haunt me, spectre!

in the back of their mind, somewhere, the part that isn't occupied by a million racing thoughts spiraling into ideas turning into crises, rose notes that they're trembling. lucinda fawley will be the death of them.

because luc's name is written all over them — in the looping invisible script rose traces with absent-minded fingers on their own skin, in countless notebooks they hide in false-bottomed drawers in their desk. rose can feel it being etched into their bones with every second they stand in front of her. it's irreversible, it's inevitable: some part of rose will always love her, forever, even after their relationship ends.

because it will end, and that’s the part that scares the shit out of rose even as they cup luc’s face in their shaking hands and murmur “you’re so beautiful, i’m so lucky” over and over again. for all that rose claims to be the responsible one, luc is the one whose circumstances have forced her to take care of her siblings and herself, much too early, much too quickly. rose has only ever been held; doesn’t know how to hold anyone with that same care and fervor. luc has paid her penance and deserves to be free, be wild, untameable. luc deserves the entire world, and rose refuses to hold her back from any unexplored inch of it, and rose is not worth staying for, so luc will leave them. 

ro is still so lucky, though. they’re so lucky to love her in this moment, and even when luc leaves them, rose will be able to pin this memory to a corkboard in their brain and covet all the glittering gems of this love. and until that happens, they can try and write their name on luc in return — nothing so eternal as carving the letters into flesh, but maybe with something like a marker pen. something that will fade in time, but won’t wash off easily. 

" I DON'T ANSWER TO YOU! " eden yelled over the roar of an exquisite set of flames that shot from her wand and felled one inferi, two, three— but more were steadily advancing, their hollow eyes fixated on the witch’s racing pulse points, rotted teeth ready to rip her to shreds. it was a losing battle, but the shock of cassius’ betrayal had worn off enough that she could make an effort to defend herself — and defy her brother friend until her last breath. 

“do you realize how pathetic—” another corpse fallen, its grimy head rolling over her feet. “—you are to have to send an army to kill me?!” they seemed to come from all sides now, obeying the commands issued by cassius’ outstretched wand to kill, kill, kill. eden could feel her energy flagging and the fervor of her spells starten to weaken, but her anger still burned, white-hot and electrifying. “you’re a fucking joke—” 

the stench of death hit her before the actual skeleton did, leaping from behind and shoving her shoulders so hard she flew a few feet before hitting the ground. eden’s jaw hit the ground with a sickening crack that made black spots dart swim in her line of sight and copper, rusty blood coat her teeth. 

she tried to push herself into a sitting position to scramble back, only to let out a ragged gasp of pain at the fire coursing through her upper body. the inferi that knocked her over was frozen in horrifying stasis, ragged limbs milimeters from tearing into her flesh. and suddenly, cassius was looming over her, dark pleasure in his features. only it wasn’t cassius, it was her brother, maxim. then it was grandfather. diomedes. every man who’d ever hurt her, underestimated her, threatened her, she saw their violence reflected in cassius’ malevolent gaze. 

It all starts when Harry notices the framed photo of Colin Creevey on her desk — one of the few she ever managed to take of her friend. Astoria knows she took it because the composition is all wrong — she took it at a down angle, the sun is  sparkling off of the Black Lake behind him and casts his forehead in a weird shadow. 

“I don’t—” His smile is too big for his face, a myriad of spots are raised red on his chin. “He was so kind.” Perpetually fourteen, Colin grins and gestures at the shutter button — and for a moment, clear as day, she can hear his squeaky, excitable instructions: ‘Just point and shoot, ‘Storia!’. 

She finds it difficult to put their friendship in words — how he adored magic and Hogwarts with ferocity, how she knew he was brave before he ever cast his first counterjinx, how he was creative, and clever, and felt more and said more in his seventeen years than Astoria will, ever, and how she loved him and never told a soul. 

“I never allowed us to be seen together in school,” she explains. It’s a deep shame. “Because he was muggleborn. And now he’s dead, and I don’t deserve to mourn him.” 

COURTYARD, GRIMMAULD PLACE. POST BATTLE OF HANGLETON. ​

Even the small courtyard connected to Grimmauld Place felt too confined. Harry had not liked it before, when it had been the only outside area he was allowed to go in, and he did not like it now, either, despite the disaster that his temporary respite from the Order’s keeping had been. 

They weren’t keeping him, he reminded himself firmly, rubbing his hands together for warmth in the briskness of the air. They were his family. Some part of him knew that, it was why he’d returned. The guilt had been too much, especially when he’d learnt of the battle at the graveyard. Not that Harry had afforded them much assistance. He clasped his hands tighter, making a more furious movement. Still nothing. They remained as clammy and pale as they had been hours earlier when that creature had attacked him at the graveyard. 

He’d thought it was going to kill him, but instead … half-formed figures flickered behind his eyes again, faces he could recognise as his children, his wife, a repeating pattern accompanied by flashes of fear and pain, panic and desperation. He was still struggling to understand what it had all meant, but somehow, it seemed entirely unsurprising that if a memory had returned to him, it had been one made of horrors. That seemed to be not only all his new life was comprised of, but all his old life was willing to give back to him, too. 

A noise at his back had Harry stiffen in alert, instincts that formed before his brain seemed able to catch up. There seemed every so often to be a person who either came to check he was still here - he could hardly blame how little trust they had in him now, he thought bitterly - or that they had come for fresh air themselves, and upon seeing him, turned in haste and made an escape. He probably couldn’t blame them for not being able to stand the sight of him either.  He could barely stand himself. He half-turned his head, not moving from his seat position, and recognised Rose. He didn’t know which of the two reasons they were here for and tensed despite himself, knowing they could hardly be happy with him. Maybe he couldn’t remember Rose, but he still knew he was letting them down. “How’s your father?” he asked, not meeting their eyes. “Is he going to be alright after …” 

Rose noticed their shaking hands several hours into their quiet vigil by their father’s bedside. It felt like a perversion of the parent-child roles, the way the wix watched every twitch in Ron’s face and timed each breath as he lay in a potions-induced slumber. How many times had he done this with them, or with their brother, when they were sick or hurt? Sat beside them, murmured words of comfort that they could barely hear through sleep and fever, wiped sweat from their brow?

It was only after ample intervention from their mother and Hugo (“You need sleep, Rose, or food, or a shower—” “Preferably all three.”) that Rose was able to extricate themselves from the guest bedrooms of Grimmauld Place and wander down to the kitchen. Dark chocolate-coated digestives and a comically large mug of tea in hand, they braced themselves against the cold wind shifting through the courtyard before noticing another person was already there.

(Uncle) Harry. Of fucking course.

Idiot. Idiot. IDIOT! They wanted to scream, smash their mug on the bricks below them, shake their uncle by the shoulders — and for a horrifying few moments they stared at the man with daggers in their eyes, considering how good it would feel to express their rage at the man who could lead their parents into chaos even without his memories. What a dolt, what an absolute jackass, what a SELFISH—

“Here.” They fished a few of the cookies from their plastic confines and pressed them into Harry’s hands before realizing he wouldn’t remember the healing properties of chocolate (something he had taught them!). Their anger made its way through clenched teeth as they explained: “Chocolate helps with the after-effects of Dark magic.”

Kicking the outdoor chair next to Harry out of throttling range, Rose sat, and for a long while busied themselves with gulping down their tea. They ignored his questions about Ron, for Rose themself didn’t know how to talk about their dad’s injuries without crying. They wanted to hold onto this, the churn of fury building in their head: it was the only thing they’d felt besides hopelessness and fear in a long time.

Despite the malestrom inside their heart, Rose’s voice was even, their eyes despite their redness and dark circles, bright and aware. “Tell me, what was the plan? What were you trying to do by leaving? Die, again?”

The story she told was unpleasant. It revealed a weakness that was beyond her control, bestowed upon her at birth, and it was one that has threatened her life. One that he imagines still threatened her life, with the way that she described the malediction. Draco’s face flickers with a stormy expression before he morphed his visage to one of clay, too soft at the edges to be considered stone. There had been whispers of a Greengrass sickness, rumors that Lucius and Narcissa were happy to spread, the kind of chatter that, quite frankly, Draco hadn’t cared enough about at the time to pay much heed to. 

To say he didn’t view Astoria differently would be a lie. He saw before him a woman that was dealt a heavy burden, and it’s not anything that he could understand or truly empathize with. “There’s irony to be found in pure blood being cursed because of ideals of blood supremacy.” Blood supremacy, he had found, was an illness all its own. 

The comment, however, was no comfort, as Draco didn’t know how to offer any, and he knew that Astoria didn’t want his pity. Astoria was above that. The clench in his gut was not pity. He could only guess that it was concern, but even that, he struggled to properly display. “It’s not a fact I would want to broadcast,” he relayed, his fingers curling around his knee, finding himself itching to reach out to her. His eyes caught onto the bruise, as if he could will it to go away with his gaze alone. 

“And I won’t advertise it for you.” This truth is safe with me. That’s what he’s saying, and he could only hope that Astoria understood it. Understood him in a way that she only seemed able to. She’d read between the lines before. 

She probably didn’t want to talk about it further, but Draco had a few questions that he wanted to ask anyway. What he didn’t question was whether or not it could be cured, whether or not certain possibilities had been considered, as he wouldn’t insult the Greengrass family by insinuating that they hadn’t already thought of every avenue of alleviating their family of this ailment. 

“You have clearly found a way to live with it.” After all, she was not dead. She very well could be, but she wasn’t. Fortunately. He’s glad that she’s alive. “Thrive, even, despite this.” He didn’t name it, didn’t verbalize it as an illness. He didn’t think Astoria would like to hear it. “You have not let it stop you.” He paused, mulling on his words, uncharacteristically careful of his selection. “I appreciate being aware of it, though. Now I know to not invite you to a game of catch with a Quaffle. Plenty of other options available to us. There’s a Magenta Comstock exhibit coming up, actually, that I was wanting to see if you were interested in.” 

He’s changing the subject, offering an out. It’s what he would want. 

It was Astoria’s turn to watch her companion. She scrutinized every muscle in Draco’s face, searching for the shift in his expression that would signal that this news — and Astoria, by extension — was too much to handle. The minutes ticked by, though, and while she saw him cycle through a few reactions, none of them shouted panic!, like how she’d expected. She hoped that was a good sign.

The irony that Draco pointed out was one she had ruminated on many an hour before. At its mention, Astoria nodded. The entire concept of blood supremacy could be considered laughable, had it not lead to death and destruction for so many. “I used to harbor a real hatred for her — the witch who cursed the Greengrasses. At some point I think I began to understand her. Maybe not her methods,” she sighed. “But the frustration. The feelings of rejection.” And the vast, all-consuming loneliness that came with it.

‘And I won’t advertise it for you,’ Draco said, and Astoria felt awash in something — she wanted to call it relief, but it was better than that. She was secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t tell others of her blood curse nor hold the possibility above her head. Only time would tell if he could honor that promise, but the young witch felt there was an implicit trust between them. It was comforting. “Thank you, Draco. Truly.” 

“Thriving,” the young witch repeated, savoring the word. She was unused to these types of compliments — so much of what she’d heard surrounding her health were cloying references to her being an ‘inspiration’, which was something that she decidedly did not want to be merely because she could live through pain and suffering. “I like that. I like to think I am. Even if that means spending far too many hours toiling in the Ministry courts.” 

He offered her a subject change, and normally she would take it. Still. She picked up her water glass to occupy her hands so they wouldn’t sweat or shake, and cleared her throat. 

“I would love to see that exhibit, but — ” Despite this conversation going better than expected— I still wonder if you really intend on seeing me agai— I don’t want you to see me differentl— “I just want you to know that it’s alright if you have questions. I would rather you ask than let any assumptions...fester.” 

She doesn’t want to talk about it, and she doesn’t want to tell the truth. That much is obvious. The ease in which Astoria rolls out an explanation is telling, as is the immediate reach for a balm, her hands appearing to instinctively knowing its location in her bag. Similar to the way wixen can so quickly draw out their wands. Because they’re accustomed to it. The bruising has to be indicative of something that she’s already aware of, then. 

He could drop the matter. Accept the story that she’s giving him. But he won’t. “My parents are notoriously overprotective, but even they understood that bruises are a natural part of childhood. They heal rather quickly, and to deprive you of an imperative wixen skill seems quite extreme.” The commentary could be viewed as accepting of the story he’s being fed if it weren’t for the airy, unconvinced deliverance. Shame recognizes shame, and Draco hid his own underneath long sleeves, preferring them to concealment charms. Seeing bare skin where he knew there was a charred mark would only leave him queasy. So her motions to cover up her blemish were familiar. Why would she feel distressed over a bruise if it were ordinary? 

“You do not have to spin stories with me,” Draco assures, surveying her closely, watching any minute expression that crosses over her face. “I understand wanting to have your secrets. You are entitled to them.” Even if he no longer has many of his own, most of his worst memories and decisions splashed across headlines and forced out of him for court records. There were still shadowy parts of himself he kept tucked away. “But I would hope you were comfortable enough to give me the truth all the same.” 

He had no interest in forcing her to disclose, yet he knew that if she chose to evade, their dynamic would surely shift and not for the better. She’s uncomfortable under his gaze, and Draco doesn’t like it. He had come to enjoy the fact that she could steadily look him in the eye, that she wasn’t afraid to confront him head-on. 

Did Astoria believe that Draco would judge her? How could he? What ground did he have to stand on? “Or are you just not going to make eye contact with me again, now that it’s obvious that you are hiding something?” 

The silence between them lingered on as Astoria breathed through the roiling anxiety swirling in her gut. Of course he could see right through her. Astoria suddenly wished they were sitting across from each other in her office, or standing in the imposing black-tiled rooms of the Ministry courts. She was a consummate professional; cutthroat, even. She would have no problem looking Draco straight in the eye and turning the line of questioning back onto him. 

She could leave. Brush off his concerns with a flurry of excuses and never pick up a quill to write to him again. But even thinking of that option made her heart clench painfully in her chest, and she found the words springing to her lips before she could suppress them:

“I think there is one story, in fact, that it would benefit you to know,” Astoria’s gaze snapped back to Draco’s face, steady and even and unblinking. “About three centuries ago, my ancestor Laertes pursued a relationship with a muggleborn witch before ultimately jilting her due to her bloodline and class. In her despair and anger, she laid upon him an oath that his ‘children and his children’s children would possess a poison in the very same blood that your family prides itself so greatly upon’.” She rolled up her sleeves again, this time to gesture at the blackened space on her arm that had started to fade with the aid of the bruising salve. 

“My Ya-ya calls it ‘Aphrodite’s Curse’, but those who are familiar with Dark magic know it as a blood malediction. At least once in every generation a Greengrass is born with it. I bruise easily, like I said. Any cut I get will not heal without some sort of magical intervention. My circulation is so poor that I wear jumpers in the summer. And the... ” she swallowed. There were some details best kept to herself. “...well, without the fine work and dedication of the Healers at St. Mungo’s, I wouldn’t be sitting across from you right now.” 

Perhaps most surprising of all for Astoria was the anger that bubbled through her thoughts as she explained her condition to Draco. Not at him, for the only thing compelling her to tell him the truth was a confusing barrage of feelings she did not have the time to disentangle, but at the way the blood curse touched everything in her life, ceaselessly, all the time. “It’s not exactly a secret, but you can understand that it’s something I do not like to advertise.” 

Draco used to thrive on being the center of attention and wasn’t beneath throwing a fit when he didn’t get his way. These days, he’s a lurker in the shadows, and he doesn’t like eyes being on him. Astoria’s an exception, and if he is jolted with a burst of energy every time her twinkling, steady gaze landed on him, that’s his business. No one needed to know. Not even his parents. Especially not his parents, who would tut and stick their nose up at the idea of their one and only son voluntarily spending his time with the younger Greengrass daughter. 

Not every ship is unsalvageable, she had once told him. Perhaps she hadn’t realized the metaphor, how the wrecked boat had represented Draco and his journey, his attempts to stay afloat in a sea of self-loathing, but Astoria’s smart. Observant. Captivating. She stood out in an ocean of plain, flopping fish. And he didn’t see the harm in indulging himself with her company every now and then. By choice, now, instead of just by coincidence and happenstance. This was just lunch. He wasn’t being interrogated and neither of them have to bother with the pleasantries, the expectations that came with the events of the pureblood society that they had been birthed into. 

The cafe they were patroning still had the ambiance that they were accustomed to, lavish enough that they weren’t out of place, blending into the atmosphere, their conversation a bubble that wouldn’t be punctured as no one around them was interested in their discussions. What was interesting was the bruise blossoming on Astoria’s arm on the area that had been jarred by the door upon their entrance. 

Draco’s not the type to believe in coincidences, and even as he’s listening to Astoria relay office shenanigans, he’s hyper-focused on the injury that has poked its way to the surface of her skin at an abnormally fast pace. “Society is changing. It’s a domino effect of sorts, isn’t it? After everything that’s happened,” He doesn’t name the occurrence, knows that Astoria will deduce that he was referring to the Second Wizarding War, of the fallout of the crusade for blood supremacy losing out. “Societal progress is being fast-tracked, and every cause wants their moment in the spotlight.” 

Draco paused, leaned close as his eyes narrowed. “What shouldn’t be moving at such a fast pace is the discoloring of your arm. Iron-deficiency? Perhaps you should order the steak?” Masking his concern behind his quips. The world around him may be changing at a fast pace, but Draco’s own evolution was much slower. 

“Society is changing. Rightfully so — and I know a number of dragonologists are grateful for such antics. I just wonder if everyone can get a moment in the spotlight at the same time. Consider, for example — synthetic dragon hide. It’s already been done with leather, and if someone were to develop it before they try to ban dragon hunting, then — ” Her hand, halfway-stretched toward the crystaline glass of water in front of her alerted her to the problem before she even registered Draco’s words. She frowned. “Ah.”

"...I bruise easily,” Astoria explained, her response just a fraction of a second too-late to seem as easy-going as she wanted it to be. She forced a small, half-hearted laugh, and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Very easily. My parents even had me exempt from Flying lessons in school because of it, overprotective as they tended to be.” She didn’t mention how she’d cried for days after hearing the news, how she would linger in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies and pretend it was her own hair becoming windswept like the athletes’ in every broom advertisement, how she always had to sit in the back rows of Quidditch games on the slightest chance a stray Bludger came her way. It was fine, she was fine, everything was fine. 

With the practiced movement of someone who tended to their injuries hundreds of times, Astoria summoned a small jar of salve from her bag and applied a generous amount of the peppermint-infused balm to her bruise. She rolled her sleeves back down and buttoned the cuffs, checking their security once, twice, thrice. 

The tinkling of silverware on china and babble of voices seemed so loud with the absence of their conversation. She didn’t want to look back at Draco — his eye for detail could be prickly and uncomfortable whenever he used it to examine her. and she never mastered the art of being unreadable. Her shame, though an emotion as familiar to Astoria as treating a bruise, was not something she wanted to introduce to their friendship. It was fine, she was fine — 

“I’m fine,” she reassured the young man across from her. Iron-deficiency. She probably did have that, even if it wasn’t the most pressing symptom on her Healing charts. 

Astoria shouldered her sleek messenger bag without so much as a wince as she stepped into line to order lunch, a certain blond wizard moments behind. Her right forearm throbbed from her mishap with the heavy café door, but she paid little attention to the pain. It was all swiftly eclipsed by the bubble of joy blooming deep between her ribs — the relief of an extended lunch break from her work at the Ministry, a brisk sunny day, and the company she was keeping during both of those things. 

How odd it seemed now (after a tense first meeting, weeks of awkward run-ins, and now several intentional rendezvous’) that Astoria could consider Draco Malfoy a friend. “We all lead busy lives,” he had said at that spectacle of a Zabini wedding all those weeks ago, explaining how infrequently he sought company from his former schoolmates. And yet, whenever Astoria beckoned — in letters she penned with obscure gallery brochures enclosed, invitations for coffee with a few days’ notice – he came. And Astoria found herself beckoning more and more. She liked how observant he was, able to pick at all the tightly woven threads that made up the tapestries of the world around them and find something to critique or praise. He was smart and sharp in a way that felt real and refreshing, so unlike the thick layer of artifice and showmanship that permeated their social circle. 

Some small part of Astoria hoped Draco saw her as a friend, too. Her drive and ambition certainly seemed to interest, if not impress him. She’d even gotten used to his jabs at her (admittedly unhealthy) work schedule. And if an even smaller part of her wanted to nestle under his arm as they waited in line to order, well. 

Later, with her jacket hung on the chair behind her and the crisp white sleeves of her blouse rolled up, Astoria didn’t notice the ugly purple-blue contusion on her arm.  “—and you would not believe the fervor of these creature rights organizations. An anti-dragon poaching activist chained himself to my supervisors’ desk with goblin-forged steel this morning. He was still there when I left the office.” 

There are things Erin wants to say to Astoria. Realisations of affection, the way she not simply sees her as boss and friend, but holds a warm kind of love for her too. Gratitude, for the way she had come to her rescue. And all her suspicions, most of all, the way she cannot tell if her brain is making her believe that it was Cassius as a way to cope, or whether it really was. But this is not the place, nor the time. Maybe in the open air, where the sharp ears of fellow Ministry employees aren’t turned their way, she’ll let it out.

“Lovely,” she says in response to Astoria’s willingness, easily taking the lead on their way out of the office, and subsequently Ministry building. The walk towards the city is one of greeting colleagues, hands waved and people asking Erin if she’s feeling better, then? and Erin nodding head. A proud smile on her lips, the terror that now resides in her stomach even more hidden with extreme care. She’s glad to have Astoria on her side, who demands more respect and is thus harder to approach.

Erin inhales deeply once the pair is outside, glancing sideways at her boss. “I don’t understand how some of our colleagues just sit inside all day,” she hums, wrapping arms around body as the late-autumn winds seem to pick up. “My place isn’t far from here, by the way.” She continues to move, heels clicking against cobbled streets. “I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you for what you did, and maybe it goes without saying … but thank you, Astoria.”

.

There is a persistent ache at her temples. Perhaps it’s lack of sleep, but it seems to pulse in tandem with every glance shot at Astoria and her younger colleague — and if she is this bothered by awkward platitudes, she couldn’t imagine Erin’s own discomfort. Part of her yearns to wrap an arm around the younger woman’s shoulders and shield her from prying eyes the way she would for her son, but Astoria is much too reserved for that. She hopes a kind smile and an attentive nature will make do. 

They continue to have much in common: “Really? My husband and I had a flat nearby,” she shoots her companion a sideways glance, fond memories playing at the edge of her mind despite everything. “Before we were married. Much to our parents’ shock and horror.” 

Erin’s next words nearly make Astoria stop in her tracks: she has to swallow a few times around a painful tightness in her throat in order to speak. “Erin, you...” Almost died. Are an incredible young woman. Embody every idea of the daughter I wished for when I was young. “You don’t need to thank me. You’re here.” 

“There is something we need to discuss,” Astoria begins once Erin’s retrieved Joan and her lunch and the three are sitting in a sun-dappled courtyard. A quick warming charm keeps the wind from chilling them through, and the older witch chooses to scritch-scratch along the dog’s ears in favor of looking at her companion. “I fear that the attack on Diagon Alley is just the beginning of more targeted violence, and I am...particularly concerned for my own safety.” 

Daphne had prepared herself for this moment and had acted it out in her mind frequently, the big reunion. She had always known that the sisters would be reunited at some point, that they would pick up where they left off. The Greengrass girls. An unstoppable duo. She had meticulously played this out in her head; she knew how it would go, what she was going to say and how Astoria would respond. But when the door opens, Daphne is faced with something she did not consider.

Astoria is not a teenager anymore. She is taller, her face slimmer, there is a child involved. In Daphne’s mind, nearly no time had passed since she left; her life led all these years allowed her to play make believe. While she moved, everyone else stayed the same. That is what she had imagined, but here Astoria was, and her appearance is proof of the time that has passed. 

She steps further into the light, shaking off her initial shock. This is fine, everything is fine, she is still in control of the situation. ‘‘May I come in? I would rather this reunion not take place in the pouring rain.’’

Once the initial numbness wears off, Astoria finds tears springing to her eyes, her heart clenching with a painful awareness of just how long it’s been. Some in their pureblood circles had pointed to the sisters when they were growing up, commenting on their strange closeness, how odd it was for girls with different mothers to treat each other with such reverence. But there was nothing half about their sisterhood, just as there was nothing half about the way Astoria’s heart shredded when her sister disappeared. 

“Oh, yes, do come in, where are my manners?” Astoria slips on her lady of the house persona in lieu of crying. She cannot fall apart, not now, not when so many unanswered questions lay between her and Daphne, their vastness like an ocean. Draco appears as she’s ushering Daphne and the stranger with her across the threshold, and Astoria, ever grateful for her husband, passes Scorpius off to him with a kiss to his cheek. He gives Daphne a curt, stiff greeting, suspicion written all over his face, and promises to return after he puts their son to bed. 

She brings her visitors to a drawing room off the main entranceway and lights a roaring fire with her wand. For a beat, she cannot bring herself to turn and face her sister, afraid the entire last few minutes is an illusion, or a dream. Emotions churning, she forgoes any further pleasantries or offers of tea before spitting out: “Just where have you been?!” 

where – astoria’s office.​

It had felt like she was dragging her feet when she had returned to the office. It wasn’t like she regretted going: it was good to be out, to be productive, to have something to do. But something had settled into Erin’s very core ever since those knives had pierced her skin, and it made it hard to simply be. Erin wanted desperately to return to normalcy and be professional. It was proving to be hard, though, when the person who she suspected wanted her dead was walking the same hallways as her. Fear lived with her now, more present than it had been before.

But Erin kept her chin up, refusing to be defeated. She slipped to bathrooms when her heart started to pound or when her head filled with red-stained memories, finding solace in the cold stream of water or the privacy of a toilet stall. But it was draining. All of it was draining, the I’m glad to see you’re back, comments, the way she wanted to jump in her seat with every sudden noise, the way her mind kept thinking what if what if what if. She needed air. And so, she knocked on Astoria’s door, entering soon after. “I’m thinking of going on lunch break early.” With Astoria, she felt less pressure to hide how tired she felt, because she had seen Erin when it had happened. There was a feeling of safety there, she supposed. Something, at the very least, that made her feel better. “Do you want to join me? We can walk Joan together, maybe sit in a park for a while. Get some air.”

Astoria thought she’d lived through a war, but the events of the past few days made her realize how much her experiences as a teen were merely an echo of such violence. Every time she shut her eyes her mind was imbued with images of smoke and brimstone, wailing, injured people, and blood. (Erin’s pale face, her shaking voice.) If Astoria was this bothered by the battle having come out of it unscathed, she couldn’t imagine how the younger woman was feeling. 

The Chief Warlock looked up from a veritable mountain of paperwork to see Erin (alive, alive, she’s alive) poised in the doorway to her office. She wasn’t without shock when her Senior Undersecretary came back to the office several days sooner than she expected. Astoria admired her gumption (foolishness?), but worried that she had created an expectation for Erin to value work and steadfastness above all else. Things at the Ministry were in an absolute flurry, of course, but they could manage. 

After a moment’s hesitation to take stock of how she was feeling about going to lunch early (eager, exhausted, more-than-willing), Astoria stood, capping her fountain pen and retrieving the dosirak that her husband had lovingly pressed into her hands this morning from the top drawer of her desk. “Of course. Lead the way.” 

Date: February 19th, 2008.

Location: Malfoy Manor.

Ft: Daphne & Astoria.

The rain falls HARD and HEAVY; it SMACKS against her back with a fury, the wind leaves her face feeling cold, numb. But then again, numbness is a feeling that is a part of who she is. She would be nothing without the NUMBNESS that has taken root inside her. For a moment, Daphne stops, looking up at the sky, at the dark, grey clouds that loom above them. No moon in sight. She looks over at her husband, and she smiles, a slightly unhinged smile, a somewhat unnerving smile, and then she looks ahead at the road. “ This way. ”

The backstreets of Wiltshire feel familiar, and part of her despises that. All those years spent running away from this life, from this world, and yet she seems to be fitting right back in like a missing puzzle piece. “ My sister is a fool for settling at Malfoy Manor. ” it’s more to herself than her accomplice. “ We will raise our child in London. ” that is a statement, not a discussion opener. 

They make another right turn to see Malfoy Manor looming ahead of them, and a sort of sorrow fills Daphne as she wonders if the dark lord is turning in his grave, knowing who now occupies the site he once chose as a base. They walk up the path. The porch light is on. She wonders for a moment if Astoria will want to see her or if she will even recognise her. It causes Daphne’s heart to beat at a quickened pace, even in her years away; her sister was the only person that often crossed her mind. She had wanted to write on more than one occasion, but her desire to keep Astoria safe had stopped her time and time again. They reach the door, and she turns to Archelaus. “ stay behind me, ” she reaches up and rings the bell, pulling down her hood and allowing the rain to fall down her face as she waits. Patiently, anxiously. The sound of a lock unbolting, the creak of a door. “ Good evening, sister. ”

@poltcrgcists​

Scorpius’ “terrible twos” seem to be marked by an insistent desire to follow her around, cling to her leg, and insist on being carried. She would rather not have him in her arms as she rushes to answer the door, preferring to keep her son away from strangers, but he’s persuasive (read: she and Draco would move heaven and Earth for their son’s every whim). He’s quiet and sleepy on her hip, freshly bathed and cozy in a green onesie styled to look like a little dragon.

The wind outside Malfoy Manor sends rain battering against the windows, but the house’s interior is light, warm, thanks to Astoria’s insistence (and Narcissa’s agreement) on redecorating. The ornate dining room that once held profanatory, violent meetings of the Dark Lord’s inner circle was scrubbed of its furnishings and retooled into a library; the room the snakelike man occupied during his stay was demolished and the second floor balcony extended in its place. There are whispers of sadness in some corners, of course, as powerful magics leave scars, but Astoria nurtures hope that her little family will fill the place with love as the years go on.

She fishes her wand from her pocket and cautiously undos the enchantments that keep the heavy doors locked, confused as to who would visit at this hour and in this weather—

The sight of the woman in front of her brings three distinct feelings, all at once. Shock, which causes Astoria to step back and jostles her son who whimpers at the movement; confusion, for the person on her doorstep vanished years ago without a trace; and a flood of disbelief that colors her tone as all she can do is stand and repeat: “Daphne? Daphne?”