Word Count: 697
Scorpius doesn't stay by his side during the trek through the graveyard. Draco doesn't expect him to. Draco had lost his wife, but Scorpius had lost his mother.
Draco lingers by the gates, taking a deep breath. All he wants is to go home, to find Astoria still there, smiling and laughing because of course the past three years have been a dream. Of course she's been there all along, and he's only imagined these dreadful days without her.
Except he knows it isn't true. He can dream and wish all he wants, but there's no trading the truth for a happy fantasy. Astoria is gone; he remembers it all too well.
…
Her skin is white as snow. Draco tries not to notice, but the color has been draining for the past several months. Now there's nothing left.
The Healers say there's no hope. The illness is too far along, and all it can do is destroy. It's been a slow sort of destruction, and Astoria has rejected pain potions from the start. She had insisted that she wants to feel it, swearing that the pain reminds her that she isn't dead yet.
"I yelled at Daphne the last time she was here," Astoria says, and her voice is soft and brittle, and Draco has to strain to hear her. "I should apologize to her."
"I'm sure she knows you didn't mean it."
Her eyes rest on him, and Draco feels that sharp stab of fear that has become so familiar to him. Will this be the last time she looks at him? Will he walk out of this room, only to discover it's his last moment with her?
"I should apologize to you. You don't get to come in someone's life, make them care, and then just check out," she says. "I'm sorry."
"Hush, love, hush."
She reaches out. Her arm is so skeletal. Paper-thin skin stretches across bones which jut out. More destruction. More pain. More things that Draco is powerless to fix.
He doesn't remember what hope feels like. They've long since given up on cure, focusing instead on comfort. The illness has taken its toll and left her broken, a shell of the woman she once was.
He takes her hand. Her skin is as cold as ice, but he doesn't let go.
"Aren't you lucky? Having to look after me."
"I wouldn't trade it for the world," he whispers.
And he means it. Draco remembers his younger years. He had been so selfish then, so concerned with himself and nothing else. Astoria changed that. Astoria loved him and helped him find his way after the war. How could he not look out for her now?
Astoria opens her mouth to say something, but her words are swallowed by a pained scream. She breathes in, out, in, but the rhythm is all wrong. It's jagged and rough, and he cannot fix this; all he can do is cling to her like it can make a difference somehow.
"Please," he whispers. "Please don't leave like this."
…
He finds Scorpius at Astoria's grave. By the time he reaches his son, Scoprius has already cleared away the clutter of the dead flowers and has started decorating.
"Do you think Mum will like it?" he asks, straightening the bouquet of sunflowers and placing the rabbit figurine beside the vase.
"She would love it," Draco assures him.
Scorpius smiles, and Draco is reminded so much of Astoria. When she would laugh, he swore there was no better sound, that that's all he needed to ensure that he never cries.
If someone had told him all those years ago that he would be standing here like this, he wouldn't have believed them. He would have been so sure that he and Astoria would last forever, that nothing could keep them apart.
But now she is gone. He will cling to the memories of the days before the sickness tore her apart, and he will cherish each one. This isn't the end. Not really. Their story does not end here.
He will continue his journey, and one day, when he reaches the end, he will see her again.