Chapter Text
Protruding swirls of russet, carmine, and butterscotch dissolved achingly slow into whirlwinds of crystalline white.
Every surface and crevice found itself smothered in snow; his home included. Draco didn’t think it particularly wise to ornate the manor, recent events considering, hence why the windows were the only ones flickering with candlelight and the crimson cackles of the fireplace. Even his Mother’s rose garden was brilliantly white, not a shred of crimson in sight – the tiny, pebbled path was also glazed in ice, upon which he almost fell an embarrassing number of times.
He enjoyed that Astoria hadn’t a mean bone in her, and had laughed in her gloved hands rather than bash him for barely withstanding nature’s trap. He also really enjoyed how sophisticated and knowledgeable she was, with her burgundy coat and matching hat and gloves, and her unquenchable thirst for knowledge regarding dragons (that had been simmering under the surface ever since her Second Year). Draco hadn’t even been aware that there existed ten different breeds of dragons, much less that the female Hebridean Black’s body parts were often harvested, despite ethical concerns, which Astoria seemed to be passionate about. Draco tended to agree by nodding his head and giving her hand a comforting squeeze every once in a while.
The more he got to know Astoria, the more he learned how uncomplicated and lovely she was – everything Draco had been taught to desire in a woman; including summer-blue eyes and sunflower hair and… a smattering of sparse freckles across the bridge of her nose. He wanted – no, needed – her freckles to be like the ones that grow in density and in numbers during the summer. They had to.
A cold whisper of wind swished through her lanky strands of hair, which beckoned a quiet burst of breath out of Astoria, before tucking her hair behind her ear. The wind remained calm, albeit sharp and unforgiving during the entirety of the day. It seemed surreal, how it was five o’clock in the evening, yet the sky was completely swallowed by darkness and stars.
This serenity filled an obvious hole in his chest, and he was desperate for the feeling to linger. Draco wanted Astoria to linger uncomfortably near the front gate instead of just leaving – he wanted her to forget something of hers, a trinket maybe, and then come back later for it.
They’d started courting three weeks into the month of September, and Draco held on tight to every little fact about her; her love of dragons, her excellency in Herbology, her restless advocacy for magical creatures and Mudbloods alike. Shite – Muggleborns. His Mother had been less than pleased once she had found that out, all of a sudden wanting Draco to distance himself from Astoria – stating that she had… reasonable doubt to believe their blossoming relationship would benefit their family. Nonetheless, his Mother got what she had wanted for the past five years – Draco wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip between his fingers.
“How are you holding up, Draco?”
His blood froze – he turned his face away from the skies and towards her.
There was no doubt in his mind that she was referring to the robbery at Gringotts that occurred a little over a month ago, orchestrated by Death Eaters, which, unsurprisingly, made the front page of The Daily Prophet. No one was caught as of yet, and every passerby was harmed during their attempt to flee the scene. The goblin community must still have been in mourning.
Draco considered telling her the true extent of his feelings, but ultimately decided against it. “It’s fine, Astoria, don’t think about it,” he managed to squeeze out, barely concealing the tremble in his smile. “Furthermore, I doubt that anything of value was taken from the vault. It was full of ordinary decorations and a few porcelain vases, and nothing else.”
It was unsurprising at how easy the lie slid past his lips. They hadn’t reached that intimate stage in their courtship, where sincerity was expected from either of them. Draco suspected that would never happen – her freckles upset him.
Astoria reached for his arm and snaked hers around his bicep, tugging ever so gently. She manoeuvred her body (fragile) closer to his, then laid her head on his shoulder. The gesture seemed so defeated, so disheartened, that he briefly courted the idea of using Legilimency on her to see what troubled her so.
“Do you think we’ll be able to defeat the Death Eaters this time?” her words were tinged with utter fear, and he completely understood her. It had been some time since Luna had sent that ‘informing’ letter, but Draco supposed that the high-and-mighty Aurors had lacked the capability to believe them, surely mistaking it for a joke of cruel sorts. That cursed mark on his forearm was evidence enough of how cruel he used to be, he knew that, but still, he deserved the common decency of a response – from Potter, at least.
But that owl never came, of course, much to Draco’s chagrin.
And so, he thought it best to comfort Astoria with nice falsities and answered her question affirmatively. If history was any indication, Draco was sure they’d come out victorious once again – Draco’s lips soured at the thought; it tasted wrong, and its aftertaste was bitter. It would feel like a great offense to his forefathers to even acknowledge that he had willingly been seduced by the people he was raised to loathe.
With his free hand, Draco reached up and cupped Astoria’s jaw, angling her face upward to meet his. He discovered a newfound appreciation for the distinct green rings surrounding her pupils, which beautifully contrasted with the outer summer colour of her irises. How did he live without her for so long, with her lips looking all but delectable, and her prettily batting her eyelashes at him? He needed the version of Granger that he’d created in his head to be too much of an uptight prude to act the same way with Weasley.
She could never compare.
So, Draco kissed Astoria – tenderly and languidly, as if he was trying to prove something to himself, as if he was trying to replace an unmistakable citrusy scent, with a more toned-down scent of muskiness and sandalwood.
Her lips tasted like strawberries, soft and plush. Draco liked that – the first girl he ever kissed had tasted nothing like Astoria; her lips had been too chapped when they snuck off during the Yule Ball to hide somewhere and snog. They had been mere children at the time, experimenting with each other, neither expecting, nor wanting, the stagnant thing between them to develop beyond childish rendezvous in the dark.
Astoria’s gloved hands came up and cradled his face in the same way a lover would, and Draco didn’t know what to do with that.
He gently untangled himself from her. He did not like the direction in which they were headed. It was with a heavy heart that he clutched the sides of her arms and positioned her as she was before.
The snowflakes around them were dancing no more.
“That’s so typical of you, Draco,” Pansy choked back a laugh, “running away at the first sight of trouble.” She sat there, all high and mighty on that cloud of judgment of hers, bourbon swirling in her glass.
Blaise, on the other hand, approached him at the end of the table and slung his arm around Draco’s shoulders. He then clinked their glasses together. “Don’t mind her, she’s been dying to trash someone for a week, now,” he smiled that happy-go-lucky smile of his, and Draco could hear the amusement tangled in his words. “Besides, Astoria has spent the last year waiting for you, what’s a little bit longer?”
Draco chose to sneer at the both of them. The incredulity of that statement was beyond comprehension, especially seeing as how they all had lounged themselves in his living room; touching and sniffing and downing things without asking for permission.
Except for Theo – who sat unflinchingly in one of the love seats by the fire.
Draco finished pouring his drink and took to the love seat next to Theo, leaving Blaise and Pansy to their own unique kind of deviancy. He watched as Theo took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving the loud crackles of flames.
Running through his head was his true first impression of Theo – sat on the sofa in the Common Room of their House, all bug-eyed and more frigid than a statue. In time, he’d grown sort of an appreciation for the meticulousness with which Theo moved about; poised and graceful and unnervingly observant.
“Knut for your thoughts?” he inquired as he sank down the armchair. Theo’s silence intrigued him, and his insight might prove useful.
His words seemed to rattle Theo awake from whatever web he, and he angled his head to face Draco. Burnt orange spat sparks in reflective dark chestnut. He then proceeded to search for something in Draco’s gaze, which he found deeply unsettling (but allowed it nevertheless) – it was Theo.
This intimate scrutiny settled deep within and raised hills on his skin, as only Theo could. “Have you thought of cutting your hair? Perhaps that’ll help you settle into a new temperament.”
What did his hair have to do with anything? Had Theo been spending too much time with Luna?“Hair holds memories,” Theo’s voice cut right through the bones, “it’s been years.”
He hadn’t cut his hair since the day Granger served as a character witness during his trial. His chest fluttered at the memory of her diligence and the unwanted and undeserving support she had shown him.
Draco felt his hand dropping from the side of his face. Why had he been twisting a strand of hair between his fingers?
The aggressive beats of his heart echoed in his ears. He gulped as his eyes refocused on Theo, who regarded him curiously; like a child faced with a conundrum.
Unexpected peals of laughter startled Draco out of his stupor; his ears sharpened and his grip on the armchair tightened. Behind him were Blaise, bent over backwards with joy, and Pansy, almost hunched over with a hand on her mouth – both clutching their stomach. It brought him back to a time where their ignorance was blissful, to a time where the shame had just started seeping in.
‘Draco remembered bunching up snow in a hurry, then hurdling it in Blaise’s direction, and hitting Pansy. His aim had been shite that day, as well as his mood. It had been so strange, the feeling that had risen from watching Granger tenderly voice her frustrations at Weasley in Potion’s Class, and how infuriating it had been to set his eyes on Weasley’s sneaky arm wrapped around her waist each time Professor Snape turned his back to them.
Flinging a snowball at his mates had proven to be a close second to the preferrable first option; which would have required bashing Weasley’s head in.
Howls and hysterics aside, the sight of careful and quiet Theo crouching down to swoop snow in his hands tugged at the corners of Draco’s lips.’
“Draco, mate, you just received an owl from Luna,” Blaise’s words reached his ears, and the memory dissipated from behind his eyes.
“You’re in trouuuble~,” Pansy chimed in, working hard to stifle her laugh. Merlin preserve him, what had he done this time? Scoundrels.
With his heart on a collapsing bridge, Draco hurdled over the armrest of his loveseat and snatched the letter out of Blaise’s hands. The chap was audacious enough to look offended, though the insufferable smirk on his face remained.
Draco unfolded the crumpled parchment, all the while Blaise elbowed Pansy out of the corner of his eye, “If he ever gets real friends, we’re fucked.”
He paid them no mind, other than an exaggerated eyeroll, and focused solely on the contents of the letter;
D. L . M.
Malfoy Manor
Wiltshire, England
My dearest Draco, I have received news from Mr. Kingsley Shacklebolt. He requires both of our attendance in a formal meeting, to be taking place in his office at the Ministry of Magic. The meeting will be held a sennight from today, at precisely four o’clock in the afternoon. I shall fetch you personally, expect my arrival within minutes of departure.
Yours truly, L. L.
Something in his throat threatened to crawl out at the mere thought of opening his mouth. His ribs started caving in on his heart. A familiar itchiness down his spinal cord demanded to be scratched. Would it do anything, for him to resist? The matter at hand was far too important to be ignored, but at the same time it felt… oddly like punishment. What ever did they want to discuss with him of all people? Luna’s letter was supposed to be more than enough – where they imbeciles? Where did the need to implicate the Minister of fucking Magic come from? Did only morons work at the Department of Magical Law Enforce – actually – he wouldn’t put it past them, since they hired that thick-headed Potter.
Light footsteps approached and Theo stopped right by his side, his upper body casting a shadow over the parchment. He was perfumed in ice and his breath was oaky. With eyebrows knitted, he said, “How peculiar…”
Draco couldn’t stop the scoff that came out of his mouth. “I sincerely hope this doesn’t end up with me getting detained.” Exactly like the last time.
His words apparently reached Blaise and Pansy, who had seemed content enough fooling around by themselves, because they were suddenly having a somewhat heated discussion on whether an affinity for crime bled through every generation of Malfoy.
“If they wanted to arrest you, they would’ve done it by now. I suggest you go, see what they want. There is no reason for you to be in the Minister’s bad graces.”
That was an excellent point – Draco couldn’t risk angering the Minister and further soiling the family name. That wasn’t to say that this course of action put him at ease; his stomach was still in knots and the irresistible urge to free got harder and harder to suppress.
Theo said no more, and walked up to the troublesome duo who were now debating who would hypothetically visit Draco the most if he were sent to Azkaban. He could never get bored of them, no matter what shenanigans they were up to.
Blaise and Pansy were mirrors of each other; loyal and sassy and never ones to back down from a fight. After the Battle of Hogwarts, Blaise became an old dog whose teeth had been pulled out, and Pansy turned into a violent dog who didn’t know why she bit.
Both had naturally gravitated towards him upon their very first encounter (of course they had), and were among his very first friends. Theo hadn’t exactly been approachable, but his nonchalance and calm attitude intrigued Draco, who had spent countless nights stirring awake from a light slumber to find Theo wide awake. Either sit on the windowsill, completely transfixed on the water lapping against the glass, or sneak out of their dormitory once everyone was settled in for the night and sneak in again at the crack of dawn.
As they drew close over the years, Draco had grown to enjoy reaping the benefits of embodying the pride of Slytherin, while Theo had learnt the trade of secrets. Occasionally, both would ignore curfew hours in favour of smoking fairygrass on castle grounds. Evading Fitch and his insufferable cat had proved a proper laugh every time.
It had been a late summer’s day in 1996, when Draco had learnt that all good things must come to an end.
It was late in the afternoon, when his tongue developed blisters. The house elves must have boiled the coffee a tad too much just to spite him. He’d make sure to give them a stern talking-to as soon as he got back from the Ministry of Magic. Cursed place filled with cursed people – one of whom he was intimately acquainted with.
“Hollis!” just burst out of him.
The tiny elf materialised right before him, eyes half-lidded and mouth downturned in a scowl. What a nuisance. They had nothing to complain about, now that his Father was no longer around to induce corporal punishment on those who misbehaved.
“You called, young master?”
“Care to explain why my coffee is so hot?”
The elf let out a small squeak, which did not surprise Draco in the slightest. “Had I been made aware sooner, my lord, I would have punished them myself!”
Draco sighed and rubbed his forehead – did all house elves have a penance for melodramatics? “No matter, just make sure it does not happen again.” He’d make do with the tingling, throbbing soreness on his tastebuds. No matter, it is no matter at all. “Off you go, but before you do, prepare some burn-healing paste.”
The elf nodded its thick head, enthused, for whatever reason.
Draco glared at it until it vanished. Cursed creatures.
Green flames started to roar to life in the parlour, and soon after the very first crackles emerged Luna in enchanting attire; loose curls cascading over a flowing, ethereal robe in pale gold and a necklace made of unusual charms. She truly was a sight for sore eyes.
Draco got up and caught Luna in a tight embrace. The fabric of her robe was incredibly soft to the touch – nothing stiff or conventional. He got a whiff of her shampoo, it was something soft, strange, and deeply comforting – he couldn’t quite place it, but he found it delightful, nonetheless.
“It’s so good to see you, Luna. How have you been?”
She withdrew. “I’ve been good, though I can’t say I haven’t missed hearing from you.” Luna leaned in close, hand to mouth like a mischievous child about to impart a secret; “A little bird told me you have been courting the youngest Greengrass daughter for some time,” she whispered.
Draco could not help the smirk twisting his lips, nor the blush sneaking up the back of his neck and the tip of his ears. The mere mention of Astoria brought him back to a few days ago, where she had written him a letter in response to the one he had sent her earlier that week. In it, she apologised for rushing intimacy and sprinting over his comfort. Draco liked that gentle honesty that was entirely Astoria’s, even though he was used to brushing arguments aside without as much as an apology. He could never tell her that; the thorns around his heart would prick even more.
But he was weak, even against his own vices, and had agreed to escort Astoria to the annual Yule gathering at the Ministry (courtesy of her father’s influential position). Would Granger also be there?
His heart stuttered. His smirk faltered.
“Yes, I have.“ These thoughts needed to cease.
“She must be lovely, then.” Luna smiled at that, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘The closer you are to the lake; the clearer becomes the water.’
Afraid his voice would betray him, Draco simply nodded. He was too shrouded in dread and absolutes to be able to lie right through his teeth.
So, Draco decided on the most sensible course of action; the art of a quick clearing of the throat, followed by a stiff shrug of the shoulders. Luna might or might not have fallen for his charade, but he had needed to set it up all the same.