Malediction: the love and life of Astoria Malfoy

Chapter Thirty Nine

When Scorpius left for his second year, there was an obvious hesitation, a new sense of fear as he left, hugging me a moment longer, his eyes remorseful already. It was getting worse, a fact I knew and had told myself for years. But now he was understanding this too, seeing the scope of it; the allusive sentiment of death now crashing down to reality, no longer a morbid, ambiguous fantasy.

So off he went, to meet his friend Albus, to start his second year. It all should've been well and exciting, happy and carefree. But no, rumors and death hung thick around him like a noose. But at least one of those things could be resolved.

After the whole trunk development, and the slow pulling of more and more incidents from Scorpius, it seemed apparent that he was dealing with more than he wanted known by Draco and I.

And so, Draco tried again to talk to Harry, hoping that maybe now that Scorpius was friends with his son, it might melt his stubbornness.

But no. The same routine charade. Acknowledging the gossip feeds the gossip. Let it blow over. It will be fine. There's nothing he could do.

And so Scorpius's second year progressed, with no alleviation from the ever-present rumors.

In the months while he was at school, I'd changed much. After that night in the washroom, the 'episodes' were daily, whereas they used to happen once every week or so. I was coughing more blood than I'd realized my body possessed.

My muscles were obsolete. My bones frail and prominent under my translucent skin. My body was resigned, finished. Standing down, cowering to the curse. Arguing lamely with my unyielding mind. But even that was beginning to submit.

On the day to pick the students up from the platform, a day that, five months ago I would've refused to be absent from, when Draco expressed why he didn't think I should come, I did not protest. I did not fight.

And though he was the one who was persistent in the idea, I saw his eyes dim at my agreement. My resignation.

When they arrived back home a while later, trunks in hand, Scorpius locked eyes with me. And though I must've looked different, weaker, even more withered since he'd last seen me at Christmas, it was like a hundred year of relief flooded his eyes. As though the knowledge I was still alive was not concrete until he saw me with his own eyes.

"Mum," he said with the same relief in his eyes, and hugged me tightly, deeply. I was surprised to find how strong he was, or maybe he just seemed so, juxtaposed to the weak squeeze I gave in response.

"Scorpius," I said, kissing the top of his head, which was now almost level with mine (he was really growing very fast. . . ). His smile faltered when, while releasing me from the hug, I wavered slightly, not completely balanced. I gained it back quickly, though, forcing my limp appendages to stand firm for once.

He scrutinized me, his relief dulling, worry working its way into his features. I was surprised and crushed to see the faint hint of tears rimming his eyes. I suppose I really had changed more than I'd accounted for.

"I missed you," he said with a smile, the water still glistening at his lower lash line.

"I missed you too," I said with all the lightheartedness, all the confidence, all the okayness I could find.

That was June 25, and by July 8, I found myself primarily bound to bed. I was too submissive to even hate myself for this, to protest unwaveringly against my body. I could hardly walk without my head and limbs becoming paper light, and my stomach filling with lead.

One day, I'd asked Scorpius to read to me, not wanting to admit that reading now caused my brain to jumble and my eyes to tire. Every little thing was different now.