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Astoria runs her champagne flute along her red bottom lip. Her emerald green gown pools around her feet as she leans against the wall. “I could fix him,” she says, conversationally.
Daphne, her sister, laughs shortly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I could.”
“He’s a Death Eater.”
Astoria watches him sitting neatly in the corner, alone. There’s a glass identical to hers in his hand. He’s wearing dress robes that show no skin but his face, not even his neck, as though he’s worried any part of him may betray what’s on his left arm. His eyes scan the hall but never meet hers; he’s had his back to the wall the entire night. She’s been paying attention.
“There’s more to him than that.”
“Oh?” Her sister’s voice is sceptical.
“I heard he donated most of the money the Ministry has raised tonight.”
“Did he now?” Daphne questions, her own red lips pressed into a line. “He knows how to play the game of high society, that’s for sure.”
“It’s more than that.”
“Alright.”
They’re quiet for a moment. Astoria takes a drink when he does. Her lipstick doesn’t smudge. Charmwork.
“What was he like?” she asks. “We never spoke much.”
“An arsehole,” Daphne starts. Naturally, it’s how everyone would begin to describe him. After Death Eater and blood supremacist, she imagines.
“Certainly. But?”
Daphne rolls her eyes. “But, I can concede he is rather pleasant on the eyes. No matter how much people dislike him, that seems to be a universal truth.”
Astoria runs her tongue along her teeth. “So it is true about your lot?”
“What is?”
Astoria turns her head. “That you all got together at some point.”
Daphne makes a face. “Don’t be obscene.” She pauses. “All we did was play spin the bottle on rare occasions.”
“Alright.” Astoria turns back with a passive smile on her face. “Is he a good kisser?”
Daphne hums. “Better than most.”
Astoria tilts her head. “Anything else?”
“Tremendously wealthy, as you’ve already gathered. That’s one for the pros list.”
Astoria huffs. “I don’t have enough life to mess about marrying someone for money. I won’t have enough time to spend it all.”
Daphne turns to look at her, a crease forming between her brow. She hates when she talks about dying, but it’s a certainty Astoria came to terms with years ago. She’s a temporary kind of lover. Add that to her own list of cons.
“Ria…”
“Don’t be boring. Not tonight.”
Daphne clears her throat. “He’s very smart. Top marks out of all of us.”
“Potions?”
Across the room, he crosses and uncrosses his legs. Uncomfortable but obligated to stay. Hmm.
“One of Snape’s favourites, but that was a given. He is genuinely very talented, though.”
Astoria twirls a lock of her brown hair around her finger. “Maybe he’ll try to fix me too. That would be fun.”
Daphne takes a big, big drink of her wine. “I can’t say he would do good to our reputation. Mother and Father won’t be pleased.”
“They’ll have to be if they want to come to my funeral,” Astoria laughs.
She knows her parents care far more about who Daphne marries than herself. She could be dead before she got back from her honeymoon, so they’ll let her have whoever she wants. Daphne would never say, but she’s the tiniest bit jealous of that. Not that they’ll force her to marry, but they would deny her someone they deemed unsuitable. Astoria is being denied a hundred years, so she thinks her sister can live with that.
“Stop using your–” Daphne waves her glass. “To get me to change the topic.”
“I’d change it anyways, my dear sister.”
Daphne’s eyebrows jump. “I don’t doubt it.”
Astoria takes another swig of champagne, emptying her glass. She leans her head against the wall; the tile soothes some of the warmth in her cheeks. “He’s a good dancer, isn’t he? I remember from the Yule Ball.”
“Ah, I forget you were there.”
“A Ravenclaw boy asked me.” She places the flute on a tray when it floats past. “Two left feet.”
“That wouldn’t do,” Daphne tuts. “And yes, as you’d expect. Pansy was his date.”
“Wonderful. I think I’ll go say hello, then.”
“Now?” Daphne asks.
He’s taken a fresh glass; wine, this time, white, so she does the same.
“When else? There’s a waltz coming up.”
“How do you know?”
“Magic,” Astoria says airily. Daphne gives her a look. “They haven’t played one in an hour.”
“And what am I to do? We’re here together, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find something to amuse yourself with. I think I saw Blaise Zabini by the balcony. Or is his reputation a tad too tainted for you?” Astoria pokes out her bottom lip.
Daphne downs the last of her drink, pale cheeks flushing. With the wine or the suggestion, Astoria isn’t sure. Perhaps both. “This is a ball, not a wedding. My reputation will survive.”
“Great.” Astoria kisses her sister on the cheek. “Have fun.”
“Be careful,” Daphne warns with a tender touch to Astoria’s arm.
“He’s only a man.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Warmth lights itself in her chest. “I have a wand. And also limbs. But I love you.”
Daphne smiles. “I love you too. Go get your project.”
Astoria gathers the trail of her dress and makes her way through the throng of wizards and witches dancing, dodging arms and capes and glasses until she emerges from the other side, right in front of her target.
“Hello,” she says. Astoria puts her hand out, palm downwards. Poised for a gentleman's kiss.
“Hello,” says former Death Eater and well-known arsehole Draco Malfoy. “Miss Greengrass?”
“Astoria.” She nods at her hand. “Daphne’s sister.”
Draco eyes her suspiciously, yet takes her hand anyways. “I know.” His voice is gentler than she remembers. She waits, expectant. Draco, taking the hint, leans down to kiss the back of her hand without ever breaking their eye contact. Her lips part.
“Are you familiar with the concept of kintsugi?” Astoria asks, breathily.
This time, Draco looks her up and down. His gaze makes her feel hot. “Can’t say I am. Care to enlighten me?”
Astoria takes a drink to combat her dry mouth. “I’ll tell you all there is to know while we dance.”
“You want to dance? With me?” he asks incredulously, like she’s throwing herself into a pit of hungry Hungarian Horntails.
“I do. I’m a dying girl, Mr Malfoy. Don’t deny me a dance.”
To say she’s been able to confound Draco Malfoy fills her with glee. His expression manages to roll confusion, pity and desire into one clean package. He really is rather attractive, making those emotions good-looking. Astoria’s a bit miffed her sister had the chance to kiss him before her.
“Very well,” he concedes, after a moment where Astoria thought she might deny him. The blood malediction card works ninety-nine per cent of the time. He stands up, the effect of his full height dulled by her heels, but Astoria guesses he’s around six feet. Definitely taller than school, then.
Once they’ve polished off their wines, Draco lets her lead him onto the dance floor, never taking his eyes off hers. She wonders if it’s to shut out the others in the room, who lean away and whisper as they float past. But Astoria doesn’t care, so Draco shouldn’t either. She’ll vouch for him for the night.
They stop in the middle of the room; two tiny specks in a mass of magic. Right on cue, the band start playing a waltz. Astoria loves when she’s right. Draco makes a movement with his mouth she can’t discern, but whatever it was can’t be bothering him too much, for he wraps his arm around her waist and lets her put her hand on his shoulder.
“Tighter,” she encourages.
Draco falters. “What?”
“Your arm.” It’s his left one. “I’ll fly into someone else’s arms if you aren’t holding me properly.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something, then changes his mind. How can someone’s eyes be so devoid of colour yet at the same time full of it?
The arm around Astoria’s waist presses her closer.
“What’s this kitsune, then?” Draco asks. He’s almost better at directing a conversation than she is.
“Well, those are foxes in Japanese folklore. I said kintsugi.”
“Ah, my mistake. I’ll have to listen better.” Yes, you will, she nearly says, but he spins her, which ruins her chance. “What’s kintsugi?”
“It’s the Japanese art of repairing pottery with gold,” Astoria tells him. She looks at his face and imagines slashes of gold instead of the faded white scarring his features. “With the idea being that mended things are far more beautiful for having been broken.”
Draco swallows. Astoria watches the bob of his Adam’s apple. “That’s an interesting way of thinking.”
“I like it,” she says. “Do you?”
“I’m not sure.” His brow is furrowed. “What if something’s beyond mending?”
“Nothing is ever that far gone. As long as there are pieces to pick up there is something to mend.”
Draco wets his lips. Astoria feels his left hand flex on her lower back. “Are you really dying?”
They’re practically soulmates. Seamless transition.
“Yes. Does that put you off?”
“Less than it should.” With that response, Astoria allows herself to be pulled even closer. “How long, may I ask?”
“Enough to be worth it,” is a stupid response, but she’s flirting, and the stuff that comes out of her mouth when she’s flirting she can’t be held accountable for.
Draco is even more beautiful when he laughs. Gold will look good on him. Astoria will fill the cracks to hold him together and he’ll gleam, brighter than his namesake. She can fix him. And maybe he’ll fix her a little too, even if it’s not forever.