Chapter 1
~~ DRACO ~~ MALFOY~~
“Scorpius, my dear boy, I have something important to tell you.” The words were no more than a faint whisper, an echoed memory from earlier in the week. They had incessantly replayed in his mind, offering up a strange sense of both empowerment and torment as the week dragged on.
A harsh, wintry wind swept across the frozen grounds of Malfoy Manor, slicing through the mourner’s finest attire as they walked towards the Mausoleum to bid farewell to Astoria Malfoy. The sky above was a somber and gray canvas, devoid of the warmth of the sun, and mirroring the mournful mood that had befallen the fathering.
“It pains me to have to say it, and it may be difficult for you to comprehend. But mommy, you mother, will not be coming back.”
Gentle snowflakes began to fall from the heavens, settling on the shoulders of the attendees and adding an icy layer to their elegant and dark clothing. A hushed silence enveloped them, occasionally punctuated by sniffles, the rustling of fine garments, and the crunching of snow underfoot.
Those in attendance were dressed in their most lavish attire, an array of designer black robes and elegant dresses. Their veils and scarves shielded them from the biting cold, but only just. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive-smelling perfumes and colognes that mingled with the sweet fragrance of the floral tributes of Chrysanthemums and Gladioli flowers. They adorned the path to the Mausoleum, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the pallor of the snow-covered grounds.
“Where’s mummy, I want my mummy.”
Draco closed his eyes, gripping his son’s hand a little tighter, his steps faltering ever so slightly at the memory. He knew he was trembling, but it wasn’t because of the cold. The cold hardly registered with him anymore. No, he trembled because of the tears he refused to shed, the constant emotional suppression his occluding had provided him, and the inner turmoil he had been enduring since her passing. In other words, he was struggling to remain strong for his son.
“Your mother was sick. She had been for a while, and though she fought it as best she could, she lost the battle in the end.”
Astoria Malfoy, rested peacefully in a magnificent casket. Carved from the purest white marble, with intricate golden patterns etched into its surface and runes that offered up wishes of a safe journey to whatever lay beyond this world. Merlin, how Draco missed her, how his son missed her.
“But we have magic.”
Draco had always harbored doubts about being a father and was adamant not to become one. It had been their only, and constant, fight. But she had assured him so fervently that he would be a wonderful father and she would be there to help him. She had reminded him that he was not his father, therefore could not judge the type of man he would be, the type of father he would be, based on the man he was not. Draco had believed her, it was easy to do really, but now she was gone and so was the laughter and light she had brought him.
“You need to understand that there are some things even the most powerful magic can not change or undo. That sometimes when someone falls seriously ill, their body just can’t fight anymore. No matter how much we wish they could or how many spells we try.”
Draco Malfoy cast a solemn glance over his shoulder at the assembly behind them. Astoria would have loathed it. She would have despised the grand spectacle and likely would have insisted on a burial in some small countryside cemetery, far away from the fuss and the Manor. She never liked the Manor, not that he blamed her. Astoria was gentle, she always preferred life's simple pleasures over extravagant displays. She would have scoffed at the grandeur of all this.
Not with the sweet joyful laugh she expressed when something amused her, but with a bitter and miserable sort of laugh that showed her displeasure. He remembered her laughter, her love for the outdoors, and her appreciation for the beauty of the natural world. This ostentatious affair felt worlds apart from the person she had been, and it left a spoiled and bitter taste in his mouth.
“It’s an unfortunate part of life, and I know it’s hard to grasp. But your mother, she loved you so deeply, and she tried so hard. I know she did, she didn’t want to leave you, didn’t want to leave us. But her love for us and our memories of her will always be with us, and we will cherish them forever. She will live on in our hearts and that’s the most important thing we can hold on to. So hold onto it, okay little star? Can you do that for me? Can you hold on to mummy?”
Draco knew that his tears would come later. While hidden behind the walls of his home and shrouded in the darkness of this bleak day, he would cry and permit himself to feel. Alone in the confines of his private study, a room that had witnessed countless moments of solitude and contemplation. Tonight it would offer no solace, not when he was a tempest of emotions, a maelstrom of despair and anger that together threatened to engulf and consume him.
Tonight he would pour the finest, most expensive whiskey in his collection and drink himself into oblivion. It would be a temporary respite, not from the gnawing ache that had taken permanent residence in his chest, but from the relentless demand to hold himself together. Instead the liquor would grant him the freedom to unravel, to let it all fall apart. Occluding was nearly impossible when inebriated, but it was equally impossible to cease Occluding without the assistance of alcohol.
It was all too much and had become too overwhelming. The burden was too heavy to shoulder any longer, and he sensed that something was going to give, and soon. But first he needed to bid his final farewell and ensure she understood everything. That she knew how much he would miss her, how much she meant to him, how lost he would be without her.
He needed to make certain she knew, she had to know. He had to apologize for not doing more, for not starting her treatment soon, for not insisting she went to the healers every time she had waved him off. He needed to apologize for disregarding her wishes for a modest countryside burial, surrounded by her favorite flowers and a welcoming bench shaded under a nearby tree. Providing her with a welcoming place to mourn her, not the cold marble coffin that held her now.
He had to explain to her, convey why it had to be at Malfoy Manor. Why he didn’t have a say in the matter. Any other resting place would have been an affront to the Malfoy name. Though he had no qualms about defying traditions or ancient customs of the Malfoy family, it would have directly challenged his father to do so. Lucius Malfoy, unfortunately, still held more influence than he should from his prison cell and had yet to accept Scorpius as an heir to the Malfoy line despite him being of Malfoy lineage.
He had never approved of their marriage, and it was his own personal act of defiance that he refused to pass the rightful title to either his son, or his grandson. Laying Astoria Malfoy to rest, on the grounds of Malfoy Manor, in the family mausoleum, bypassed anything Lucius might say or do concerning the next heir. It allowed the land to claim her as its own, solidifying and forging her magic and blood with the Manor and its inheritance.
It successfully designated Scorpius as a rightful successor, stripping away any preconceived notion that Lucius had any say over the matter at all, and eliminated any further manipulation tactics from his father. It had been his mother’s idea, and begrudgingly Draco had consented, solely for the sake of his son.
But he still had to explain this all to her and hope that she would understand and forgive him. Merlin knows he could not forgive himself. He would have given her the moon, had she asked for it, and it was destroying him to deny her this wish. He would plead and humble himself far beyond the bounds of decorum and tradition, as he begged for her forgiveness, and then he would break.
He would break every item in his study, tear it all to shreds, shatter, incinerate, and obliterate all its contents. Grief would crash into him and tear him apart, and he would let it, but only until the sun’s first light the following morning. Then he would restore order to his study, piece himself back together as best he could, and strive (desperately so) to become the father Astoria always believed he could be.
There would be no sleeping tonight, not without a sleeping draught and he was currently all out.
~~ HERMIONE ~~ GRANGER ~~
Hermione Granger always found the act of packing to be a very tedious process!
She despised it with every fiber of her being. The entire process was a test of her patience and endurance, even with the assistance of magic. It was an arduous and time-consuming process with seemingly endless amounts of sorting, folding, and wrapping anything breakable. Not to mention the incessant taping of boxes, and the tiring task of casting feather-light charms to make the boxes easier to carry, and then the act of moving everything from one place to another.
The boxes themselves were another source of her frustration. They seemed to multiply like rabbits (did she truly own that many things?) and they cluttered her small flat, causing her to sneeze from the copious amount of cardboard dust in such a small space. Packing her extensive collection of books wasn’t much better (did she really have so many? Yes, the answer is yes) as they occupied the majority of her boxes and proved rather cumbersome, even with her enchantments on them.
And then there was the matter of all her knickknacks and other bric-a-brac, breakable items, and ancient tomes. Despite having magic at her disposal, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to rely solely on it for their protection. Experience had taught her that magic wasn’t delicate enough to ensure the safety of her cherished tomes, nor did it guarantee that things wouldn’t break during transit.
Instead she meticulously wrapped the fragile porcelain figurines that had belonged to her mother, the china she had obtained over the past several years, and the crystal tumblers that had been her father’s. Each piece was carefully shielded between pages of the Daily Prophet (which these days seemed to serve no other purpose aside from spreading gossip or being used as packing material)
A very loud and indignant meow reverberated around her as she placed one of the crystal tumblers into the box she was currently working on. Convincing her feisty feline, Crookshanks, to enter his cat carrier was always a battle of wills. This time, she had won by patiently waiting until he emerged to feast on his favorite dish of expensive tuna. While happily eating and completely unaware of the trap she set, she scooped him into the carrier. Though already lost the battle, he continued to protest from his confines, his disgruntled meows resonating through the room.
“It’s for your own good Crookshanks.” She sighed, glancing at her cat, who was clearly giving her a disdainful glare. Oh, if looks could kill she would most certainly be dead.
“You know you don’t handle car travel well.” If he weren’t part Kneazle, she might have resorted to some form of Muggle veterinarian sedation. As it was, however, the magical blood in him rendered the muggle medication ineffective, much to Hermione’s chagrin.
A heavy and growling meow caused Hermione to release an equally heavy sigh. She longed for a quicker and less taxing method of moving, but alas, there was none. She had always been a woman of practicality, but on moving day even her logic couldn’t overcome her loathing for the entire process.
She didn’t have a strong desire to move, not truly. It just so happened that her lease had expired and her boyfriend, Kevin Entwistle, had offered her the opportunity to move in with him.
Kevin was a gentle and considerate man, soft-spoken yet attentive and embodying all the quintessential traits of the Hufflepuff he was. Not that Hermione minded these qualities at all. They had been together a little under a year now, and she knew he was wanting to take their relationship to the next level, which inevitably meant cohabitation. Her flat was simply too cramped to accommodate anyone beyond herself, her books, and her beloved Crookshanks. His place, at least, was a slight improvement.
“Is this one ready?” Kevin spun a box around to inspect its contents, ensuring it was packed to capacity before he securely taped and sealed it for its journey. His flat lacked the capability of floo travel, hence why Crookshanks was still glaring at Hermione from the safety of his carrier. As there was no fireplace, and apparating several times just to move her things in seemed tedious and dangerous, they had agreed that the Muggle way of moving would be more convenient.
“I believe so, yes, but please handle it with care. Those were my fathers.” He nodded and cast a charm on the box. With grace and ease, he lifted it and carried it out the door.
Kevin had been remarkably accommodating throughout the moving process, which didn’t come as much of a surprise. He had always been considerate and understanding, sometimes to a fault really. He adored and worshiped her, but he also understood her on a level that none of her previous boyfriends ever had. Ronald, being the first, was always underestimating her and her abilities while overestimating his own. He was quick to anger and their temperaments were never really compatible. Their relationship had been short-lived in the grand scheme of things, lasting only two years. Which was still longer than her fling with Anthony Goldstein who had lasted a mere four months (and was a pretentious ass at the end of the day.)
Kevin, whom she had never really interacted with at Hogwarts, was a rare find in her life. He was clever enough he could keep up with her most days (much like Anthony), reserved enough not to cause headaches or drama (unlike Ron), and as a Muggle-born he understood her on a level no one else in her life could. He also, quite literally, prioritized her needs above all else which was something she had been lacking in her life before him.
That’s not to say she didn’t have people in her life who loved and cherished her, but she was never anyone’s top priority. Not since she Obliviated her parents' memories. She had Harry, of course, but if the situation ever called for him to choose between her and Ron, she was certain he would pick Ron. Which was fine really— Ron came with a family, a large one, one that welcomed Harry with open arms from day one. Hermione only had Crookshanks, and he didn’t particularly like anyone. And Ron, well, Ron would always pick his family first (as he should.)
As much as it pained her to admit, she was never anyone’s absolute. At least, not until Kevin. The issue with Kevin was, he wasn’t hers. Sure, she might have picked him over lets say Theodore Nott, or Blaise Zabini. She would have definitely picked him over Pansy Parkinson or Seamus Finnegan. Perhaps, if required to, she would pick him over Percy Weasley as well. But if it ever came down to Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville, Crookshanks, or even work… well, let's just say she would be single again.
She hated the thought of it, and it wasn’t entirely fair to him. Besides, it wasn’t like they were at war and tasked with making those decisions, but knowing he was not her first priority caused some trepidation in her willingness to move forward in their relationship. She kept hoping it would change and her feelings would evolve, that he would mean as much to her as she did to him. She loved him, make no mistakes, but she did not love him as strongly.
She shook the thought from her head and reached for a new box and the next stack of the gossip rag. She hadn’t subscribed to the Daily Profit in years, not since they continued publishing Rita Skeeter’s false and rubbish-fill articles. Nowadays, it served only as packing material or kindling for her fire, and only if the issues were a few days old as she refused to support the corrupt paper with any sort of payment. Plucking the top page up and getting ready to wrap the next tumbler, her movements halted as she stared at a picture of Draco Malfoy.
It had been around five years, perhaps more, since she had last seen him and even then it was only by picture. It was accompanied by a lovely article in the Quibbler, a publication she still subscribed to with pleasure now that Luna had hired more competent writers. The picture showed Draco Malfoy smiling at his wife Astoria, in her arms she held a bundle of blankets that Hermione could only assume was the baby the article had boasted about. He had seemed so happy, they both had, the complete opposite of how he looked now without his wife by his side.
His face remained stoic and void of expression, but his eyes—his storm clouded eyes— betrayed his emotions. There was a deep, hidden pain within them, and Hermione could not tear her gaze away as she pondered what was troubling him. She watched as he flinched ever so slightly at each new camera flash, his steps unwavering as she made his way through the crowd before the picture replayed itself. Though she loathed doing it, her curiosity overcame her and she unfolded the paper to reveal the headline.
GRIEVING FATHER OR FROZEN-HEARTED DEATH EATER.
There was a sharp intake of air as she re-read the title. Her breath caught in her throat as her hands acted almost independently from her as they unfurled the rest of the article, her mind struggling to reconcile the headline’s claim with the image before her.
“The recent passing of Astoria Malfoy has left the wizarding world in shock and mourning. However, it appears that her grieving husband is carrying on with his life as though nothing has happened and is not quite as devastated as one might expect.
In a rather shocking display of indifference, Draco Malfoy, who is known for his dark past and deeds such as aiding in the murder of Albus Dumbledor, allowing Death Eaters onto the grounds at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, aiding and abetting He Who Must Not Be Named, the capture and torture of London’s beloved Golden Girl Hermione Granger, with his dark mark still residing on his arm, hasn’t even shed a tear since the passing of his wife.
Sources close to the family have reported that Draco Malfoy has shown little to no emotion at all in the wake of his wife’s death, with some even speculating he may have had a hand in her untimely demise.
“It does seem suspicious, a young and healthy witch dying so suddenly after being taken ill with a common cold.” One source said with a solemn shake of their head and unshed tears in their eyes.
Astoria Malfoy, nee Greengrass, was a bright and beloved member of the wizarding community. Her charitable work, giving donations, and her personal project of helping those who were displaced due to the last wizarding war— of which of course her husband helped bring about— deserved better than the alleged apathy displayed by her husband in the days since her passing. An insider says that Astoria’s wishes of being buried in the countryside were also not upheld as her husband hosted a very small funeral procession with a very strict and select guest invite and leaving the insider to wonder what exactly the Malfoy’s are hiding.
With no intention of honoring her memory or showing the appropriate signs of grief, Draco Malfoy has been seen out and about, attending social events, and conducting business as usual. It is a shame that a woman of such grace and charm was bound to a man who seems incapable of mourning her properly. The wizarding world can't help but wonder if there's more to this story than meets the eye.
In a time when Astoria's friends and family should be receiving support and comfort from her spouse, they are left to question whether Draco Malfoy ever truly loved her or if he's just showing his true colors now that she's no longer in the picture. It also leads one to ponder what will happen to their son, who by all accounts was being raised by his mother, and his mother alone."
Hermione couldn’t read anymore. Her hands trembled and tears started to stream down her cheeks. She didn’t need to read the byline to recognize the author. The entire article bore the unmistakable signature of Rita Skeeter, with her callous and spiteful words. “What a horrible, foul, little woman.” Hermione said with a scowl. He did not deserve this. No one did, especially not when his eyes conveyed so much more emotion than Rita was willing to admit.
“I didn’t know you knew Astoria.” Kevin’s words startled Hermione. She had been so engrossed in the article she hadn’t heard him return. His breath tickled her neck as he read over her shoulder. “I’m sure she was dreadful though. No reason to cry over it. I mean, she married Malfoy, so she’d have to be yeah? I can’t imagine anyone decent would want within twenty feet of him, let alone marry a Death Eater.”
Hermione's heart stuttered as the words hit her, sinking into her skin and infecting her soul. She felt a deep sense of disgust and anger rise within her, and as she turned to face the man she was on the verge of moving in with— whom she had contemplated spending the rest of her life with— she seeing the bigotry and hatred she had not known he harbored until that very moment. It was a revelation she didn’t particularly like.
"No, Kevin," she said firmly, her voice tinged with disappointment. "I wasn't talking about Astoria. I was referring to the writer of this article, and your insinuations about her husband are both unfounded and uncalled for." She pushed past him, flicked her wand to tidy up the rest of her flat, though she usually preferred not to use magic for such a task.
“You’re not actually saying she was a decent person, are you?”
“Do you even know her?” Hermione snapped, looking back at him. His silence was her answer. “Then you shouldn’t talk ill of her.” She bent down, picked up the carrier holding her beloved cat, and grabbed a handful of Floo Powder.
“Wait, where are you going?”
She didn’t answer, she didn’t need to really as she called out “Number 12 Grimmauld Place” and allowed the green flames to whisk her away to a familiar place of comfort. She was always welcomed there, and perhaps she had imposed on Harry’s generosity a few too many times, but she wasn’t sure where else to go.
“Oh, Hermione, I thought you were spending the day moving.” Ginny’s flowing voice greeted her as she emerged from the flames. Ginny, who had just been passing by, stopped in her tracks, taking in her friend and the few boxes that had come through the fire with her. As her eyes flickered down to the cat still in his carrier, she called out (very loudly) for Harry to get some wine.
Harry, who was never one to readily follow directions, had to first come and see why his wife was suddenly demanding wine before dinner. He took one look at Hermione and added “I think this may call for something stronger.”
Hermione might not have been anyone’s top priority (which was perfectly fine really), but she knew she was loved and that was enough. As comforting and warm as their love for her was, it wouldn’t help her sleep tonight and as luck would have it she was fresh out of sleeping draughts.