Year: April 8th, 2006
Canonicity: Canon to "The Mudblood"
POV: third person limited, Draco Malfoy
Nearly a month had passed since Astoria had given birth to Scorpius. Her health seemed to worsen every day, but she would never admit it to Draco, nor would she succumb to resting when he insisted on it. Whenever Scorpius was awake, she was awake, even if she had to use a glittery pink cane to cross the bedroom to his crib.
They'd been staying in their little cabin in the woods, avoiding the Manor and the visitors that were surely showing up there to see the newborn baby. The few people that Draco could actually tolerate knew where they were—and even some of the people that he couldn't tolerate knew, like Harper and Pucey and Ferret-Lover and...the Mudblood.
Other than Pucey and Goyle, none of their Hogwarts acquaintances had made an appearance since the day of Scorpius's birth. They all sent letters that Draco refused to look at and Astoria struggled to answer. Perhaps he could have handled the idiocy of those two twits, but if he saw Fitzroy's handwriting...
He didn't want to think about her, but somehow she always barged into his mind. Since the birth, he'd taken a leave of absence from Gringotts in order to watch over Astoria, and the torpidity of sitting around in this isolated cabin was opening up avenues of thought that Draco had been pointedly boarding off for years. He should have been elated over the birth of his first—and probably only—son, but instead his worry over Astoria's health was leading him to wonder if he was truly happy—if this was where he wanted to be, who he wanted to be, who he wanted to be...with.
The guilt of these ponderings was enough to keep him up at night, staring at the ceiling as he listened to Scorpius's peaceful breaths, Astoria's not-so-peaceful breaths. How could he think so selfishly while she was dying?He'd married her knowing about her disease. He could have walked away. He could have reconciled with Fitzroy dozens of times before he'd chosen Astoria, but he hadn't. So he would stick to his decision; he would stick to Astoria, for better or for worse.
It was as he was lying in their bed, mulling over these feelings, that he noticed something wisp past the glass doors to his right, the ones that led out to the cabin's back patio. At first he assumed it was just an animal, but then more movement ensued, and he was certain the silhouette was that of a human.
Slipping quietly out of the bed, Draco grabbed a grey robe to cover his nudity and then padded out through the doors, submersing himself in the chilly midnight air. In early April, some of the trees in the forest that surrounded their cabin were beginning to bud, but everything still looked desolate—except, of course, the figure perched on the patio's railing, swinging her legs like a child.
"What the—"
"Good evening, Pureprick," she greeted with a sly smile that instantly induced a spark of indignation in his chest. It had to have been indignation; it couldn't have been...desire. Because even though she was wearing a flattering yellow dress, he saw her in a dark cloak—a Death Eater's cloak. Even though her hair was the same honey blonde that it had been upon the day of their first meeting, he saw it as the endless sea of ebony that he associated with depression. And even though her curious, playful eyes were as blue-green as ever, to him they looked lifeless—not dead but not alive.
This was why he'd continuously shunned her over the years, why he wouldn't have been able to share a bed with her in the way he was sharing one with Astoria. She completed him but then she tore him apart, her very presence opening wounds he forgot he had; she could harm him just as easily as she could heal him, and he was glad she was here now to remind him of that fact.
