A trip down memory lane
Draco Apparated to a safe spot near his flat, his head dizzy from the night he had just shared with Hermione. He couldn’t have dreamed of a more perfect date with her, he knew that cooking for her would be the perfect way to win her over and show her that his old prejudices against the muggle way of life were long gone.
Draco reached for his key in his pocket as he approached the building he lived in, tipping his head to Joe the doorman who was there most evenings. “Evening Mr Malfoy” he said as he swung the door open. Malfoy smiled back, “good night Joe.” Any other evening, he would be inclined to stop and catch up with him but tonight, he didn’t want to do anything but get into bed and think about where to take Hermione on their next date.
As he arrived at his door, he sensed someone approach him from the darkness, “Draco” a whispered voice came from the shadows. He stilled, his heart racing. He turned, and saw Pansy Parkinson hovering behind him.
"Draco," , her own voice barely a whisper. "Can we talk.. please?"
He hesitated, then opened the door, stepping inside. "Come in."
The apartment was a stark contrast to Malfoy Manor. High above the London skyline, the penthouse was a study in clean lines and muted greys. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view, a stark reminder of the world outside. There were no tapestries, no ornate furniture, no echoes of a pure-blood past. It was undeniably Muggle, and undeniably Draco.
"It's… different," she said, her eyes sweeping the room. “I heard rumours you’d left the Manor, but I never expected this.”
"Yes well, after all the bloodshed there, I thought it best to start over," he replied, closing the door. "Take a seat." He gestured towards a low, leather sofa. Pansy perched on the edge, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Draco moved to a sleek, chrome bar, pouring two glasses of amber liquid.
"Firewhisky?" he asked, his back to her. "No, thank you," she said, her voice firm. "I'm… I'm not drinking anymore." He turned, a flicker of surprise in his grey eyes. "Not at all?" "Not at all," she confirmed. "I've been… clean, for nearly a year."
He nodded, a silent acknowledgment. He poured himself a drink and settled into an armchair opposite her. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of the city.
"Draco," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "I… I owe you an apology. A terrible one."
He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "After… after Astoria," she continued, her voice catching, "I… I ran. I ran with Blaise. I was selfish, cowardly. I was drowning myself in everything I could find, trying to forget. I was a terrible friend. A terrible person."
She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. "I know it doesn't excuse anything, but… I was lost. I was a mess. I didn't know how to handle anything. I was scared. And I am so, so sorry."
He swirled the whisky in his glass, his gaze fixed on the liquid. "You left when I needed you most," he said, his voice low. "You and Blaise. Just… gone. I lost my wife, my son and two of my trusted friends in one go."
"I know," she whispered, tears pricking her eyes. "And I understand if you can't forgive me. I don't deserve it. But I needed you to know that I'm… I'm trying to be better. I'm trying to make amends."
He finally looked up at her, his eyes searching hers. "Amends?" "Yes," she said, her voice gaining strength. "I want to be your friend again, Draco. If you'll let me. I know I don't deserve it, but I miss you. I miss our… our friendship.”
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. "Friendship," he repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. "After everything?" "Yes," she said, her voice firm. "I know it's a lot to ask. But I'm not the same person I was. I've changed. I've had to."
He took a long sip of his whisky, his eyes still fixed on her. "You've changed," he echoed, his voice laced with a hint of scepticism. "And Blaise?" she wiped away tears from her cheeks, “Blaise too, he’s with Theo right now, and I know we were meant to be seeing you next week, but I just needed the chance to speak to you one on one.”
He nodded slowly, his expression still guarded. "I understand Pansy, I do but I’ll need time.”
He rose from his armchair and walked to the window, gazing out at the twinkling lights of the city. "It's been… difficult," he said, his voice barely audible. "Losing Astoria, losing our son,” his voice broke.
"I can imagine," she said softly. "Theo said you’re doing better though, are you?"
He turned back to her, his eyes searching hers. "I’m trying" he said, his voice weary. "I don't know if I can trust you. I don't know if I can trust anyone anymore."
"I understand," she said, her voice filled with sincerity. "But please, give me a chance. Let me show you that I've changed. I won't disappoint you again."
He looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. "Alright," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Alright, Pansy. But… slowly. Very slowly."
A flicker of hope ignited in Pansy's chest. It wasn't a full reconciliation, but it was a start. It was a chance. "Thank you, Draco," she said, her voice filled with emotion. "Thank you."
He nodded, his gaze softening slightly. "Perhaps," he said, gesturing towards the bar, "you'll have a tea. Muggle, of course."
Pansy smiled, a genuine, relieved smile. "I'd like that," she said.
A few hours later and the fire was roaring in the hearth, a mocking orange glow against the encroaching darkness of the room. Draco was slumped in the leather armchair, he hadn’t moved since Pansy left. A half-empty bottle of firewhisky was clutched tightly against his chest.
He’d been drinking steadily since Pansy had left, topping up his glass only to knock it back in one go. The room was blurring in a haze of sorrow and self-pity. Each swallow was a burning attempt to erase the images that clawed at his mind, the memories that wouldn’t let him rest.
Astoria.
Her name, one said in soft tones, now felt like a jagged shard of glass lodged in hist throat. He could still her, her face pale and drawn, but her eyes filled with a fierceness, as she held his hand promising not to leave. The healers had warned them of course, that this was likely. Astoria’s blood curse, which had laid dormant for years had flared with her pregnancy.
They’d married because of their pureblood status, an expectation from their families but they did love each other, even if they weren’t ‘in’ love. They’d build a life together, beyond the shadows of their fathers, one of their own making.
When Astoria had gone into labour, it had been long and agonising, she had been in the Manor, in their shared bedroom. Draco had paced the hallway outside the room, angry and terrified, his hands clammy, his heart hammering against his ribs. Her cries were like a knife twisting in his gut, and he could do nothing to help her, tradition meant he wasn’t allowed to be in the room with her.
The silence was more terrifying than the screams. When the room just stopped. The healer had appeared, blood all over her robes.
“Mr Malfoy,” she’d said, her voice low and sombre. “Mrs Malfoy… she’s delivered a son.” A son. A wave of relief washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the fear. “And Astoria?” he’d asked, his voice trembling.
The healer’s gaze had fallen to the floor. “Mrs. Malfoy… she’s gone.” The world tilted on its axis. He’s stumbled into their bedroom, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. Astoria lay still, her face peaceful, almost serene. In her arms, a tiny bundle swaddled in white. His son.
He’d held the baby, his heart aching with a grief so profound it threatened to consume him. The baby was small, fragile with his white, blonde hair and tiny fingernails. He had pleaded with the healers, begged them to do something, anything. But the damage was done, the strain of the birth coupled with Astoria’s weakened state had been too much for them both. His son, Scorpius Malfoy had followed his mother into the silent abyss.
A sob escaped Draco’s lips, raw and guttural sound that echoed through the apartment. He raised the bottle, the firewhisky burning a path down his throat, a futile attempt to extinguish the grief.
“Astoria,” he whispered, his voice thick with tears. “Why?”
He remembered her smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed. He remembered the feel of her hand in his, the soft murmur of her voice as she read to him in the evenings. They may not have been in love, but they had been together, an almost family and he missed her every single day.
He set the bottle down, burying his face in his hands as his body shook with uncontrollable sobs. The tears streamed down his cheeks, he was a broken man, lost in the shadows of his past. He needed to speak to his mind-healer, but in that moment he was lost. Pansy had brought back everything he had burrowed down deep, seeing her had reminded him of the life he almost had.
All thoughts of Hermione were gone as he picked the bottle up and headed to bed, ready to lose himself to the bottom of the bottle.