Chapter 24: Draco

Vertigo

"Anyone whose goal is 'something higher' must expect someday to suffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of falling? No, Vertigo is something other than fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves." ― Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Malfoy Manor

"Thank you so much, Willy, dear, and have a lovely afternoon!"

Draco stopped short as he watched Theo exit the study-turned-lab for the fifth time that week. It was a Wednesday.

"Theo," he growled.

"Hiya," Theo said, walking over to Draco and attempting to place a kiss on his cheek. Draco wrestled him off.

"What is that?" Draco asked, pointing angrily at the case of vials in Theo's hands.

"Oh, I was running low on hangover potion and asked Willy to mix some up. Such a lovely boy."

"My apprentice is not your personal assistant."

"Sure thing," Theo replied with a tone that suggested that he would not take any of Draco's words into account. He patted Draco on the shoulder and continued down the corridor toward the Floo. "See you at the DA tonight? We're testing the automatic ball launcher!"

Draco sighed. "Fine."

"And I want to hear about what you're doing in your secret private lab!"

Later That Day—
The Dueling Arena, Knockturn Alley

Draco walked out into the night air, face flushed with exertion. Passing through the illusioned iron gateway of the Dueling Arena back into the damp darkness of Knockturn Alley, he looked back at Theo's marble-and-bronze fountain.

Maybe it was just the adrenaline, but Draco rather agreed that the water feature had been a nice touch on his friend's part.

The club was making significant progress. The bar was stocked, and several more test members attended that evening, including another old Gryffindor, Lee Jordan, and MacMillan's two younger brothers. These brothers were very good duelists training to compete on the international circuit, so MacMillan's involvement made more sense.

Earlier, Draco even found himself in the broom dodging competition that he had promised against former-Johnson-now-Weasley. He had expected the familiar House-rivalry, opposite-sides-of-a-war bitterness to pop up, but instead, he had felt something surprising—camaraderie. They had traded a few sharp words, but it was nothing serious, and when he lost, he found himself... fine with it. He almost enjoyed the banter.

But as he left the Arena and stepped back into the real world, the feeling faded, replaced by a gnawing sense of isolation. Theodore seemed to make friends with such ease, his natural charm and confidence drawing people to him—even Willy asked more often about how Theo was doing than about potions.

And even though Draco and the Gryffindors were playing nice, Draco could never imagine developing a lasting friendship with them. Though he no longer harbored ill will, Draco was sure they resented him.

How could they not?

Theo was excited when Draco told him about his success with the anti-glamor potion one-on-one in a quiet corner of the Arena. Theo even said that he would ask some of his former mentors if they knew anyone at the Potion Master's Guild interested in testing it.

And so, yet again, Draco had to postpone his plans to murder Theo, the charming, helpful git.

As Draco neared the apparition point, his thoughts were interrupted by movement in the distance. A shadowy figure was walking ahead of him, its steps heavy and deliberate. For a brief moment, Draco's mind played a twisted joke on him, wondering if the Aurors had set Hermione Granger to follow him around. But the figure was too large, too hulking, to be Granger.

Something about the figure seemed familiar, though. Draco squinted, trying to make out more details as the person passed beneath a streetlight. The light illuminated a face that made Draco's blood run cold. He recognized the man—it was the wizard who had accosted him in the White Wyvern weeks ago.

Draco had been drunk then, but he vividly remembered their tense and cryptic conversation.

A sense of unease prickled at Draco's skin, and without thinking, he cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself, blending into the shadows. He had to know what this man was up to and why he was back in Knockturn Alley. Draco followed the figure, keeping his distance, his footsteps silent as he moved from shadow to shadow.

The wizard meandered down a series of narrow back alleys, zigzagging through the maze-like streets until Draco had utterly lost his sense of direction. The darkness seemed to deepen with every turn, the buildings looming closer, their crooked silhouettes pressing in on him. Draco kept his breathing steady, careful to stay far enough back that his shadow wouldn't give him away.

Finally, the figure slowed down outside a dilapidated building that looked ready to collapse under the weight of its neglect. Draco watched from the cover of darkness as the man stared at the building for a long time, his posture tense and almost contemplative. There was something hauntingly familiar about this place, but Draco couldn't quite place it.

Then he saw the sign—half hidden by grime and the ravages of time but still legible: Raging Karl's Cloth and Rags.

Recognition jolted through him like a shock of cold water.

This was the place Theo had been photographed entering three months ago—the incident that had led to their questioning by the Aurors. The building had been a front for selling illegal enchanted objects.

It seemed that after the Aurors had swooped in, they shut it down and left it to rot. Draco had assumed the affair was nothing more than a closed case by now, but seeing this man here, he wasn't so sure.

The wizard reached into his robes and pulled out a key, unlocking the door to the building next door to the former Raging Karl's. Draco tensed, watching the man slip inside, the door closing softly behind him. Moments later, a light flickered on in the top floor window, casting a faint glow onto the alley below.

Draco remained where he was, his mind racing. What was this man doing here? What did it mean that he ostensibly lived beside this illegal business front? And how did all this connect back to Theo, to those runic stones—maybe even to the Death Eaters?

He soon decided to turn back, returning—with great difficulty—to the relatively more reputable shady neighborhood where the DA was located.

Draco had already confronted Theo about the rune stones, and he was not interested in resurrecting an old fight. In truth, Draco was happy to proceed as if none of this was his business. And, he decided, it was not his business at all.

He popped away into nonexistence, returning home, alone.

Draco appeared in the foyer of Malfoy Manor, his mind still swirling in frustration. The night had been long and drained him of energy, diverting though it had been—until Draco decided to play Auror. What a foolish notion. He already regretted having spotted that man in the shadows in the first place.

But Draco was also determined. That unnamed man knew who Draco was, and it was time for Draco to return the favor.

He headed toward the door leading to his basement quarters, hoping to find solace in the quiet of his sitting room. The manor was dark and still, and the only sound was the soft echo of his footsteps against the marble floor. He pushed open the door and descended, thinking ahead to a hot shower and plush bedding.

But as he entered the room, he froze.

Sitting gracefully on the brocade sofa, her legs crossed and posture perfect, was Astoria Greengrass.

"Draco," Astoria said, her voice velvety and familiar, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's been a while."

Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and braided into one of the complicated patterns that Draco knew she preferred. She wore a black linen dress and matching robe trimmed with gold thread. The dress was relatively short, and the robe was open, exposing most of the smooth olive skin on her legs.

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly, his mind racing to catch up. "Astoria," he said, keeping his tone neutral. "What are you doing here?"

Astoria rose from the sofa, her practiced movements as elegant as ever. She strolled to where he stood frozen by the doorway. In her heeled shoes, she was practically his height and didn't need to strain at all to place a kiss on both of his cheeks.

"I was surprised that the wards let me right in," she said, ignoring his question. "It's almost like you've wanted me to visit all this time.

Draco clenched his jaw, trying to maintain his composure.

His betrothal to Astoria had ended badly five years ago, with harsh words and bitter feelings. Since then, their only communication had been through the occasional holiday card—bland and impersonal.

Draco had indeed kept her on the wards. For the first year, it was an act of hope, a secret apology for treating her poorly. He wondered if she would decide to come back. Since the second straight year of no contact, though, Draco had forgotten.

Astoria walked back to the sofa and sat down.

"Why are you here, Astoria?" Draco repeated, giving in to his exhaustion and sitting on the armchair furthest away from her.

Astoria tilted her head slightly, her smile widening. "I wanted to see you, of course. It's been far too long, hasn't it?"

Draco studied her, searching for the real reason behind her sudden appearance. Did she need money? Was she okay? It was never in their nature to be direct. Instead, he remarked coolly, "Five years is a long time. … I don't recall you ever wanting to see me before now."

Astoria's smile faltered for a brief moment, but she quickly recovered. She leaned toward him.

"I'm engaged, you know. To Adrian Pucey. I thought you might like to hear the news in person."

Draco blinked, taken aback by the revelation. "Engaged," he repeated slowly. "Well … congratulations. I'll be sure to send a generous gift."

Astoria's eyes sparkled with something Draco couldn't quite place—mischief, perhaps, or something more dangerous. "Thank you, Draco."

"I'm sure Daphne is delighted," Draco remarked, recalling how Astoria's sister hoped that Adrian's proposal would distract from Daphne not yet wanting to marry Marcus Flint.

"She is."

"When is the happy day?" Draco asked, for lack of better conversation. Had Astoria come over only to rub her happiness in his face? He knew he had been a terrible partner to her, but he had tried apologizing, and Astoria had never been vindictive.

"Four weeks."

"That's—fast." It certainly was. The engagement must be new, if Draco had not even seen an announcement in The Prophet yet. He wondered if Astoria was pregnant, but even if she was, it was undoubtedly her choice and also none of his business.

So many things were not his business.

"I'm not pregnant," she said, practically reading his mind.

Draco did not know how to respond, so he cleared his throat and nodded.

Luckily, Astoria continued. "Adrian received a job in New York at a magical bank. They don't have Goblin-run vaults in America, so it's a very prestigious position. We're … moving. Together. If I'm going to cross an ocean with someone, then I want to be married."

Astoria was moving to America. Astoria, the witch who had lunch with Daphne four times a week and brunch with her parents every Sunday—the witch who visited her grandmother's grave more often than Draco willingly left the Manor. That Astoria was moving a very expensive and hard-to-schedule international portkey away?

"You and Adrian must love each other," Draco said. Astoria had never even attended a probation meeting with him if it conflicted with her lunch plans.

"I do love him," she agreed, fingering the piped edge of the sofa cushion with her well-manicured hand. "He dotes on me."

"That's what you deserve," said Draco, and he believed that sincerely.

"I'm not sure I'll fit in over there, though," she admitted, her voice quiet.

"I'm sure you'll adapt just fine."

Astoria rose slightly, maneuvering gracefully to the opposite end of the sofa closest to Draco's armchair. Her knees brushed the fabric of his trousers.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she said, "Perhaps. But there are some things I'd like to … settle before I leave."

Draco's heart skipped a beat, suspicious of the tone in her voice. "Astoria …" he began, but she cut him off.

"Draco, do you ever think about what we had?" She asked, her words now laced with something deeper, more intimate. "We were so happy—for a while. And now … well, it feels like unfinished business, doesn't it?"

He chuckled darkly. "It felt pretty finished to me." When Astoria had left the last time, throwing his grandmother's ring into the gravel of the driveway, she made it very clear that Draco would never see her again. The ashes of their betrothal agreement arrived hours later.

"I loved you, Draco." Astoria reached over and grabbed one of his hands in both of her own. Her hands were soft and warm. "I just wanted more for you—for us. You were so sad and angry at everything. I tried to …" she trailed off, breaking eye contact. "Well, maybe it was me."

"It was me," Draco assured her. "You were right, Astoria. We would not have been happy. It's still me. I'm not …" He struggled to find the words. Not happy? Good enough? Sane?

"Daphne told me you're doing much better," Astoria countered. "And you are. You look good. Better."

Draco nodded in thanks. "You look good, too, Astoria." He tried to inject a tone of finality into his words.

"Adrian went to New York to set up our move. I'm supposed to plan the wedding. Alone," she remarked, and Draco could sense some well-masked bitterness in her tone. "I'm scared."

Her dark eyes shone with emotion, and Draco felt his guardedness melt at the sight. Astoria was the type of witch who never willingly revealed her feelings. She was much like his mother in that way—always presenting a carefully curated version of herself to the world. He could count on one hand the times she was this vulnerable with him in the entire year they were engaged.

"You'll be there together—with him," Draco attempted to reassure her. "It will be an adventure for you."

"I'm not the adventurous sort," Astoria said forcefully. She dropped his hand and stood up, walking over to the fire and turning back to face him. Draco struggled to find words to respond, and after seeing his hesitation, Astoria stepped toward him, inching so close that the front of her legs pressed up against his knees.

Draco's heart began to pound, and he stood up in an attempt to move and put some space between them. But when he tried maneuvering around her, Astoria placed a hand on his chest.

"You're engaged, Astoria," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"I don't know if I can go through with it."

"You don't have to," Draco replied. But you can't use me was left unsaid. He could hear the rasp in his voice. They were so close that he could count her eyelashes.

"I won't." She agreed, looking up at him through those lashes. Her eyes sparkled with something Draco couldn't quite place—mischief, perhaps, and something more dangerous. "I want you."

Draco could feel the pulse of blood in his head. This was fucking dangerous. "Whatever we had—it ended a long time ago."

Astoria's hand slid down to caress his arm, and he didn't pull away. Fuck. Why didn't he pull away?

"Does it have to stay that way?" she asked, her voice soft, almost pleading. "You and I … we could have one last chance to—to remember."

"And then what?" Draco choked out. Astoria would go back to Adrian, have her wedding, and then flit off to New York, most likely. Draco would be another blip in her life.

"I know you, Draco," Astoria whispered, gripping his arm almost desperately. "I hated how we left things off. Let me make it right."

Draco hesitated, his resolve weakening. The scent of Astoria's jasmine perfume was hypnotizing. When had he last been this close to a witch? It must have been eight months ago when Theo dragged him to a magical spa in Norway. It had just been one time—one night with an older witch on holiday with her friends. She had left his bed early in the morning and never asked his name.

The years of isolation, the constant weight of suspicion and old grudges, had taken their toll on Draco. He had grown accustomed to keeping everyone at arm's length, but tonight, in the presence of someone who at one point had seen the worst parts of him—and had accepted them, however briefly—that loneliness felt unbearable.

Astoria leaned into where the buttons of his shirt were undone at the collar and gently kissed his exposed skin. His breath hitched.

Draco reached with his hand to caress her head, letting his fingers graze down the long length of her braid.

For a moment, Draco's thoughts flickered inexplicably to Hermione Granger, and the way she wore her hair braided back in that dark alley in Diagon. A fleeting image of her heart-shaped face crossed his mind, and then he looked at Astoria's braid again, the twist of hair cascading over her shoulder. It was almost too much, the familiarity of it all, and before he could stop himself, Draco placed his other hand on the small of Astoria's back.

Astoria's eyes softened as she sensed his hesitation fade. "Draco…" she murmured, stepping closer, her breath warm against his neck.

Draco's hand lingered on her braid, the feel of it grounding him as he struggled with his temptation. He knew he should push her away, remind her of her engagement, of the promises she'd made to another man. But he was tired—too tired, it seemed, to do the proper thing at that moment.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Draco let his hand move from her braid to her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin. He could feel her breath as she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed.

"Please," Astoria whispered. She rose onto her toes, allowing her lips to graze his, and Draco's last thread of resistance snapped.

He pulled her closer, his mouth capturing hers in a desperate and tender kiss.

Yes. They had done this a thousand times before. It was like riding a broom: safe, familiar—thrilling, even. Draco pulled her close into his embrace, knowing full well the mistake they were making.

Astoria's hands reached around his neck, caressing the hair at his nape. Draco plunged his tongue into her mouth, eager suddenly to feel every inch of her, to confirm the slight crookedness of her bottom row of teeth, to trace the shape of her lips, to possess her as wholly as he had once done before.

They both knew what the other liked and so when she scratched her nails over his scalp, setting his nerves on fire, he returned the favor pulled her closer.

She whimpered, and Draco broke their kiss, looking down at her but keeping their bodies pressed together. They were both panting, almost in unison, and Astoria's eyes reflected the distant flame inside the hearth.

"Are you sure?" Draco managed to ask, voice so hoarse that even he could barely make out the words.

Astoria leaned closer and brought her lips to meet his ear. "Take me to bed, Draco."

And he did.

A while later, sweaty and curled up in his bed, Astoria cuddled close into his side, and Draco lay on his back, putting an arm around her.

He stroked the length of her braid, now frayed from where she had writhed on the pillows. Draco felt sleep tickling at his consciousness.

Despite five years apart, the way that Astoria nuzzled into his side was still familiar, and Draco took comfort in having her next to him.

She would go back to Adrian.

Draco knew this night was a last gasp of rebelliousness before Astoria committed herself to marriage. She had always wanted to be married—wanted it so sincerely that she had tolerated Draco's continuous cycles of anger, depression, and manic experimentation for more than a year. He had hoped, like his mother and father had hoped, that their betrothal would force him to move on. But in the end, he wasn't ready, and he regretted putting Astoria through the worst version of himself.

He was relieved when Astoria left him back then, and though Draco felt calmer now, more settled—happy, even, at times—he was still not the right person for her. She wanted someone equally loving, doting, and happy. And for her, at least, Draco could not be that wizard.

He held her and shut his eyes, allowing sleep to take him over.

Up Next: Hermione leaves the mailroom.
Note—a more explicit version of this fic is available on AO3.