It's a Long Story

Some people have a natural talent for storytelling. 

They know how to set a scene, keep people entertained, enraptured, and hanging on their every word. They know exactly how much detail they should include and how much they should leave to one’s own imagination. Their words can paint a magical picture, creating a story that all can see. 

Astoria Greengrass possessed such a talent. 

She was always great at telling stories and Draco Malfoy especially loved the way she told their story.

He could still remember the first time she had told it. It was in front of an odd gathering of people, a mixture of his friends and hers– which to his utter surprise consisted of Luna Lovegood, Romilda Vane, Ginny Weasley, and Harry bloody Potter. Though Potter was only there because he was attached to the Weasley girl who apparently was Astoria’s best friend. Which was something Draco had not expected in the slightest. 

It had been a wonderful day at the beach, there was a fire crackling softly in a poorly constructed pit the Gryffindor's had dug. Tumblers of firewhiskey and crystal glasses of elf-made wine were generously passed around, courtesy of the Slytherins. Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson were lounging on a picnic mat, the two had been utterly lost in each other until Astoria started the story at the behest of the Weasley girl. Even Theo, who was hard to entertain and quick to bore, had a rare smile playing on his lips as he gave her his full attention.

From that moment on she would use any excuse she could find to dust off the old story. She loved telling it, and Draco loved watching her tell it. 

“It’s a funny story,” she would always start. 

“It was late spring, and I was wearing a god-awful hat– one of those floppy-brimmed ones– It had to have been at least this large.” Astoria always spoke with her hands, it was a crucial part to her storytelling. She wasn’t exaggerative with her movements, but they seemed to add an extra sense of emphasis or clarification. When she got to this part of the story, it was always to show how large the blasted hat was. 

“My mother had given it to me and had explicitly told me I was to wear it to her garden party later that day. Only, it was a tad blustery that day and I apparently didn’t secure it properly.” She would always look at Draco at this part, with a smile on her lips and her eyes sparkling. 

He would add little anecdotes of his own in the beginning. Confirm a fact here or there, like the size of the hat or if it was a Tuesday versus a Thursday. But it ruined the flow of her storytelling, so after a while he stopped and instead marveled in the way she told the story from start to finish. 

“I have never had a hat blown off my head before and I always rolled my eyes when I read something ridiculous like that in a book. It just wasn’t logical, strictly speaking, but that is exactly what happened. And there I was, someone who never runs chasing after an ugly hat I didn’t even want.” 

“So I was running like a fool as my mother hollered after me that women did not chase after arrant hats, and there Draco was taking a stroll in the park with his dog, Atlas. Who is such a sweetie by the way.’

“I almost caught it too, the hat not the dog, but mother nature is cruel and just as I was reaching for it the wind pitched and then, Thwack! It smacked Draco right in the face! Though, how he didn’t see it coming for him is still beyond me.” She would pause there, let people get in their laughs as she reminded them all how comically large it was. Then, when they settled down, she would launch into how stunned she was, how Draco had struggled against the wind to remove the hat from his face. 

There would be more laughter as she acted out his struggle and tried to mimic the deep timber of his voice as he blamed the hat for accosting him (which it most certainly did), and how his words trailed off when he saw her standing there. They had both just stood there, looking at one another like two idiots who instantly fell in love at first sight. Then she would flip the script to stun everyone, which it typically did, and tell them exactly how Atlas had torn her hat to shreds believing it was a new toy for him. 

The rest from there was history. 

Draco had shown up at the garden party with what Astoria described as an even larger and more ridiculous hat to replace the one his dog had ruined. He gave a sincere apology to both Astoria and her mother, because how was he to know she actually hated that hat. He called on her later with a proper gift and an intent to court, which she gladly accepted. And as she told the story everyone listened, because everyone loved her stories. 

Everyone loved Astoria. 

He supposed that was part of the problem in the end, because who wouldn’t love her? His mother surely did, as did his father (not that he wanted or needed his father’s good opinion anymore). It had never been a problem, having her be so well loved by others. Draco was confident in himself and their relationship, so he had no reason to worry, no reason to believe he would lose her because of it. 

“It was fate.” She had constantly claimed, and Draco believed that it was. If it was in fact fate’s doing, then it was reasonable to assume that fate hated him because the night of her Bachelorette party everything changed. 

The story tipped onto its side. Found a fresh point of view, and in this new telling of it Draco was no longer the leading man. Instead he was the complication that would forever jazz up their story. A stepping stone to finding the right path, which clearly was not him. 

Here’s how the rest of the story goes, if Draco is the one forced to tell it: Draco fell in love with Astoria the moment he heard her laugh, before he even wrangled the blasted hat off of his face and saw her. He was mortified when his dog destroyed it and did what any respectable gentleman would do, which was obviously find a larger and better replacement. A week later, he called on her. Two weeks later they were officially courting. 

He would leave out the boring parts, like most of their courtship and wedding planning, or tux hunting. Not because he didn’t have fond memories of all those things, but because he was rather dull and dry when storytelling so he might as well refrain from all that. He was also (arguably) the world’s worst small-talker, but Astoria didn’t want to make small-talk. She talked enough for the both of them and Draco found himself quite smitten with not only her but her stories as well. 

A year later, after all the friends and family members were met and all the proper steps had been taken, Draco proposed and Astoria said yes. A year after that, while still wedding planning because Astoria wanted the world and he was more than willing to give it to her, he bought her a beach cottage she had favored. 

Then, just shy of three weeks before their set wedding date, Astoria returned home after her “Hen Night”. It was three in the morning when he heard the door open and saw her slip in. She smelled of cheap booze and something that was disgustingly sweet (sugared strawberries if he had to guess), her hair was a tad messy, she was covered in shimmering glitter in odd places, and her lipstick was smudged just a bit. 

Draco had thought she was drunk at first, and he had expected it. It was why he was still awake, waiting with required potions that would help with her hangover in the morning. Only, when she spoke there wasn’t a hint of a slurred word or a wobble in her walk when she came further into the room. She did, however, look nervous and it made him examine her again. 

“Did you cheat on me?” the question had fallen from his lips before he had fully even processed them. She had denied it, of course. He had never had a reason not to trust her before, yet, for some reason he just couldn’t at that moment. 

As it turned out, he was right for her next words were “I– I just– Draco, they told me they loved me.” 

And all he could do in response was nod. Because of course whoever it was loved her. How could they not? She was exceedingly very easy to love, even as she was tearing out his heart. “What does this mean, Astoria?” 

“It means that— well, I realized that I love them too and I have to give it a go. I would hate myself if I didn’t.” She would hate Draco if he didn’t let her, went unsaid but was highly implied. 

So he did. He let her go.

Actually, it was Draco who left in the end. He had bought the cottage for her after all and he couldn’t imagine himself living there without her. He left with nothing but Atlas hot on his heels, almost everything was all hers anyways or purchased for her. 

The events that immediately followed their conversation were still a bit hazy for him. In part because he got utterly pissed, and partially because he was in a perpetually numb like state. He had the gist of it, but wasn’t completely clear on what happened or the order in which they happened. 

If forced to guess, he would wager he found a bar (he was walking because he had Atlas so it had to have been close by.) At some point (and he really had no clue how or when) he must have run into Potter (who had to be equally shit faced to offer up such a preposterous plan). 

No matter how it happened, who had suggested it, why it was even accepted, or the events that led up to it, Draco woke up in the morning with the worst hangover he had ever had in his entire life. He was in a strange room with a strange smell, wearing even stranger sleepwear, in a strange house with the most peculiar and odd decor, and the most strangest of all was Harry bloody Potter standing in a small kitchen area Draco had stumbled into. 

Apparently one of them (must have been Potter because Draco wasn’t stupid enough to suggest such a thing even with copious amounts of alcohol) had suggested they move in together. So evidently, they do now. Live together. At 12 Grimmauld Place. 

It had to have been the alcohol. It was the only thing that could explain any of it. And Draco was not going to believe that the offer was made because they were friends (because they absolutely were not and Potter was daft for even saying such absurdity out loud). 

They had absolutely nothing in common aside from their shared history, having strict rules about keeping a clean house, and their current broken hearts. In fact, Potter was perhaps the only person in the world who knew exactly what Draco was going through, because Draco’s love story ended with Astoria (the love of his life) running off with Ginny Weasley (who Potter claimed was the love of his).

Otherwise they had nothing in common at all. Potter worked at the Ministry (and had absolutely nothing else to do when he wasn’t working, honestly he needed a hobby) whereas Draco worked independently. He had the estate to manage of course and copious amounts of holdings and properties, but he also did quite a bit of traveling for curse breaking. Or he did a lot of traveling before he met Astoria and became serious about her. Now he mostly worked locally, but specially. He had a knack for the darker artifacts and was often called in to work the Ministry's more tricky cases. 

Draco also detested loud sounds. He preferred the quiet. It was peaceful that way. And Potter, well, Potter was loud as fuck. All the time. 

Draco knew when he was awake, when he got home from work, when he was moping about (because yes, Potter was moping). And Draco was constantly having to remind Potter to turn down his music (which was currently blaring and giving him a headache), or to walk quieter (because Draco’s room was below Potter’s and he could hear him stomping about), or to just shut the fuck up! Mostly when he was going on about Draco being his mate, which he most certainly was not. 

“Potter!” Draco pounded on the door to what once was Sirius Black’s room but now hosted the most insufferable of wankers. “Potter!” He called again with an even louder knock when he didn’t answer him right away. Likely because the music was too loud. 

Well, everybody hurts sometimes. Everybody cries. Everybody hurts, sometimes

The lyrics were incredibly sad, which Draco was not in the mood for. Why the wanker couldn't listen to upbeat songs, was beyond him.

“Damn it Potter! I have work in the morning!” He pounded on the door again. 

The music stopped. 

Footsteps shuffled about, the dark wood door swung open, banging against the wall because apparently Potter didn’t know how to open a door properly. 

Bright green eyes rimmed in red (he’d been crying) met Draco’s cold silver ones and a cloud of smoke wafted out the door. He was hotboxing, and something about that perturbed Draco even more. Because blasting sad as fuck music while crying and stoned out of one's mind was not a healthy life choice, surely.

Potter cleared his throat. “What’s up mate?” 

“I’m not your mate.” 

Potter rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorframe. “Great, you came all the way up here to tell me that? I feel honored.” 

“Your music is loud.” 

“I’m not listening to any music.” 

“Well, you’re not now!” Draco snapped. “But you were, and it was loud.” 

“That it was.” 

Draco’s eye twitched at his remark. The bloody wanker. “I have work in the morning.” 

“It’s not even nine mate–”

“Not your mate.”

“–what are you, some well preserved one-hundred-year-old?” 

“Is that your way of telling me I look nice?” 

“For an old man.” 

Draco glared at him. “Just, keep it down will you?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Potter sighed and Draco took a moment to really take him in. His hair was sticking up in every direction, which wasn’t uncommon for him (perhaps he should buy him a comb). He had already noticed he had been crying, but there was a sort of disarray and chaos to his whole persona that was throwing Draco off kilter a bit, and it was not because he pitied the man. Because he didn’t! 

Though… a better flatmate might have inquired as to why he was smoking in the house. A friend would have asked if he was okay. Since Draco was perfectly happy being neither of those two things, he said “And for the love of Merlin, stick your head out the window if you’re going to smoke that crap inside!” Then he turned and headed back to his room.