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Draco was summoned to the Ministry and was asked if he could take care of the Mirror of Erised. It was moved from Hogwarts to Cambridge, where he took Alchemy with Astoria many years ago—as if the question of happiness cannot survive without darkening his path with its looming shadow.
They needed a place to contain it, they said, for another student was caught camping in front of it. Apparently, people in their early 20's are still willing to exhaust all their magic to break every barrier for a chance of happiness—the question of its reality notwithstanding. Draco chuckled when Potter told him that, for he knows. He knows.
He tapped his foot restlessly on the floor and placed a hand on his chin, racking his brains for an excuse to say no. He can hear Potter's begging in his mind—they are desperate, as desperate as the people who spent all their waking hours in front of the mirror. Draco asked if they should destroy it altogether, and Potter said—reluctantly—that they will if he thinks it's for the best. "Why me?" he asked him, and another reluctant response from Potter gave him the answer he was anxious to hear, "Because you know better in dealing with magical objects than us."
The message was subtle and buried under Potter's wit, but Draco's keen enough to catch it. The Vanishing Cabinet. The brief affair of rescuing the brightest witch of her age in front of the Mirror in Cambridge. The Time Turner he had fought with every nerve in his body not to use to get a taste of the happiness he has always longed for.
Draco thought he has served his dues and took an equal amount of heartbreak with interest to pay for the hurt he has done. But here he is again, being summoned to face the grief he has contained in a compartment inside his head—locked to avoid anyone from knowing that after decades of sin, healing, and forgiveness, he has been broken again.
Convinced that he has ran out of excuses, he asked to be brought to the Mirror for a close examination. Potter led him to the room, and he asked to be alone before he unveil the Mirror.
But it took him a full five minutes—which felt like an hour—to do so. Draco stared at his aged reflection, and watched as he grew younger.
It was his parents; the birthdays, the quick trips at Diagon Alley to buy his school supplies, and their peaceful life together in the Manor after the war. Wine and whiskey by the fireplace, his fingers weary from playing the piano which he learned inside Recovery. Muggle hobbies are not too horrible after all, and their music even better.
Then it faded to his days in Cambridge—old friends meeting in pubs, the alchemy experiments he has failed to injury, the Quidditch games that he won and lost with broken bones and sore muscles. Draco saw himself laughing—loudly, at the peak of his youth, as he sacrificed his sleep with his friends for bottles of Firewhiskey and for exams that needed passing.
Then there was Astoria, sitting with him for all those years.
He saw her mess up her equations for the fifth time of the same night, and even though the Mirror doesn't grant him the pleasure of hearing her voice, he can hear it—at the back of his mind, he can hear it—her groans of frustration, her contagious laughter when he teased her, and her snarky comebacks that are quick and way better than he could ever deliver. Astoria is the best shot of Firewhiskey that he has ever encountered—bold, fiery, but alluringly deluding. Six shots after and he isn't himself anymore—he's vulnerable, high, and burning.
Then, he saw Astoria in the gardens; she is a proper green witch, talented to defy death and breathe life to everything that she touches—himself included. He can hear her talk about every herb, plant, and shrub in her garden, as if she hasn't talked about it twice yesterday, as if she wouldn’t talk about it tomorrow. Astoria is the scent of fresh grass Draco can smell in his Amortentia, and the scent of the same grass he touched between his fingers during their picnics. She is the light of green down the dark dungeons, the emerald eyes that taught him how the same color of evil could be the same color of friendship, home, and love.
Draco saw himself 10 years ago standing near the cliff in his wedding robes, with Astoria's arm snaked around his—her wedding dress flying wildly behind her against the wind. They watched as the roll of the tides hit the rocky hills of Scotland. They have dreamed to settle there—away from the noisy streets of London and at peace in each others' side. With Astoria, Draco longed to rest his head on the same shoulder, to hold the same hand for forever, and to listen to the same stories of herbs, shrubs, and plants in the garden. He has memorized them to his heart—and Astoria's garden remained green and full of life at the very same moment.
Astoria is Draco's Horcrux; she will forever hold the bits and pieces of his soul—the light and the darkness, the broken and the healed. His being is confined in her memories, her notebook, her cosmetics, dress, plants, and their son—Scorpius showed himself in Draco's reflection; eyes as emerald as her mother's and hair as white as his. He is the perfect embodiment of their love that was built from friendship akin to the rocky hills of Scotland—strong and unyielding.
Draco wiped the tears he didn't realize that were there, before waving his wand to place a magical barrier around the Mirror. Yes, this Mirror must be contained—but it mustn't be destroyed. It stands as a good reminder that killing is not the only method of ripping one's soul apart— loving does, too. And no light or dark magic could ever contain that.