❝ Why can't we be more than friends, Draco?
-Why can't we be more than friends? Merlin Astoria, figure it out. I am fucking social pariah. Your friends, your family, your fucking parents who adore you, would never approve. ❞
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T H E N I G H T M A R E S D I D N ' T F A D E
from Draco Malfoy's life. But he was no longer subjected to endure them alone. For when he woke from a particularly nasty dream, Astoria was there beside him. She'd wrap him up in her arms, press a delicate kiss in his hair, and whisper sweet-nothings to him as he fell back asleep.
It felt good, and it felt right.
She always awoke hours before him, and she'd rise from his bed and pad down the stairs to make them their tea. Perhaps she knew it was too painful for him so she took on that chore, as his routine of making tea for his mother and himself was paused, forevermore.
And one morning, on a whim, he caught her hand before she left for the Greengrass Manor to freshen up, and then St. Mungos for work.
"Move in with me?"
Astoria turned back to him, eyes startled upon her lover. His hand, which was so unnaturally cold, clung to hers, his thumb rubbing soft circles on the top of her palm.
Draco needed her, that much was evident. He needed her to help keep the isolation away. He needed her to heal from Narcissa's untimely death. He needed her to move on from his former identity as a Death Eater. Who was she to deny him that?
Astoria kissed him in answer.
The corners of his mouth lifted, in a way they had done so rarely nowadays, because even with Astoria beside him, conjuring any form of emotion besides grief seemed impossible. The smile was tight-lipped, and Draco fingered his Malfoy family ring nervously— it felt stifling somehow, as though the weight of being the last Malfoy (did his father still count?) finally fell on his shoulders.
What was he meant to do, with this awful name, associated with upholding blood purity and general rottenness?
Truth be told however, Draco was the most rotten of them all. Not because of what he did in his past, because while it was awful, it hardly compared to what he was doing now. Oh, to see his grandfather, Abraxas rolling in his grave because his grandson was not only associated with blood traitors and mudblood sympathizers, he just asked for one to live with him.
"I suppose my house-elf will move my things into your room," Astoria murmured as she pressed another kiss to his mouth. "Hope you don't mind a little more decorating."
Draco raised a brow. "Actually, I do. What's wrong with my decor?"
"Erm— well. Your decor is a snow globe and a drawing done by a three-year-old."
"Your point?"
Astoria let out a sigh, though there was humor hidden in her eyes. "It's your bedroom, Draco. Your sanctuary. It's meant to feel warm and safe, and I adore you, but, it feels like a sanatorium. I want to share a space with you that feels like home."
