Chapter Text
art by the_colourful_witch
Astoria.
Wind drove across the North Sea. Hair ripped from her braid, beating against her face. And the rain… it was a stark contrast from the slow, hot tears running freely down her cheeks. Large droplets fell from the sky and soaked through her clothes; the cold settled against her pale and pebbled skin, chilling her to the bone.
She felt nothing.
The view from Bempton Cliffs was flooded with grey. Thick clouds filled the sky, and a particularly powerful gust of wind forced the kittiwakes from their nests. Astoria lifted her gaze from the waves crashing against rock. She watched the birds glide through the air before they pulled above the clouds and out of sight.
She wondered if from there they could see the sun.
Her hands were drawn into tight fists at her side. The press of her nails against her palm was sharp. A little more force and she might break skin.
Here, at the cliff’s edge, there was noise. There was the sound of howling wind. The ocean turned with a fury that begged her attention. There were the curious squawks from the nearby burrow of puffins. The rustle of tall grass against her skirt. The hum of rain as it struck down on jagged rock.
Astoria allowed the noise to wash over her, stealing the silence, the discomfort. She allowed it to fill her untouched places. She allowed it to stand in for the neglect, for her pain. She filled herself with noise until the fury raced in. A friend to her now unlike ever before.
And then she cried until her throat was sore. She cried until she could no more, leaving nothing for herself but to return home. To the silence. To compliance. To the life she once loved and that once loved her back.
She was noise and silence, sound and fury.
She was a woman scorned by the man she adored. The man who’d vowed to be faithful. The man who betrayed her and shattered her heart.
The man who she dreamed of a life with—but that life had since wasted away...
Large hands idolized her skin. Lips trailed over her hip. “You’re beautiful,” he said to her. Astoria met his darkening stare as he settled between her thighs.
It wasn’t their first time, nor was it their second. But it was the first time she recognized that she was comforted by the weight of him on top of her. That his lips ignited her nerves. That she could hone her mind on the feel of his hands, his gentle fingers, and banish the rest of her racing thoughts.
It was the first time she believed what he’d said to her on their wedding day—that they would learn to love each other. But it happened quicker than Astoria expected. She supposed Draco Malfoy made it easy to fall in love with him.
She thought, perhaps, it was because he’d fallen in love with her rather quickly, too.
There was love in everything he did for her. Draco held open doors. He poured her a glass of wine before he poured one for himself. He was affectionate, stroking her hair as they read by the fire. When he returned home from work or visits with his parents, charity dealings, or his plethora of businesses, he pulled her into a hug. He kissed her brow. He showed her he loved her long before he said the words.
And when that sentiment finally did fall from his lips, Astoria turned to him in awe.
“What?” she asked, teetering the edge of a harboured laugh.
Her hair was pillow-mused, and skin, flushed. Draco raised onto an elbow, his cheeks tinged with crimson.
He offered her a small shrug. “Felt like something I should say, no?”
She blinked her brown eyes and mirrored his position, losing the sheet a bit further down her waist. “If you mean it, yes.”
“I do. I could.” He coughed. “I mean, could you…love me? Salazar spare me—I sound mental…”
With a snort, she shook her head. “I do.”
His brow quirked. “You do?”
“I could love you.”
Draco’s confusion persisted. Astoria watched as he slowly dropped onto his back. He covered his face with an open hand and massaged the tight lines from his brow.
“I should love the father of my child,” she said.
His hand pulled away. His grey eyes widened. “Are you…?”
A sad smirk pulled her lips toward one cheek. “No, but should I become pregnant, it would be nice to love my child’s father.”
His expression turned pensive. He stared at her, head lolling to the side. “My parents love each other in their own way.”
Astoria nodded slowly. “I think my parents do, too.”
“Is that what we want–” he asked, “—what our parents have?”
She hummed. For a beat, she simply held his gaze. Then, Astoria pushed up from the mattress. Bare to the cool night air, she sat above him. Her legs crossed and eyes darkened in thought.
“I’ll tell you what I want,” she said.
He raised to sit across from her. “Alright.”
She swallowed before taking a breath. “I want to give you a son—not because our family histories deem it a necessity, but because we want one. I want to watch you become your own version of a father, unlike the one who raised you. I want to teach our son to respect our worldly differences. I want him to be kind and soft and strong, but most importantly—himself. And I want him to see that we love each other. Fiercely, even. I don’t want him to ever doubt what kind of love it is or if there were conditions.
“Would that be alright?” she finished, hands now wrung tight in her lap.
Draco smiled, small and controlled, but still the brightest expression she’d seen on him. “I think so.”
“You don’t think I’m crazy?”
And he laughed; he laughed until he grinned. “By our parents’ standards. But my own… No, Astoria. I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“Excellent.” She released a breath. “Then I’ll happily say, I love you too.”
Another laugh barreled from his chest. His head shook as his fingers tore through her hair. He hauled her toward him, meeting Astoria halfway with his lips against hers.
If she hadn’t loved Draco on that night, it wouldn’t have taken long for Astoria to fully embrace it. Embrace him. Because everything changed between them following her declaration. What she saw as his attempts to love her before—his affectionate side, his chivalry—paled in comparison to the man he became. The husband he became for her after.
There was raw passion between them, missed meals, and conversation. There were fights. He was stubborn, and Merlin knew she could be, too. They had shared interests and built their own family traditions. They became a unit. They fit.
Astoria imagined their son would be a perfect blend of both of them.
“Pregnant?” His lips parted in apparent shock.
“I promised you a son, didn’t I?”
She loved Draco in that moment for shoving his fears aside. Even as she saw those racing thoughts bloom behind his eyes, as quickly as they were there they were gone. He worshipped her instead.
His hands dragged down her front, her sides. He was on his knees before her, her fingers threading through his hair. His head braced against her waist before he released a breath and divested Astoria of her clothes.
He whispered his love for her–for them–as he took her against the sitting room floor.
Draco Malfoy loved her, but he loved their son more. Astoria found she was completely unbothered by that. It was how it should be. She had years with the man all to herself. If there was anyone she’d be willing to share his attention with, it was Scorpius Hyperion.
Gods, he was an overbearing father, but in a way that made her heart clench and her toes curl. Seeing Draco with Scorpius made Astoria wish it was safe enough to try for one more.
She let those daydreams fizzle out, however. It was easy to let them fade when Draco loved them both fiercely. When there was so much to enjoy in each moment together she realized they didn’t need anyone else.
“I’ll take him,” Draco said, standing from his side of the bed.
Astoria rolled her eyes. “You’ll always take him. Who said I was ready to hand him off?”
He childishly huffed, and she laughed. She touched her fingertips to Scorpius’ tiny, pale cheek. “Your father spoils you.”
“And you don’t…” he replied.
“Of course I do but one of us should show some restraint, don’t you think?”
He turned onto his side, nudging his nose against Astoria’s neck. He playfully bit her ear. “That’ll never be me, love.”
Draco took milestones in stride while Astoria struggled with them. Every birthday, every age gained by her son was a piece of herself whittled away. Every word learned was one less she felt she had herself.
But as a father, Draco thrived. Each new development was a call to action. As soon as Scorpius could walk–and perhaps even before then–Draco had him on a broom. When Scorpius learned to talk, he began teaching him spells. And when he grew some independence, Draco instilled in Scorpius a sense of confidence. Pride. Curiosity.
Astoria, then, stepped in.
“Your father and I were raised differently, you see?”
Scorpius’ small head cocked in confusion, and she continued.
“The magical world is made up of many creatures, witches, wizards, and magical persons, all coming from different backgrounds. But no one background is better than another. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
His blonde brow furrowed. “No…”
Her lips twitched, nose wrinkling. “Your father and I missed the opportunity to make so many friends at school because of what we were raised to believe. And it is my hope, my dream, that when you go to school you will pick any seat on the Hogwarts Express and befriend any new student who sits next to you.
“You’ll share something sweet off the trolly, and it won’t matter where your new friend came from, what their family is like, how they were raised… you’ll find what you have in common and that will be more important than the rest of it.”
Scorpius’ confusion persisted. Astoria patted a hand against her lap. He scrambled up from the floor and onto the sofa. Her hands settled on his hip and she pulled him close.
“I was taught that I was better than most of my peers because both of my parents are magical—and that simply wasn’t true.”
He hummed in understanding, nodding up at her.
“Hogwarts is a melting pot of people, Scorpius,” she continued. “Be yourself and be open to meeting anyone who crosses your path. You’ll be better for it.”
Scorpius chose to sit next to Harry Potter’s youngest son on the train. As Astoria watched the two boys deep in conversation from where she stood on the platform, she smiled. She tilted her head toward Draco, giving him a quick side glance.
“What’s that look for?” he asked.
A casual shrug had her shoulders lifting. “Oh, nothing.”
His eyes lowered playfully. “You keep your secrets, then.”
Astoria laughed. “Imagine that—your son and the son of Harry Potter. A romance for the ages.”
“You’re getting too much enjoyment out of this.”
“Frankly, I don’t think you’re as amused as you should be.”
“I assure you, I am,” said Draco. “But you’ll forgive me if I don’t want Potter to be witness to that.”
Their banter was interrupted by a collision of red hair. A young student amidst a battle with her trolley, backed into Draco’s legs and toppled over.
With a hand to her arm, Draco caught her. “Steady on,” he said.
The girl looked up, righting herself and running her hands over her fitted skirt. Her cheeks darkened as she took back control of her trolley. “I’m sorry–so sorry,” she mumbled.
Both watched on as she hurried toward the train's open doors.
“When I said she should be wary of the ferret, I didn’t intend for Rose to run him over.”
A voice pulled their attention to their backs. The youngest Weasley son, Ronald, Astoria recognized, and–of course–the high-ranking ministry official, Hermione Granger.
Hermione dug her elbow into her husband’s side. “I apologize for Rose,” she greeted. “She’s nervous. First day and all.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Astoria watched Draco stiffen. His teeth grit behind pursed lips before he offered the couple a solemn nod.
“It’s no problem,” he replied.
Ronald pulled on his wife’s arm, attempting to guide her away. She ignored him.
“Do you have one starting today as well?” she asked Astoria.
Astoria offered the woman a polite smile. “We do. He’s seated just there with Harry Potter’s youngest son,” she said, motioning toward the closest window.
Hermione laughed, covering her mouth with an open hand. “Imagine that.”
“I found it amusing as well,” said Astoria, feeling Draco’s hand slide around her waist.
“Mum!” cried Rose from the steps.
Ron brushed past them without a word while Hermione nodded at the pair. “If you’ll excuse us,” she said before following after him.
“Should be an interesting year.” Astoria turned to her husband after Hermione and Ron were out of earshot.
“Perhaps it’s not too late to look into Durmstrang,” Draco said, lips curling with mirth.
She rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to respond. As she did, the train’s whistle bellowed between brick walls.
Both turned to wave to Scorpius. The Potters joined wordlessly at their side as they all waved to the smiling boys.
Astoria wouldn’t admit it aloud, but this was the very dream she had for her son.
The manor was quiet without Scorpius, and Draco was more reserved. The ease they once had was now strained. Life continued on, but at a lackadaisical pace, Astoria wasn’t accustomed to. She struggled to navigate their new dynamic, and it appeared Draco felt the same.
They took their meals together, but their conversations waned. They read together before bed as they always did, but something was missing—something they once had shared, but that had since been replaced by their son.
Seated at her vanity, Astoria combed through her dark brown hair. She met her own eyes–both tired and sad. She watched Draco through the mirror as he entered the bedroom. He retired to the en suite, returning minutes later dressed for bed.
He sat atop the quilt, book in hand. Astoria was silent as she inspected him. He looked the same as always, but there was a subtle shift in his posture. His shoulders carried more weight than they used to. Something invisible pulled against his neck.
“Draco…” she said.
His attention lifted from the page.
“Are we alright?”
The book was tossed aside, and he turned over the bed, feet finding the floor.
“Of course we are,” he said and remained seated.
“Things feel different between us, no?” Astoria pushed herself to stand and slowly approached. She took Draco’s hands in hers, running her thumb over his knuckles.
“I think–” he started, and then cleared his throat. “I feel different.”
“About me?” she asked, her grip on him tightening.
Draco frowned. His hands turned to take hers around the wrist. “That’s not what I meant at all. For eleven years I’ve been a father first. I don’t know who I am now.”
Her lips drew into a small smile. She nudged his knees apart and stepped between his legs. “You’re my husband. You’re also an incredible son despite your upbringing. You’re an excellent potioneer. You’re a hard worker. You’re a changed man, Draco Malfoy, and all for the better.”
He dropped his hold on her, hands finding the backs of her thighs instead. He pushed his head into her chest and breathed her in. “Gods, I love you,” he whispered.
She ran a hand through his hair, holding him against her. “I love you, too.”
Astoria was seated in the sitting room. It was late. Draco’s shop had been closed for over an hour when he finally appeared through the Floo.
She looked up from her book. She met his eyes and smiled. “You’re home.”
Draco sighed, “Home.”
“I’ve eaten but I can join you in the dining—” her words cut off as he stalked away. His footsteps were heavy as he took to the stairs. They continued down the hall and toward their quarters.
The door slammed, and then, silence.
Astoria sat at her vanity, brushing her hair in long, even strokes. The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the mirror. Warm shadows drifted across her reflection. Her face was calm, practiced in its composure, but her fingers trembled slightly as she set the brush down.
The bedroom door opened.
Draco stepped inside, his presence filling the space with a sudden heaviness she could feel in her chest. She met his gaze through the mirror. He stood still, just inside the doorway, watching her. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between exhaustion and something sharper, something she couldn’t name.
For a moment, she thought he might say something. But he only exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. Then, without a word, he turned and stalked toward the ensuite, the door clicking shut behind him.
Astoria sat motionless. She stared at her reflection, waiting.
He didn’t return.
Astoria sat alone at their usual table, a quiet corner with a perfect view of the enchanted night sky shimmering above Sine Tempore. Sixteen years. They had celebrated here every year without fail—laughter over wine, hands brushing across the table, promises whispered between bites of decadent dessert.
Tonight, her fingers traced the rim of her untouched water glass. Tonight, she was waiting.
She told herself not to spiral. They had talked. They had agreed they were okay. This was an adjustment period, nothing more. They would get through it.
But if they were okay, why did it feel like things were unravelling faster than she could catch them?
She straightened as Draco finally arrived, stepping into the restaurant with his usual unshakable presence. His gaze swept over the room before landing on her. He walked over and sat across from her, the chair creaking softly as he settled in.
She smiled at him.
He eyed her, silent, before picking up the parchment menu.
Astoria smoothed a hand down her napkin. “I wrote to Scorpius today.”
Draco didn’t respond.
She inhaled slowly, pressing on. “And I donated to Hermione Granger’s new Muggleborn initiative. She’s doing good work.”
Still nothing. He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge she had spoken.
Their water glasses were filled. The waiter, oblivious to the tension between them, smiled politely. “Are you ready to order?”
Draco set down his menu, folded his serviette, and stood.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m not feeling well.”
Then, finally, he turned to her. His eyes met hers for the briefest moment.
“Happy anniversary.”
And then he walked away.
Three weeks of silence convinced her of his unfaithfulness. Whispers in the night that went unanswered. Meals where they stared at each other across the table without a single word.
Draco returned home later and later. When he crawled into bed, he smelt different. Gone was the aroma of standard ingredients and his vetiver cologne. He smelt like soft cotton and apples.
It made Astoria lightheaded.
Their silence was deafening. It pressed against her ears, thick and oppressive, filling the spaces between them until she could barely breathe.
She tried to ignore it. She convinced herself she could. She tried to act as though things were fine, that this was temporary, an adjustment, just another storm to weather. But the storm never passed. It only grew stronger, its winds howling through the corridors of their home, rattling the windows, seeping beneath doors.
And then, one night, the silence was broken.
The Floo roared to life downstairs. The green flames flared wildly before settling, sending a heavy breath of warmth through the house. Draco’s footsteps followed—slow, dragging, heavy.
Astoria sat up in bed, heart hammering. She strained to listen, willing the darkness to surrender its secrets. But all she heard was the rustling of his coat, the quiet scrape of him loosening his tie. The house should have been still, should have felt safe. Instead, it bristled, restless with something she couldn’t name.
She closed her eyes, breathing through the tension in her chest.
And then—
A crash.
The sharp clatter of glass shattering against wood, a low curse under his breath.
Her pulse spiked. She pushed back the covers, bare feet hitting the cold floor as she moved toward the bedroom door.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the dying embers in the study fireplace. The smell of burning wood thickened the air, mingling with something sweeter, something cloying—apples, again.
Her stomach turned.
Downstairs, Draco moved through the study room. His steps were slow, methodical, the weight of them sending vibrations through the floorboards.
Astoria gripped the doorframe, fingers digging into the wood. She knew she should go back to bed, pretend to sleep, pretend she hadn’t noticed. But the air was too thick, the silence too full, and she—she was suffocating.
Instead, she stepped into the hall.
“Draco?”
His movements stilled.
For a long, breathless moment, nothing. No sound. No response.
Then, the creak of leather as he dropped onto the sofa. A sigh, deep and exhausted.
She wanted to go to him. She wanted to demand an answer, to make him look at her, to shake the truth from his tired bones. But she didn’t move.
She only stood there, frozen in the quiet.
Because she knew.
She had known for days, weeks. Maybe even longer.
The truth was a living, breathing thing between them.
Astoria turned before he could look at her. Before she could see confirmation in his tired, distant gaze. She turned and walked away, retreating to their bedroom, to the cold sheets, to the crushing weight of knowing.
And somewhere in the storm of it all, amongst the unspoken arguments like crashing waves and the pent-up anger like the fury of raging winds, she realized—
She had to find whatever had stolen her quiet.
And she had to destroy it. For good.
And on that night, when the house was still, when the air felt cold and empty, she turned to the sea.