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It’s been nearly a week now since I last spoke to Mother and Father. Even when I was a boy at Hogwarts, I’d never gone more than three days without some sort of correspondence. It wasn’t so much that I was spoilt or needy, but more that it was a necessity for someone of my stature. Father had to ensure that I was mixing with the right people for political and societal connections. Mother was interested in my education and – perhaps more importantly in her mind – my love interests. And while most of the school might have been utterly oblivious to the societal hierarchy that was being established even at such a young age (and these are the ones who, I assure you, will be low on the rungs), I was not.
I’d always understood that, as the Malfoy heir, it was my duty to secure my standing in the business and political world, marry an equally commendable partner (preferably of Slytherin origin), and produce an heir of my own. And all before my twenty-fifth birthday. A daunting task for some, but not me. I’d been born into this world knowing – and wanting – little else.
Until she entered my life.
By all accounts, I should have hated her. She represented everything I was against. A poverty stricken, blood traitor daughter of Arthur Weasley was far below that of the noble descendant of the Black and Malfoy lines. Or so Father had pointed out no less than fifty seven times when I made my intentions to marry her obvious.
But I can’t help myself. There’s something so annoyingly addictive about Ginevra Weasley. It’s nothing so trite as her laugh or eyes or any of that rot. In fact, it’s nothing I can put into words. She’s enchanted me in ways I couldn’t even hope to guess at. Ginevra (I absolutely refuse to call her a silly nickname like Ginny) simply ignites me in ways no other woman ever has. One minute I’m snarling furiously, the next I’m reduced to little more than a lovesick teenager. It’s disgusting really, for one raised to be a master at manipulation to be slave to a Gryffindor.
If I had any sense at all, Father says, I’d have my fill of the wench and be done with it. Mother, whose sense of propriety would never let her agree with such a crass notion, has thrown witch after witch at my feet, each a perfectly acceptable match. And also freakishly similar in physique to Ginevra. As if her body is all I’m after.
I wish it were so easy.
And yet, though I’ve sworn to Ginevra that my parents’ threat of disownment is not of concern to me, there is something bothersome about the whole affair. Something I can’t quite pick out. I’ve put off setting a date, skillfully dodged her family’s questions about our pending nuptials, and – astonishingly – have even been able to avoid using that accursed four-letter word to describe my feelings for my fiancée. It’s not that I don’t… feel that way about her. And it’s not that I do. My thoughts are a jumble right now and that is something I’ve never experienced before. I can’t very well talk to the Weasleys about it (it’s no secret that they’re looking for an excuse to call this off anyway) and Father and Mother are – quite obviously – out of the question as well. I need an objective third party, one with no stakes or reason to favor either outcome. One who knows what it’s like to be on both sides.
I come to a decision of what must be done fairly quickly. And I’m sure I can hear Aunt Bellatrix hexing me from her grave even as I Apparate away.
__________________________________________________________
“I’m surprised Narcissa is so adamantly against the pairing. They may be poor, but the Weasleys are as pure as the Blacks. And with Voldemort defeated, it might be a wise political move to make nice with them.”
I’m in a kitchen that could rival the Weasleys’ in both size and style. In other words: hideously plebian. The worn teacup I’m sipping from is clearly from their finer set of wares and that makes it all the more pathetic. But at least the Earl Grey is good.
“I’ve tried that argument. But the blood feud is deep enough that Father won’t listen. And Mother knows that, no matter who maintains control of the government, high society will never accept the Weasleys into their folds again.”
“No,” my companion agrees, sipping on her tea in an aristocratic manner that is decidedly out of place in our current surroundings. “I suppose not after that incident in ’23.”
I’m surprised to see how little time – and reduction in class – has affected my ostracized aunt. The way Mother always spoke of her (what little she did), I expected to see a whored-out, mousy hag when I called upon number 739 West Hammond Drive. To say I was surprised by the stunning brunette with the upturned nose seated in front of me would be a vast understatement. Despite her meager surroundings, Andromeda Tonks nee Black still exudes the grace and sophistication of a proper lady. It gives me the most dangerous of indulgences: hope.
“But Draco,” my aunt continues, eyeing me carefully, “let’s get to the point, shall we? You’ve developed strong feelings for the Weasley girl and your parents don’t agree with the match, which of course leaves you with two options: surrender the girl or your inheritance and all that comes with it.”
It’s not her keen powers of deduction that take me back – she was in Ravenclaw after all – but the sad look in her hazel eyes. Like she knows the question I’m going to ask and doesn’t want to give me the answer. I delay my response by taking a bite of the half-eaten buttered scone on my plate before replying cautiously.
“I believe you see where I’m headed with this meeting.”
She gives me a terse nod. “Of course.”
A heavy silence hangs in the air. I don’t dare interrupt it, for it is no longer my words that matter. Only Andromeda’s. And they will either damn or save me. Funny thing is I’m not sure which answer will do what. If this is love – and I’m not yet admitting it is – then I can completely understand why people say it will drive you mad. After all, what else could drive a perfectly respectable pureblood son to seek out his tainted, Mudblood-loving aunt?
“If you don’t marry her,” Andromeda finally says, “you could regret it for the rest of your life. And if you do marry her, I’m sure you’ll regret that too.”
I can feel my eyes narrow, not from suspicion, but more the implication of what she’s saying. “Meaning?” I demand.
She smiles and its bittersweet. That smile holds a million secrets, none of which I particularly want to know, and yet I find myself inexplicably drawn to it. To her. “I was pregnant when I ran away with Ted,” she whispers.
My eyes widen because this is something I did not know and I’m positive no one else did either from the way she seemed to speak of it.
“I would have gone with him anyway, of course, “ she barrels on. “I loved him and he loved me and I let myself get swept away by the sensations this brought. I thought that love would be enough to carry us through anything. Silly for a Ravenclaw, really.”
“Don’t you love him anymore?” I’m more curious than anything. Even Mother had admitted (though never in front of Father) that the passion she’d witnessed between Ted and Andromeda made her question – however briefly – if it was right of Cygnus to disown her after all. If a love like that could fade…
“Of course,” comes her easy response, but it is laden with a heavy weight I cannot place. “But Draco,” and here I’m sure I see a hint of regret in her eyes, “for those of us who were made for more, love is not always enough. Love does not feed you or clothe you. It does not pay for your daughter’s books or teach you how to sew when you can no longer afford to buy new robes. It does not throw elegant balls with faerie lanterns and Elvin wines. And it most certainly does not make a Prince Charming out of every stable boy.
Sometimes, when I have to work overtime just to make ends meet, I wonder what my life would have been like, had I not been pregnant and had instead conceded to marry Richard Nott like my father requested.”
Andromeda stares out the window momentarily, stuck in the land of If-Only and reminiscing on mistakes made (or not made) and things never to be. It’s clear she still loves the Tonks fellow, for in her speech she showed him no disdain, but I’m hesitant to ask her if, given the chance to do it over again, she’d choose the same path. If you asked me why, I’d say it’s a simple courtesy out of consideration for her feelings (I can be considerate now and then, if it pleases me). But, in all honesty, I think I’m afraid of the answer. But why I don’t really know.
“Draco,” she begins and I try not to notice how strained her voice sounds. “I believe you’ve found yourself at a precipice. Either road you choose will cause you pain. It is simply a matter of which pain will be more bearable.”
A single tear slides down her cheek and I know in that instant, if she could go back, which choice she would make. The same choice I know now that I must make.
She escorts me to the door and before I leave, I lift up her hand and delicately kiss the back of it while dipping into a respectable bow. The look of surprise on her face quickly melts into a soft smile and she returns my gesture with a gracious curtsey.
“Thank you, Lady Black. For everything.”
I can see the tears glistening in her eyes, but she delicately blinks them back. A true noble, no matter her past indiscretions, and I know that I’ll never be able to think of her as Andromeda Tonks again. She is well and truly a Black, something she cannot escape even if she wanted to. I hesitate because I know this will be the last time we shall ever see each other. It can be no other way.
But I wish to the gods that it could.
__________________________________________________________
16 Years Later…
“Father?” Scorpius inquires, his soft voice easily catching my attention even with all the racket that surrounds us on Platform 9 ¾.
He’s a miniature version of me, save for two qualities: the splash of green in his otherwise grey eyes and his quiet disposition. Perhaps it is a blessing that he lacks the Malfoy temper – or at least this is what Astoria tries to convince me of – but I was quite relieved to discover he did not lack our gift for cunning and leadership. Two things he most definitely will need if he’s ever to take his place in society.
“Yes?”
“Are you sure I must ride the train? It’s so… common.”
I can’t help but smirk and, out of the corner of my eye, I see Astoria trying to stifle a smile. She catches my gaze and we share a knowing, almost amused look. At least we’d no question of where he’d be sorted.
“I’ve already spoken to Marcus Flint. His son will be saving you a seat with some of the sixth years so you won’t have to mix company if you don’t wish to.”
He nods, a look of approval on his face. “Splendid. I suppose I’ll see you in December then.”
Clapping a hand on his shoulder, I resist the urge to ruffle his hair like I am wont to do at home. For one, it’s entirely improper. And I am also fairly certain it’d embarrass Scorpius to no end. “Give Longbottom hell for me, son.”
His lips twitch into a wicked smirk to match my own, but it is Astoria who answers. “But do refrain from getting into any trouble, Scorpius. Keep your dealings, whatever they may be, to things that cannot easily be traced, yes?”
“Of course, Mother,” he replies, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. “Did you have the elves pack my broom, by the way? Quidditch tryouts are in three weeks and I can’t be expected to perform at top level on those old Firebolts the school has.”
“They’re in the bottom of your trunk,” I respond. “But don’t fret too much over tryouts. First years rarely make the teams.”
“I will, Father,” he says so surely that it almost brings a smile to my lips. “And with me as Seeker, there’s no way Gryffindor could ever win the Cup. I’ll make you proud of me, I swear.”
“I’m already proud of you,” I remind him, but the whistle sounds and I’m sure my words are lost in the noise.
With a final hug from his mother, Scorpius walks off, owl and trunk in tow. He’s promised to write at least four times a week, but Astoria bites her lip nervously anyway. I should find it annoying – it is a very common thing to do – but after thirteen years of marriage, it’s grown on me and now I think of it as an adorable quirk.
I press a kiss to the palm of her hand and she smiles up at me. It’s very fleeting – we are in public after all – but it’s genuine and I can’t help but return the sentiment. I love Astoria. Perhaps not the way most husbands love their wives, but she’s borne my heir, run my household, kept my secrets, and been my best friend for over a decade now. How could I not grow to love her?
I’m not in love with her, of course. Not like I had been with Ginevra.
The mere thought of her causes my eyes to wander over to where I know the Potter-Weasley horde is standing. They too are sending their children (a massive amount, might I add) onto the train. Weasley, Granger (I’ll never be able to think of her as anything else), and Potter are all crowded together – as usual – but Ginevra stands apart, staring wistfully at the train.
She’s put on a tad bit of weight, I admit, but it only seems to add to her beauty. Her lush, copper hair falls in waves down her curvy back and I think back to a time when it used to cascade across my silk sheets. It wasn’t until I broke it off with her that I was able to admit my true feelings, if only to myself. I suppose, after sixteen years, I should be over her. But I’m not. I doubt I’ll ever be.
I tear my gaze away from Ginevra to see that Potter is staring at me. It’s not as hateful as it once might have been. There’s an understanding of sorts between us, though I’ll admit a part of me still loves to loathe him. I think I’m entitled to it. He does, after all, have the one thing I desperately desire, but can never have.
“Did you see Ron Weasley?” Astoria asks. “Looks like he’s got a bit of a receding hairline, doesn’t it?”
I quirk an eyebrow in amusement because she’s right. “Like father, like son,” I answer and we share a conspiratorial smirk before she begins to tug me towards the exit.
I can’t help myself and so I steal one last look at Ginevra. And this time she’s looking back. It’s only a short moment, but it’s all I need to know the truth. She still loves me too.
For a fleeting moment, I wonder what it would be like, to rush back towards her – propriety be damned – and kiss her for all the world to see. What would it be like if I’d married her? Would we have given birth to a horde of our own? Would we live in a small house with chipped dishes and plain decorations? Would I have ever grown to resent her?
Sighing, I turn away from the intensity of her gaze and shove the treacherous thoughts from my head. Astoria, who has no doubt seen our brief exchange, looks at me fleetingly with what I know to be understanding and sympathy before the impassive mask she’s perfected is back in place. Really, I’m quite lucky to have her. And, despite my venture into the land of If-Only, I know I made the right choice.
Because really, when you’re made for more, love is never enough. And it never could be.
I’d always understood that, as the Malfoy heir, it was my duty to secure my standing in the business and political world, marry an equally commendable partner (preferably of Slytherin origin), and produce an heir of my own. And all before my twenty-fifth birthday. A daunting task for some, but not me. I’d been born into this world knowing – and wanting – little else.
Until she entered my life.
By all accounts, I should have hated her. She represented everything I was against. A poverty stricken, blood traitor daughter of Arthur Weasley was far below that of the noble descendant of the Black and Malfoy lines. Or so Father had pointed out no less than fifty seven times when I made my intentions to marry her obvious.
But I can’t help myself. There’s something so annoyingly addictive about Ginevra Weasley. It’s nothing so trite as her laugh or eyes or any of that rot. In fact, it’s nothing I can put into words. She’s enchanted me in ways I couldn’t even hope to guess at. Ginevra (I absolutely refuse to call her a silly nickname like Ginny) simply ignites me in ways no other woman ever has. One minute I’m snarling furiously, the next I’m reduced to little more than a lovesick teenager. It’s disgusting really, for one raised to be a master at manipulation to be slave to a Gryffindor.
If I had any sense at all, Father says, I’d have my fill of the wench and be done with it. Mother, whose sense of propriety would never let her agree with such a crass notion, has thrown witch after witch at my feet, each a perfectly acceptable match. And also freakishly similar in physique to Ginevra. As if her body is all I’m after.
I wish it were so easy.
And yet, though I’ve sworn to Ginevra that my parents’ threat of disownment is not of concern to me, there is something bothersome about the whole affair. Something I can’t quite pick out. I’ve put off setting a date, skillfully dodged her family’s questions about our pending nuptials, and – astonishingly – have even been able to avoid using that accursed four-letter word to describe my feelings for my fiancée. It’s not that I don’t… feel that way about her. And it’s not that I do. My thoughts are a jumble right now and that is something I’ve never experienced before. I can’t very well talk to the Weasleys about it (it’s no secret that they’re looking for an excuse to call this off anyway) and Father and Mother are – quite obviously – out of the question as well. I need an objective third party, one with no stakes or reason to favor either outcome. One who knows what it’s like to be on both sides.
I come to a decision of what must be done fairly quickly. And I’m sure I can hear Aunt Bellatrix hexing me from her grave even as I Apparate away.
__________________________________________________________
“I’m surprised Narcissa is so adamantly against the pairing. They may be poor, but the Weasleys are as pure as the Blacks. And with Voldemort defeated, it might be a wise political move to make nice with them.”
I’m in a kitchen that could rival the Weasleys’ in both size and style. In other words: hideously plebian. The worn teacup I’m sipping from is clearly from their finer set of wares and that makes it all the more pathetic. But at least the Earl Grey is good.
“I’ve tried that argument. But the blood feud is deep enough that Father won’t listen. And Mother knows that, no matter who maintains control of the government, high society will never accept the Weasleys into their folds again.”
“No,” my companion agrees, sipping on her tea in an aristocratic manner that is decidedly out of place in our current surroundings. “I suppose not after that incident in ’23.”
I’m surprised to see how little time – and reduction in class – has affected my ostracized aunt. The way Mother always spoke of her (what little she did), I expected to see a whored-out, mousy hag when I called upon number 739 West Hammond Drive. To say I was surprised by the stunning brunette with the upturned nose seated in front of me would be a vast understatement. Despite her meager surroundings, Andromeda Tonks nee Black still exudes the grace and sophistication of a proper lady. It gives me the most dangerous of indulgences: hope.
“But Draco,” my aunt continues, eyeing me carefully, “let’s get to the point, shall we? You’ve developed strong feelings for the Weasley girl and your parents don’t agree with the match, which of course leaves you with two options: surrender the girl or your inheritance and all that comes with it.”
It’s not her keen powers of deduction that take me back – she was in Ravenclaw after all – but the sad look in her hazel eyes. Like she knows the question I’m going to ask and doesn’t want to give me the answer. I delay my response by taking a bite of the half-eaten buttered scone on my plate before replying cautiously.
“I believe you see where I’m headed with this meeting.”
She gives me a terse nod. “Of course.”
A heavy silence hangs in the air. I don’t dare interrupt it, for it is no longer my words that matter. Only Andromeda’s. And they will either damn or save me. Funny thing is I’m not sure which answer will do what. If this is love – and I’m not yet admitting it is – then I can completely understand why people say it will drive you mad. After all, what else could drive a perfectly respectable pureblood son to seek out his tainted, Mudblood-loving aunt?
“If you don’t marry her,” Andromeda finally says, “you could regret it for the rest of your life. And if you do marry her, I’m sure you’ll regret that too.”
I can feel my eyes narrow, not from suspicion, but more the implication of what she’s saying. “Meaning?” I demand.
She smiles and its bittersweet. That smile holds a million secrets, none of which I particularly want to know, and yet I find myself inexplicably drawn to it. To her. “I was pregnant when I ran away with Ted,” she whispers.
My eyes widen because this is something I did not know and I’m positive no one else did either from the way she seemed to speak of it.
“I would have gone with him anyway, of course, “ she barrels on. “I loved him and he loved me and I let myself get swept away by the sensations this brought. I thought that love would be enough to carry us through anything. Silly for a Ravenclaw, really.”
“Don’t you love him anymore?” I’m more curious than anything. Even Mother had admitted (though never in front of Father) that the passion she’d witnessed between Ted and Andromeda made her question – however briefly – if it was right of Cygnus to disown her after all. If a love like that could fade…
“Of course,” comes her easy response, but it is laden with a heavy weight I cannot place. “But Draco,” and here I’m sure I see a hint of regret in her eyes, “for those of us who were made for more, love is not always enough. Love does not feed you or clothe you. It does not pay for your daughter’s books or teach you how to sew when you can no longer afford to buy new robes. It does not throw elegant balls with faerie lanterns and Elvin wines. And it most certainly does not make a Prince Charming out of every stable boy.
Sometimes, when I have to work overtime just to make ends meet, I wonder what my life would have been like, had I not been pregnant and had instead conceded to marry Richard Nott like my father requested.”
Andromeda stares out the window momentarily, stuck in the land of If-Only and reminiscing on mistakes made (or not made) and things never to be. It’s clear she still loves the Tonks fellow, for in her speech she showed him no disdain, but I’m hesitant to ask her if, given the chance to do it over again, she’d choose the same path. If you asked me why, I’d say it’s a simple courtesy out of consideration for her feelings (I can be considerate now and then, if it pleases me). But, in all honesty, I think I’m afraid of the answer. But why I don’t really know.
“Draco,” she begins and I try not to notice how strained her voice sounds. “I believe you’ve found yourself at a precipice. Either road you choose will cause you pain. It is simply a matter of which pain will be more bearable.”
A single tear slides down her cheek and I know in that instant, if she could go back, which choice she would make. The same choice I know now that I must make.
She escorts me to the door and before I leave, I lift up her hand and delicately kiss the back of it while dipping into a respectable bow. The look of surprise on her face quickly melts into a soft smile and she returns my gesture with a gracious curtsey.
“Thank you, Lady Black. For everything.”
I can see the tears glistening in her eyes, but she delicately blinks them back. A true noble, no matter her past indiscretions, and I know that I’ll never be able to think of her as Andromeda Tonks again. She is well and truly a Black, something she cannot escape even if she wanted to. I hesitate because I know this will be the last time we shall ever see each other. It can be no other way.
But I wish to the gods that it could.
__________________________________________________________
16 Years Later…
“Father?” Scorpius inquires, his soft voice easily catching my attention even with all the racket that surrounds us on Platform 9 ¾.
He’s a miniature version of me, save for two qualities: the splash of green in his otherwise grey eyes and his quiet disposition. Perhaps it is a blessing that he lacks the Malfoy temper – or at least this is what Astoria tries to convince me of – but I was quite relieved to discover he did not lack our gift for cunning and leadership. Two things he most definitely will need if he’s ever to take his place in society.
“Yes?”
“Are you sure I must ride the train? It’s so… common.”
I can’t help but smirk and, out of the corner of my eye, I see Astoria trying to stifle a smile. She catches my gaze and we share a knowing, almost amused look. At least we’d no question of where he’d be sorted.
“I’ve already spoken to Marcus Flint. His son will be saving you a seat with some of the sixth years so you won’t have to mix company if you don’t wish to.”
He nods, a look of approval on his face. “Splendid. I suppose I’ll see you in December then.”
Clapping a hand on his shoulder, I resist the urge to ruffle his hair like I am wont to do at home. For one, it’s entirely improper. And I am also fairly certain it’d embarrass Scorpius to no end. “Give Longbottom hell for me, son.”
His lips twitch into a wicked smirk to match my own, but it is Astoria who answers. “But do refrain from getting into any trouble, Scorpius. Keep your dealings, whatever they may be, to things that cannot easily be traced, yes?”
“Of course, Mother,” he replies, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. “Did you have the elves pack my broom, by the way? Quidditch tryouts are in three weeks and I can’t be expected to perform at top level on those old Firebolts the school has.”
“They’re in the bottom of your trunk,” I respond. “But don’t fret too much over tryouts. First years rarely make the teams.”
“I will, Father,” he says so surely that it almost brings a smile to my lips. “And with me as Seeker, there’s no way Gryffindor could ever win the Cup. I’ll make you proud of me, I swear.”
“I’m already proud of you,” I remind him, but the whistle sounds and I’m sure my words are lost in the noise.
With a final hug from his mother, Scorpius walks off, owl and trunk in tow. He’s promised to write at least four times a week, but Astoria bites her lip nervously anyway. I should find it annoying – it is a very common thing to do – but after thirteen years of marriage, it’s grown on me and now I think of it as an adorable quirk.
I press a kiss to the palm of her hand and she smiles up at me. It’s very fleeting – we are in public after all – but it’s genuine and I can’t help but return the sentiment. I love Astoria. Perhaps not the way most husbands love their wives, but she’s borne my heir, run my household, kept my secrets, and been my best friend for over a decade now. How could I not grow to love her?
I’m not in love with her, of course. Not like I had been with Ginevra.
The mere thought of her causes my eyes to wander over to where I know the Potter-Weasley horde is standing. They too are sending their children (a massive amount, might I add) onto the train. Weasley, Granger (I’ll never be able to think of her as anything else), and Potter are all crowded together – as usual – but Ginevra stands apart, staring wistfully at the train.
She’s put on a tad bit of weight, I admit, but it only seems to add to her beauty. Her lush, copper hair falls in waves down her curvy back and I think back to a time when it used to cascade across my silk sheets. It wasn’t until I broke it off with her that I was able to admit my true feelings, if only to myself. I suppose, after sixteen years, I should be over her. But I’m not. I doubt I’ll ever be.
I tear my gaze away from Ginevra to see that Potter is staring at me. It’s not as hateful as it once might have been. There’s an understanding of sorts between us, though I’ll admit a part of me still loves to loathe him. I think I’m entitled to it. He does, after all, have the one thing I desperately desire, but can never have.
“Did you see Ron Weasley?” Astoria asks. “Looks like he’s got a bit of a receding hairline, doesn’t it?”
I quirk an eyebrow in amusement because she’s right. “Like father, like son,” I answer and we share a conspiratorial smirk before she begins to tug me towards the exit.
I can’t help myself and so I steal one last look at Ginevra. And this time she’s looking back. It’s only a short moment, but it’s all I need to know the truth. She still loves me too.
For a fleeting moment, I wonder what it would be like, to rush back towards her – propriety be damned – and kiss her for all the world to see. What would it be like if I’d married her? Would we have given birth to a horde of our own? Would we live in a small house with chipped dishes and plain decorations? Would I have ever grown to resent her?
Sighing, I turn away from the intensity of her gaze and shove the treacherous thoughts from my head. Astoria, who has no doubt seen our brief exchange, looks at me fleetingly with what I know to be understanding and sympathy before the impassive mask she’s perfected is back in place. Really, I’m quite lucky to have her. And, despite my venture into the land of If-Only, I know I made the right choice.
Because really, when you’re made for more, love is never enough. And it never could be.
The End.
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