Friday, June 27th, 2003.
Part three: Such a bitter separation.
Astoria had known, of course, it didn't take a genius to add one and one.
It took a little bit of Tracey bribing - or elbowing - and a lot of nosiness.
Being a snake in other terms.
It had also taken an acquaintance at Saint Mungo's to confirm that she wasn't speculating, neither mounting her head all by herself.
All in all, Astoria had known. She knew things she wasn't supposed to know, quite a lot of those, the only virtue she had left was that at least she'd kept those for herself. She hadn't told Blaise and hadn't needed to tell Draco.
The smashing detail that the responsibility of Hermione's condition fell back on his sadistic crazy aunt though, hadn't been a detail that had leaked. Given the face he'd made, even Draco hadn't known that particular detail.
No one had known except probably for the golden trio.
Although Potter's outburst and coward calling from a few months prior considered, Astoria doubted he'd been told.
Salazar, she'd told no one.
Except for her moronic ex-husband who obviously didn't believe it.
He was delusional that bit was certain and he was drinking his way further in denial it seemed. He'd been violent as well, those two warnings - another thing she knew without needing to be told - had definitely something to do with what Blaise had noticed in the prophet. Her digging had been fruitless though, his tracks had been perfectly covered - probably by Potter in person - but after all this, and Potter's visit to Hermione, Astoria didn't need confirmation.
However, watching Weasley lose his shit and spit his denial to the woman he'd once loved, the woman who had lost those babies, had shifted Astoria's opinion on the redhead, even if, of course, there was still no doubt that he was a cretin.
The man's horrid attitude though, only proved that he didn't handle well the grieving process. Denial was a bitch … he needed someone to blame and Bellatrix was long dead and six feet under. Or more six winds away. Now Astoria wished more than ever that she'd been there to witness that.
Anyway.
They'd told no one.
He had no one else to blame but Hermione.
Judging by the way the mouth of the last was still trembling, it was conspicuous that the grief was a very present matter. Of course no one tortured by cruciatus to the point of being unable to bear children – and only finding out about it after three miscarriages – would be expected to get over it easily. If ever.
Only Hermione was a strong woman, and she'd long passed the denial phase. If she hadn't skipped it all together. She wasn't the type of person to fall in delusions.
She was more the type who cut herself from the world by the means of locking her office door. She got busy with work to the point of exhaustion, and often drunk to cope, but she never stopped to mop around too long.
She'd been climbing the slope back up.
Astoria took the witch by the arm as they followed the boys outside. Now, she only hoped the incident wouldn't have Hermione fall back down to the bottom of said slope and have to climb up the whole grief process all over again because her ex-husband was too weak to attempt the same.
He hadn't been the one tortured, had he?
Astoria watched ahead, Draco's back stalk away, Blaise at his side. The blond's neck was as stiff as a stick. She could guess the roll of his jaw as he clenched and released it.
She gripped Hermione's arm a little tighter, thinking.
Was she going to drink or seclude herself to recover from that?
It was strange to feel this helpless.
Blaise was not one for reassuring words. He was more into stark honesty and blunt truths. He thought Hermione was much the same in a way.
You better beg at her feet then.
He had secrets, much like everybody else. He'd known she had to have some as well, what with all she'd been through with the war, flanked by two wankers.
But that sort of secret made him feel helpless.
There was nothing he could say or do that would make it better. He had nothing to say.
Blaise always had something to say.
Then, words didn't come. And Hermione looked broken again.
That day he'd crossed path with her on the way to the Leaky, the day he'd realised something was wrong with her, the day he'd realised he actually cared, came back in mind.
She had the very same empty look in her eyes.
The link with his grandmother was clear now. How come he hadn't thought of it?
Because it was too horrid and unfair that even his twisted mind hadn't been able to think of it.
No wonder Draco had stubbornly kept his mouth shut.
Bellatrix though. Draco hadn't known about Bellatrix.
The guilt was palpable around his friend.
But it was not his fault and Blaise was fairly certain he knew it as well as Hermione did.
The guilt was there nonetheless.
It had been his family's fault.
They'd become friends despite it. He hadn't known, but she had, and still had tolerated him and become part of his life. She'd broken his oath.
The selflessness and forgiveness of that woman were ... Startling.
So Gryffindor.
No wonder Draco had lost his shit. Weasley had better not cross her path again though or Blaise would make sure Draco didn't need to lift a finger another time.
He would.
First.
But then, as they walked out of the pub, boys walking ahead - because, really there were all too young to have to face miscarriages - Blaise was feeling helpless.
And he didn't like that feeling at all.
When she stopped though, and drew her wand, Blaise couldn't believe his ears.
"Expecto Patronum." She pronounced clearly.
That empty look in her eyes, it was gone though.
It was something else now, something Blaise had seen countless times before without even realising. Determination.
However blurred by tears.
A greyish otter sprouted out of her wand.
Was it really how Patronuses were supposed to look?
"Harry," She said. "You were right about Ron. He needs help." The more she spoke, the more Blaise's helplessness left place for sheer anger, the same he could smell emanating from Draco. "Healer Bradley at St Mungo's might be able to do something about it. He got punched, so you can use that as an excuse. But. If he talks about court, or if any of you try to blame my friends for anything, I'll make sure you'll regret it."
Blaise took a deep breath, the anger not quite gone, but nearly.
It was Hermione Granger.
There was nothing that could change that simple fact, not even living through the worst atrocities their blasted twisted world had to offer. Which seemed to all be specially put aside just for her.
Selflessness.
Blaise should have expected it.
She'd broken Draco's oath despite all his family was responsible for after all.
If anything, selflessness, that pure kind they'd all just witnessed, was predictable.
Ronald Weasley, however despicably moronic, daft and atrociously insensitive, was hurt, broken. He'd always been a wanker, but at some point he'd had a good heart, and been on the right side of the war. She knew this better than anyone else, Blaise guessed.
Gryffindors.
There were things they didn't and would never share with Slytherins.
That vehement threatening though, was the exception. He had no doubt that she'd act on it and couldn't help but feel a little proud about it.
Draco stared. First in shock that such vehemence was expressed on their behalf.
To Potter.
Next, in something incomprehensible, as he realised she'd just made sure someone would take care of checking on the bastard.
Who cared if he were insane? He deserved to rot in his insanity for what had just happened.
Hermione didn't seem to think so.
She nodded and the Patronus ran away, disappearing in the night. She lifted her face to them then, and it was tears in her voice that she said:
"I'll head home if you don't mind." None of them had the time to do anything or try to dissuade her that she'd spun on the spot and disapparated.
"Draco?" Astoria's soft voice reached his ear and her hand his shoulder.
Draco didn't answer, instead, he took a step back and disapparated to Blaise's.
He heard the couple come around as soon as he closed his bedroom door after him.
The evening wind had slapped her right out of her anger as they'd walked out of Hog's Head.
It had only taken Hermione a few steps led by Astoria's strong grip on her arm to realise that what had just happened, was not normal.
That Harry had been right.
Ron was not himself.
Right selfish and judgemental prat or not.
So, she'd done the one last thing she had the strength to do for him. She'd informed his best friend - not hers any more - and made sure someone other than a napping Aberforth would know about his troubles.
Still, his words kept resounding in her head.
She'd needed to go.
When she arrived in her crappy street and entered the building, it was clenching a bottle of muggle tequila in her right hand.
She'd needed to go.
Away.
And she'd had nowhere else to go but to the crappy flat she'd been renting since they'd put the cottage to sale.
The muggle 24/7 had been a needed stop.
What Ron had said, hurt.
The look in Draco's eyes, the frown on Astoria's face, the foreign clench of Blaise's jaw, she couldn't stand.
They all knew now.
All of it.
And it felt like being naked in front of them.
It felt raw, harsh, painful to see the shock, concern, worry, pity perhaps, on their faces.
She didn't care for pity.
She didn't want comfort.
She didn't need their feelings.
She had enough of her own. They were currently threatening to crush her.
You don't have a heart!
She did.
Didn't she?
You have a cold heart miss Granger, a cruel cold heart. I doubt you could ever feel love. I doubt you ever felt anything for that poor man you abused and broke to the point of being insane.
Was that how people saw her?
Cold, vindictive, manipulative.
Was that the image she gave to people? How was it that Ron could see her like that too?
He was supposed to know her.
He was not in his right mind.
Harry had tried to warn her and she'd ignored him but it was undeniable now.
Even Skeeter had seen it.
Damn. How blind had she been?
Ron was broken.
He was delusional to the point where it needed help. It was no longer some kind of Gryffindor hope that made him keep trying. She wondered if it had ever been.
He was broken.
He'd broken and she hadn't even realised.
Well, she'd been in so much pain that there hadn't been anything she'd really noticed anyway. The only person she had wanted to talk to had ignored her. Harry had even believed whatever Ron had told him.
Harry believed her to be cold-hearted as well, didn't he?
How could he ever believe that? When she'd always been there for him!
Always giving advice, always there to listen.
Right.
Always the pragmatic one, with the logical advice, the book definitions known by heart.
Cold.
She'd always been pragmatic and everything she'd ever done had always been thoroughly thought through.
Until she'd lost a baby.
Hell had broken loose after that.
Her pragmatism had been buried under waves of feelings she'd had no idea how to process because they were not logical.
And the friend she'd needed the most, for he was running on feelings, hadn't been there then. He hadn't seen.
How much pain was someone supposed to feel for a foetus anyway? Not bigger than an ant, not developed enough to be viable, not big enough for her to even feel.
Not even fully nested in her belly.
Because it couldn't.
How much pain for a microscopic bit of mingled cells?
She would have been remotely fine if it had only happened once though.
Trouble was, it hadn't.
She'd changed then, she was still very much her pragmatic and logical self, yes, but sometimes her feelings took the upper hand now.
Sometimes, she couldn't help but reassess every situation from an emotional point of view.
Filling the divorce papers had been an inward debate she'd tried to assess with the same calm and logic she used at work but had failed miserably. Hence why she'd postponed it for almost a year before being able to sign them.
The thought hit her then.
Ron still believed her to be that person whose reason always prevailed as well. Whose feelings were deeply buried under a tall mountain of knowledge, logic, reason or pragmatism.
He had never seen her grief, never seen her pain, and she realised just then, that his behaviour, his denial and his pushing of her to keep going, were more or less her own fault.
She'd tried to spare his feelings, she'd agreed to have children in the sole purpose of keeping him happy, she'd denied herself almost everything, including her impossible schedule that she'd had to rearrange, so that he'd get the happy family he wanted, she'd swallowed back her tears when she'd seen the pain in his eyes the first time, she'd kept trying because it'd been what he wanted, she'd tamed the news when Bradley had discovered her predicament.
Why?
Because she'd loved him with all her heart. Because they'd all been too young, lost and traumatised from fighting in a war for most of their lives and she'd decided she cared more for his feelings, than her own complicated and irrational ones.
She rubbed her face with her left hand before opening the kitchen door, the wrapped bottle still firmly held in her right.
What a stupid thing to do.
So much for the brightest witch of her age.
It was no wonder he hadn't believed her.
He'd seen none of her sacrifices.
All those sacrifices were the reason Ron still saw her as the self-righteous teenage girl she'd been during the war.
He'd neither seen her pain, nor the way she'd changed, because she'd hid it from him in order to spare him, and she hadn't seen him lose his shit because she'd been blinded. By pain, grief, and misplaced selflessness.
As she sat at her kitchen table, unwrapping the bottle from its paper, and taking care of uncorking it slowly, she let go of a deep shattering breath.
Grief should have been enough of a burden.
Guilt was coming along now.
Whether it was rational or not to feel this way was no longer relevant.
She'd learnt the hard way that trying to logic yourself out of feelings was an impossible task.
A painful one too.
She didn't need more pain.
She poured herself a glass and took a tentative sip. It was close in taste to detergent, but after a few glasses, the acrid taste faded and was replaced only with drunkenness. The type of drunkenness she hadn't wished for in a while.
Well, the last time had been after seeing Ron as well, at least that wasn't about to change.
Maybe she'd even make a mess of her kitchen floor.
She'd have to clean it herself this time.
No Aberforth to save the day.
Or the carpet.
Draco had watched the exchange rooted to the spot in burning ire. He'd watched this man, a man he'd always despised for the wrong reasons, as he'd accused, insulted and screamed at Hermione.
Truth was Draco had hated the bastard more out of principle at the beginning. Then, it had morphed into something he'd called hate but had truly been envy. Not that anyone would ever know but he'd envied the wanker for his bravery, for the way he'd always stuck to his beliefs, the way he'd fought against what he thought was wrong, this man, part of the sacred twenty-eight too, his complete opposite, who had always made the right choices.
So, Draco had watched, his fists clenching and loosening every second, his jaw trembling and tightening until he could feel each and every one of his teeth hurt, up until the rotter had said the one-sentence too much.
You don't have a heart.
Draco only realised why he'd lost it at those words and not before, once his breathing had calmed and he was laying on his back on top of his covers.
He'd lost it because Hermione had suffered through three miscarriages. Three. Because his own aunt, that twisted mad woman, had cursed her, right under his cowardly nose, until she couldn't conceive. Because he'd done nothing.
And that man, that man he'd once envied, had just then given Draco a good enough reason to be hated. After everything she'd been through, after all the suffering Draco and his family were responsible for, she'd forgiven him. She'd forgiven him and helped him for the sole reason that she could. That she was kind. That she was selfless. That she had the biggest heart he'd ever encountered.
And that man, that horrid piece of shit had the guts to accuse her, blame her for her miseries, make all his own her fault. He had the guts to say she had no heart! He'd deserved it.
As if to confirm his thoughts, Draco punched the pillow flat and put his head back on it.
Weasley of all people should have known how hurt she was, he who had suffered the same thing and hadn't coped. He hadn't grieved. He was the coward. Too afraid to face his grief, accusing the one person that had suffered more.
She'd been tortured for Salazar's sake!
What a disgusting piece of cowardly shite that wanker was.
One thing they had in common.
Another punch in the pillow didn't help ease Draco's nerves.
Still, the guts that rotter had.
He'd deserved that right punch. And more.
She'd seemed to think otherwise.
She'd taken their side though - and quite vehemently - but only to leave right after making sure someone would still check on the rotter.
She'd gone.
Why?
I DON'T NEED PITY OR PUPPY FUCKING EYES!
Right.
She'd gone because she hadn't wanted them to know. She'd feared their reaction. Or didn't care for it. It was more likely to be the latter.
He'd known though even if he hadn't been supposed to. The look on her face the day she'd explained his oath. Right, she'd looked mortified to realise he'd added one and one.
Now? She'd looked hollow again.
Shite, would she go back to drink herself to oblivion? What was she doing now?
Stop.
Like she'd want him to check on her. Like he'd check on her couldn't just come knocking at her door now, could he? What was wrong with him?
It was the middle of the night.
He'd punched her ex-husband and his family was the reason Weasley was ex-husband apparently.
She probably wanted to see anyone but him right then.
Why had she even helped him?
She should hate his guts!
I'm not unforgiving.
True.
But the worst was that it didn't only apply to Draco or Blaise.
It applied to the piece of shit he should have broken the skull of as well.
She'd made sure he would be taken care of!
She would forgive him eventually, wouldn't she?
I'm not unforgiving.
FUCK!
After what he'd said to her the bastard didn't deserve a thought from her!
She clearly disagreed.
Couldn't her selflessness have some limits though? Like when it came to her own frigging sanity and well-being?
Well, no, it was the point of selflessness, right?
Fucking Gryffindor shite.
If it weren't for it though, she wouldn't have helped him either, would she?
She wouldn't have stood for them in her patronus or healed that stupid wanker's nose to erase any proof of his punching either.
STILL! She'd made sure he'd go to Mungo's!
The anger Draco felt seemed just as irrational as it seemed justified.
It was so confusing it only angered him more.
Punching his pillow, again, did nothing to help.
That fucking Weasley scum! Was there anything he didn't piss on?
She watched the picture in her hands, only then realising she'd accioed her beaded bag.
Both Harry and Ron had their arms flanked around her shoulders. Her hair was tangled around them. Harry's own mane was poking in every direction. Ron's soft strands were waving on his forehead.
Hagrid's hut looked gigantic around them.
Fang's tail was waving at the bottom of the picture.
They were smiling.
It felt like an eternity ago.
When was the last time the three of them had laughed together?
She couldn't even remember.
The picture had been taken on the reopening day of Hogwarts, when the after-war joy and excitement had been at its apex. They'd all been partying at night, helping rebuild the castle during the day, answering interviews like little celebrities, signing autographs in the streets.
They'd been in that post running-away-from-death state.
Euphoric.
In love.
So much had changed, not so long after that picture.
They'd all returned to reality, the economy slowly falling apart, the Ministry in shambles, orphanages overflowing, prisons all the same, money coming short from all the celebrating.
They'd had to take a job, exempt from exams or not.
So, they had.
There had been so much to do that during the next year they'd hardly seen each other, other than at the Burrow when Molly would threaten the whole of them.
Harry and she had been the busiest of them all.
So many Bills had been passed in the following years that her personal life had felt like a futile matter.
To anyone else but Ron and herself.
Hence why even the wedding had been rushed.
All had broken apart shortly after that but only in the private space of their little cottage, there'd been so much to do on the outside and so much public trust to keep that it hadn't been an option to spill their personal little issues for the world to see.
They'd swallowed it back until it had been too much for Hermione to take.
Until she'd swallowed so much back since she'd been eleven that it had all burst out of her system, a red flag, telling her it was time to frigging feel.
Harry and Ron hadn't been exempt to the changes either.
Harry had become this security obsessed man, constantly working and proposing Bills to her department, constantly arguing with the Wizengamot.
Ron … Well, two warnings, Harry had said. Violence, she guessed, and drinking. Incoherence, denial. Ron had broken, in the silence of his own mind, without anyone realising until a few weeks ago.
She had broken as well, but she'd been better.
She'd felt better, even Kingsley had seen! Getting away from it all, divorcing Ron had been the right thing to do!
For her though.
But then, they'd all changed so much anyway that if it hadn't been for the miscarriages, they would have broken up over something else and she knew it.
She would have preferred it had.
If only she'd listened to Mrs Zabini at the time … But she hadn't.
Still, she'd felt better. Felt being the key word.
She'd let herself feel and her feelings had told her to let go. To spare herself for once.
She had. With a great deal of trouble, but she had.
And then she'd started feeling better.
Since … well, since breaking Draco's oath probably. No, even before.
Since she'd decided to break it. Right.
She'd felt that spark of determination overtake her once again, her feelings of revolt and anger pushing her forward.
It had made her feel alive again. It was what she was born for after all. Fight injustice.
She just had never fought it on her own behalf until the divorce.
Helping Draco had been different though, it had strangely felt personal. Without those feelings she didn't know if she'd have insisted he accepted her help. She'd certainly have offered, but not insisted.
She didn't regret it, oh no, and not only because doing it had made her feel like herself again. Hell, threatening Nott and Parkinson - as frightening as the whole experience had been - had been the most thrilling and exhilarating thing she'd done in years.
But because ... Draco.
She'd been so happy for him when they'd finally broken the oath.
She couldn't really explain it, not even to herself, but it felt right. And she kind of followed her feelings a bit more those days.
Being a part of Draco's life, of their lives, felt right.
She wondered if without them, she'd have stayed in the slumber state she'd been in after the divorce.
Probably.
The three of them, Astoria, Blaise and Draco, had played such a significant part in her feeling better.
There was no doubt.
Until that night. Until Ron. Again.
They'd had a nice evening until he'd come pissing all over it!
Now she was dead drunk and alone, swimming in self-pity and misery. All over again!
They'd had a good evening!
They'd laughed!
She'd been talking to Draco as if no incident had happened!
Draco.
Shit Draco.
Draco had punched Ron.
Merlin Draco! He'd hurt himself and she hadn't even cared enough to check on him!
She'd been worried he'd hurt Ron severely, and she'd only thought of the consequences of that.
She'd had few thoughts. Ron, unconscious. Draco, Azkaban. Diagnosis spell. Quick.
She hadn't even checked on Draco!
She hadn't even said a word to him!
Merlin's blasted socks!
Should she go to Blaise's to do so now? Or apologise?
A big fat and manly snort made its way out of her throat, she was way too drunk for that now.
It was the middle of the night.
Damn it!
What an utter poor excuse for a friend she was!
She pushed the picture away from her in frustration. On second thought, she swept the whole bag on the floor as well. There was nothing pleasant in there.
She rubbed her face in her hands and made to pour herself another drink.
Only one thing had escaped her frustrated hand and was left on the table.
Thank you,
for everything.
Draco.
Draco's note.
The only thing in that bag that didn't belong to the past.
The only thing that didn't make her want to cry.
It had made her smile. A very private smile.
A proud one.
A content one.
Maybe it should be the only thing in there.
The rest was just past and pain.
Nothing in there made her smile any more.
Thinking of Harry and Ron definitely didn't make her smile any longer.
He made her smile.
With his ridiculous witty humour and his very new smirk-grin.
His open shirt on Sunday morning hadn't made her smile though.
Wrong train of thoughts.
Still, he was very much the present.
Harry and Ron weren't any more.
She'd thought some things were made to last for life.
Well, she hadn't taken into account the tremendous amount of trauma they'd been subjects to. There were certain things that changed you with no way back.
They'd all changed so much it was painful to realise that miscarriage or not, things would have eventually gone bad anyway.
That was definitely an unpleasant thought.
Yep, no smile there.
Tears only.
And tequila it seemed.
Her thoughts were shorter.
She was really drunk.
Draco's handwriting was definitely perfect.
If strangely doubled.
Still, it was pretty.
Just like him.
Pretty prat.
Merlin, she was very drunk.
The pillow wasn't right under his head. Just like what he'd seen that evening.
Just knowing what she'd been put through made Draco want to kill. Weasley to be precise. The way her face had lost all colour, the way her eyes had filled with tears, even if he'd actually tried to control it, Draco knew he wouldn't have been able to.
Wait.
He hadn't been able to control himself.
When had he become such a different person?
He'd never, ever, been impulsive. He'd been raised to calculate every move, to follow etiquette to the hair, to watch, see, hear everything.
Control.
His mother had taught him how to control his face at five.
He wasn't supposed to cry, wasn't supposed to raise his voice, had to stand and sit straight, talk evenly, be polite.
And, in public at least, he'd always, always respected his education.
He had remained calm at the Leaky when Potter had threatened Blaise!
He wasn't that person any more, was he?
It seemed as though he wasn't someone who stood by any more.
He'd punched Weasley. When he'd been dreaming to do so for decades but had never because back then it would have been lowering himself and after the war, it would have meant trouble.
It still meant trouble.
He'd done it anyway.
He'd dreamt of punching the Carrows back in seventh when they'd punished Crabbe under his nose too but he'd done nothing.
He'd done nothing when Hermione had been tortured either.
He'd changed apparently.
And it was fairly recent.
Draco turned on his side as he reflected on that.
It had started the day Potter had made Hermione cry.
It had continued with the decision to trust someone else with the oath. Her.
Then he'd stood up to his mother.
Wait! No, Pansy!
Now, Weasley.
Shit, it was because of her, wasn't it?
But then, her face.
Her eyes.
The tears and horrifying grief and pain even in her posture.
Draco growled and threw the pillow at the foot of the bed.
He never wanted to see that face again.
Never, ever again.
He wouldn't stand by any more. He'd make sure, he never saw that face again.
He'd been a coward.
He would never, ever be again.
That would never repay what he'd done, or hadn't, but it was better than nothing.
She should hate him. As much as he hated himself for who he'd once been.
Draco didn't deserve her friendship.
He kept tossing around the bed as her words echoed in his head.
Whatever you did anyway, it's well in the past.
I'm really happy for you. It must have been really hard to be stuck with all this since the war. Like if it'd never stopped …
Don't talk to him like that!
And I forgave him it's in the past!
Right, the past.
And what was she doing now?
Was she back to that hollow looking Granger he'd seen at commemoration?
Was she really back to drink herself to death like last time that wanker had talked to her?
Should he check on her?
He wanted to. He wanted to make sure she'd never look like that again.
He should check on her.
No, obviously he was the last person she wanted to see now, whether she'd forgiven him or not.
Even Astoria had left her alone.
She'd gone, when she could have stayed with them.
Draco would never sleep.
She hadn't needed them.
She hadn't wanted to be with them.
After all, her deepest secret had just been yelled out and thrown in her face.
She probably wanted to be left alone.
Draco sat on the bed, he wouldn't sleep anyway.
He stood, and went in the kitchen, to try and calm down.
It didn't help.
He didn't know what to do. Should he look for her address on her letters?
What would he do with it anyway eh?
Hi Hermione, thought you were probably trying to drown yourself in liquor. Mind if I sit and watch?
It'd be just like old times!
Way to go.
She'd gone, she didn't want them around.
No, she didn't want him around.
He must have made a noise because he heard the click of Blaise's door. He'd started pacing around the kitchen isle without noticing. Astoria, wrapped up in Blaise's robe joined him.
"Couldn't sleep?" She whispered.
"No."
"Sit, I'll brew you a cuppa." She smiled faintly, and Draco obliged. At least it was something to do. Astoria started around the kitchen, and Draco watched her bustle with the kettle, tea bags and mugs. She didn't ask how he took it, but then he didn't, and Draco observed her meticulously dose sugar, milk and something he didn't get a chance to see.
Once she was done she took both steaming cups with her, put one in front of him and sat next to him, nursing the other. She gave him a small smile he answered with a mumbled "Thanks."
Her eyes widened as he lifted the cup to his lips.
"Can I?" She asked, showing his right hand.
Draco shrugged and she carefully took his hand in hers, palm down. She didn't bother to ask and took his wand. Then, she lightly pressed the tip of it to his knuckles.
He wasn't even mad. Performing healing magic with a foreign wand was so impressive he couldn't. Plus, he hadn't even realised how swollen his hand was. It hadn't hurt.
Another witch he'd landed his wand to without second thoughts. In one evening.
"Thanks." He said again as she released his hand. She sighed then and watched him for a few seconds. Draco started feeling scrutinised and brought the cup to his mouth once more. Tea had never been his favourite beverage, coffee surpassing from far the insipid infused herby water, but then … Cinnamon. It was cinnamon she'd put in it. Between that and the stew, Blaise had gotten himself quite a number Draco guessed. He would never have suspected a Greengrass could cook, neither would ever bother to do anything involving waiting for the others.
He had a sudden flash of the very precious Daphne Greengrass in an apron then and almost laughed at the ludicrous picture.
"What?" Astoria frowned.
"Err … A Greengrass brewing tea … Making stew?" He frowned.
"I always forget you were in Daphne's year." She smirked then. "She'd choke seeing me."
"No doubt." He acquiesced. "Where did you learn?" He asked, conversation seemed a good distraction.
"Why with the elves of course."
"Oh." He startled. Of course?
"Right, you're a Malfoy." She shook her head.
"And?"
"So high standards." She chuckled. "But so nice when you want to be." She sighed, pinching his cheek lightly.
"My Greengrass." He easily smirked. "If you're tired of Blaise, his flat isn't the place to hit on me."
She chuckled: "See? Nice." Draco snorted but he had to admit that rare were the persons he bothered to try to make laugh. Astoria was among them now. "Just like when Hermione's around." She added and the unexpected levity he'd just felt was suddenly swept away from him.
"I'll check on her in the morning." She reassured. "She'll be fine, you know?"
"If you say so." He answered, not knowing whether she was right or more trying to convince herself.
"She will. I'll make sure of it." She nodded for herself, turning her tea bag around in her mug. Her confident gaze was something he didn't doubt. She didn't seem worried. Why wasn't she worried?
No, why was he worried?
She'd be fine.
She didn't need his worry. She didn't need him either. She'd made it clear by going away.
There was a moment's pause then, during which Draco returned to his mug. She broke the silence:
"What's really bothering you Draco?"
Right, what was really bothering him?
The answer he hadn't even formulated for himself was cut by an owl, tapping at the window. Who the hell wrote so late?
Astoria stood hurriedly though, as if she knew, and grabbed the letter.
"Shit." She cursed after briefly reading it.
"What?"
"There was a witness." She fidgeted with the corner of the parchment. "They're going to publish it in the morning."
"A witness? But … no one was there!"
"I guess she was right about disillusionment charms after all or … Oh! That bitch! Of course!"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Skeeter! I need to go check something." She hurried towards the door. "Tell Blaise I'll keep you posted in the morning." She added above her shoulder as she passed the threshold.
"Wait you're in your robe! Err …" She'd already disapparated away.
A/N: Next chapter tomorrow, because you deserve it and this one makes me kinda sad (I promise the next is way more fun).
Also because it's ready and you've waited enough.
Love, Lucie.