoria is so pale it looks like she doesn't have any blood at all. There are dark shadows under her eyes and there's a sheen of sweat on her forehead even though the labour had ended four hours ago. She's smiling, though, always has.
"How are you doing?" he asks quietly.
"Fi—" she inhales sharply, and Draco's hold on his son tightens. "Fine. I'm fine." It's coming out as a rasp.
He shakes his head sharply. "Have they been giving you any pain-relieving potions? What about the blood-replenishing ones?"
"I can't when I'm breast-feeding, remember?"
"Yeah, but that was only if you could handle it."
Her brows crease. "I'm fine, Draco," she insists. He can hear the waver in her voice.
"We're feeding him with Madam Betty's Formula or something," he tells her firmly, glancing down at their son. "Are you feeling strong enough to hold him?"
When he looks back to her, that stubborn look crosses over Astoria's face, but then her eyes land on Scorpius, and she sighs weakly. "No."
Draco nods, jaw clenching. He gently places the boy into the cot beside his mother's bed and then strides over to the door. He looks down at the flashy watch wrapped around his wrist. If only money could buy time. Draco looks over his shoulder.
"I'll arrange for the blood-replenishing potions to be transferred here by tonight. I—" his voice cracks, and he shoves the hair hanging over his eyes back. Astoria is smiling sadly at him. "I know it will happen, eventually. But… the longer that boy has his mother… the longer I have…" He exhales shakily, gulps heavily. "I love you," he finally says, then opens the door and nearly bolts out.
He thinks he's going to make it.
But then he catches his wife's murmured, "I love you, too," before the door clicks shut, and then he starts to sob.
7 November 2006 7:30AM
"This is getting stupid, Hermione!"
"Stupid?" she shrieks, grabbing a hairbrush from her cluttered bedside table and violently tugging at her hair. "My shift starts in half an hour, Ronald! I don't see anything stupid about that!"
She listens to him shift behind her. If she had a mirror in front of her she bets she would see his face as red as his hair. "You can't just keep leaving Rose here with some stranger," he snaps.
"Jane has been a family friend before I even knew I was a witch," Hermione retorts, "she's not a stranger." Less stranger than your parents, she thinks bitterly.
"Well she is to me."
"Then bring one of your family members to babysit, Ron, since I know you have an abundance of them," she snarls.
"Shut up, Hermione!" he shouts, and she knows he's pointing a finger at her. "Everyone in my family has their own families to care about. Except for my own wife!"
The hairbrush gets stuck in a particularly stubborn knot. Hermione tuts. "Why the hell don't you stay and take care of her, then?"
"Because I have a match!"
Hermione yanks the hairbrush so hard that she feels a strand of her unruly hair ripping from her scalp. Blinking over her watery eyes, Hermione whirls around. Her husband is red-faced and finger-pointing, like she predicted.
"And I have a meeting with the Italian foreign Minister on their policies on house-elves—"
"For fuck's sake, Hermione," Ron growls, and he storms out of their chaotic bedroom. The slammed front door and the faint Apparition pop tells her that he's chosen his career over their daughter, too.
That's why she told him they weren't made for kids, but he was too busy looking at the lives of his siblings and of Harry to listen to her.
31 December 2006 8:13 PM
If Draco could have it his way, it would just be his wife, himself and their son sitting around their modest dining table in their small cottage by the beach. Astoria thrives by the sea.
But a man with his name has to be careful in modern society. Not showing his face in a New Year's Eve event that promotes Muggle-born culture is the excuse the blood-sucking mosquitos who are Daily Prophet apprentices are just waiting to pounce onto. They had dropped Scorpius off at the Manor, where for a reason Draco will never understand, his mother refuses to leave. Astoria was resolute that she would come with him.
"After all, no harm in elevating the Greengrass name," she'd told him with a mischievous grin. It made her look so like her old self that Draco didn't have the heart to convince her to stay with his mother.
The event takes place in the British House of Parliament, where any Muggles who are coming in for some last-year work will be deflected with a forgetful ward. Draco personally thinks it's not really respectful towards Muggle-born culture if they're hosting a party in their House of Commons, but who is he to judge about respect? He's just an ex-Death Eater, ex-blood-purist, possibly a blood-purist behind closed doors. All entirely plausible reasons for them to judge, sure, it's why he's even attending.
The hosts have done well to distract their guests from the odd location with glittering multi-coloured lights and a strange silver sphere on the high ceiling that reflects bright spots across what he believes to be a courtroom. Music he's never heard in his life is almost unpleasantly loud. His eyes skim over the mass of dancing, decorated bodies.
Someone tugs him forward, and when he looks down to Astoria's grin, he forgets all his reservations about the party. They dance to the strange rhythms and beats, and nobody seems to care that neither of them have no idea what they're doing.
"Mamaa, life had just begun.
But now I've gone and thrown it all away."
Draco stiffens. Astoria doesn't notice; her eyes are closed as she sways to the gentle verse. His eyes dart around the red and blue and purple and orange figures. There's sweat beading on his forehead. It's so crowded. His breathing starts growing heavier.
"Ahh, Draco," the serpentine man hissed, clasping his icy hand over Draco's left arm. It felt like a manacle against his skin. "You will do great things for the Malfoy family…"
He gasps, and it's lost into the sudden piercing instrumental raise. Just as quickly they are engulfed in semi-silence.
"I see a little silhouetto of a man,
Scaramouch, Scaramouch, will you do the Fandango!"
Draco wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes are caught by something sparkling; Weaselbee, in a silver suit and bowtie. His immediate instinct is laugh at Weasley. Merlin, even Scorpius could act less childish! Then his eyes land on her. The music's tone shifts dramatically into a consistently loud pierce.
"So you think you can stop me and spit in my eye
So you think you can love me and leave me to die,"
Fuck, when was the last time he'd seen her? That's right — she was screaming on his drawing room floor while his aunt carved into her with a dagger.
"Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby,
Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here!"
A hand grabs his arm; Draco jolts and flinches away. Astoria's grip slackens and his left arm slips away from her palm. He stares down into her imploring eyes, wishing he could drown into them.
'Are you alright?' she mouths. The music is changing to something upbeat which has the entire crowd bopping around, stealing space. Nothing really matters is echoing in his skull.
Rearranging his expression, Draco nods down at her with a smile. 'Just thirsty," he mouths back.
Her eyes sparkle. 'Me too," she points to herself, then at the unoccupied bar on the jury stand. 'I'll get us some drinks.'
'I'll come with you.'
She shakes her head, mouthing something along the lines of 'I'm not going to collapse by the bar.' He frowns, but gives her an encouraging nod anyway. Draco watches Astoria disappear into the crowd, and his heart tightens. Something is making the hairs on the back of his neck raise.
31 December 2006 11:47PM
St Mungo's Emergency Service Patronus File
FILE #188953
A young woman has died in the Muggle House of Parliament. Healers arrived at the scene but it was too late. The woman has been identified as Astoria Malfoy, née Greengrass. There is no question that the cause of death was her hereditary blood curse.