Nought to Sixty (4/5) by enchantedteapot
Title: Nought to Sixty (4/5)
Author/Artist: enchantedteapot
Pairing(s): Draco/Astoria
Prompt number: #99
Word Count: 9,368
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bad language, scenes of a sexual nature.
Beta(s): My undying gratitude to NRC (at ff.n) and writermerrin
Summary: (To use the original prompt) ’There’s a reason we’ve never heard of the younger Greengrass sister - she’s a Squib.’
Author's Notes: My betas were both amazing. Any and all mistakes still in here are completely my own, due to last minute editing/rushing. Also credit to the genius writers of BBC's Sherlock Holmes from whom I *borrowed* a line or two for the first chapter. Enjoy!
24th June 2004
Draco watches Astoria sleep from across the room. She is draped over the couch, shivering in her rain-soaked sundress beneath his coat, hair matted and mascara streaming down one cheek. Her arm curves down towards an empty bottle of amaretto, the last of it still glistening on her parted lips.
And so she is flawed, it seems. Draco finds himself revelling unduly in this; it is satisfying to have company down at the bottom of the moral hill and though he may not know her secret (for she hasn’t actually spoken a word since they left the house), the very fact that she has something to hide is enough for him.
He knows he is in love with her and it is rather beginning to concern him. He barely knows the girl, has only met her twice and kissed her just as often and, most worryingly, she doesn’t seem to give a damn about him. He couldn’t even have conclusively said that she knew his name before this evening.
“Take me home, Draco.” It had sent shivers of pure adrenaline down his spine. She had needed him. She was desperate, and she chose him to save her. And of course he did, without hesitation.
He had planned to be angry when he left for the house tonight, indignant about the way she had abandoned him on the street last September. He’d even practiced his best sneer as he’d fastened his bow tie, determined to let the young Miss Greengrass know that one simply could not keep kissing a man (yes, twice this has happened now, not that he’s keeping count) and disappear off again without so much as a by-your-leave. It was infuriating- positively maddening, in fact- and he wasn’t going to stand for it anymore.
He was going to take her out for dinner and she was bloody well going to like it.
But of course, all that seems rather redundant now.
He rises from his perch by the window, his own glass dry and in need of a refill. The flat is in darkness, the only light coming in streaks through the large bay windows as the mid-summer storm begins to rage outside. The rooms are large but invariably bare, almost as if she has just moved in or (a disconcerting thought) preparing to leave.
Draco frowns; he’ll have to put a stop to that.
The living room is dominated by an unused fireplace, the walls untouched except for a black and white poster depicting some art-house French film he has never heard of and a large aerial photo of the Champs Elysees. Neither of them are moving which Draco finds both dull and a little strange.
He explores until he reaches the kitchen, which is far too clean to have ever been put to much use. A handful of takeaway menus litter the dining table as if to emphasise the point. He tries the first cupboard: wine glasses, a lot of them. The second is bare but for, oddly, a solitary clove of garlic, looking rather forlorn in the empty space. A cursory check of the fridge contents (three lemons, a teaspoon and a bottle of white wine,) confirms the worst; the girl it seems cannot take care of herself. He arches an eyebrow; he’ll have to buy her a bloody House Elf at this rate.
Eventually he hits his target, a bottle of something suspiciously alcoholic. He splashes a healthy amount into his glass and knocks it straight down in one. The tang of liquorice burns his throat and he grimaces, cursing young women and their fondness for sweet liquor.
“Help yourself.”
He starts at her voice and turns. Astoria is standing in the doorway, her slender silhouette stretching out towards him as she wraps her arms across her chest, attempting to hold the pieces together. He stares at her, watching her shoulders rise and fall with each ragged breath, and is mesmerized. She is a beautiful wreck.
“Are you going to tell me what all of this is about?” he asks, rather too callously, attempting to feign indifference. She simply shakes her head and he knows he will not ask again tonight.
She steps towards him, bare feet on hard wood, and slides the glass from between his fingers. He watches her intently as she takes a sip for herself, eyes flickering upward to meet his gaze over the rim. After a long moment she lowers the drink to the table, the sticky sweet stain shining on her bottom lip.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice cracking with tiredness. He nods silently. “I really don’t know what-”
But he cuts her off, taking the last step to close the distance between them and swallowing her words in a chaste but forceful kiss. At first she does not respond, standing stock still as his lips move against hers, a battle of her resolve and a test of her will. But when he perseveres, demanding her attention with a guttural growl as his fingers thread more tightly into her hair, she is unable to abstain any longer.
She grabs at his arms, her fingernails biting through the fabric of his shirt as she presses her mouth against his with all the fire she can summon. His tongue darts against her lips and she melts into the sensations; his hand gripping her waist, the taste of him on her lips, the warmth of his skin pressed against every inch of her. It is too much and not enough all at once.
Before she can reason with herself, her fingers are at his collar, fumbling with buttons as he pushes her backward, legs colliding with table. There is a desperate urgency to their movements; Astoria forcing herself on before sanity has a chance to catch up and Draco all too aware that she could call time at any moment. He will take as much as she is willing to give until then.
He is lifting her dress, the wet fabric peeling inch by inch from her pale skin till it is tossed to the floor. His shirt and heavy belt are soon to follow and she is being lifted, legs curling around his hips as she adjusts to the hard surface of the table beneath her. They never once break apart, their lips too obsessed with their counterparts, tongues on the offensive as they push and pull and struggle against one another.
Astoria is lost to him. She has no doubt the moment to stop this has come and gone and that she willingly let it do so. She needs this to consume her, to smother her every sense until she can no longer remember the events of the day or the past eleven years that built up to them. It should matter that he is Draco Malfoy. It should matter that they are little more than strangers, both broken beyond perfect repair. But now his hands are on her thighs, her lips at his neck, and suddenly he is pressing between her legs and both their worlds go black.
It is not until much later, as they both sit in their underwear on the kitchen floor sharing a cigarette, that either of them speaks.
It is Draco who breaks the silence. “There is something you should know.” He chooses his words carefully. “About me, I mean.”
This is not a conversation he had ever hoped to have, but he knows he must risk telling her if he is ever to call her his own. She says nothing but looks up at him with dark eyes.
He runs his fingers through damp hair. “Last year, there was a trial over certain figures’ involvement in the war. The Wizengamot, they- well, they snapped my wand.” He comes out with it quickly for it is easier that way, like removing a splinter or re-setting a bone.
She arches a sculpted eyebrow. “Is that some sort of euphemism?”
He eyes her smirk darkly. “This isn’t a joke. They took my father’s, too. Technically, neither of us are permitted to perform magic anymore. The only reason the whole bollocking world doesn’t know about it is because we managed to pay the right people to keep it quiet. No press reports, no public court records...”
She frowns as something tugs at the recesses of her memory. “Your umbrella?”
It is Draco’s turn to smirk. “And there I thought you never paid me any attention. Yes, I managed to reclaim the pieces, found a black-market wand maker who arranged them inside it as best he could but it isn’t the same.” His jaw tightens. “You have no idea how hard it is, living without proper magic. Makes me feel so fucking useless...”
Astoria stares at him as he runs taught hands through platinum hair in frustration. The irony of his confession- to her, of all people- is not lost on her, and she fails to suppress a sardonic laugh. His head snaps up, his steel eyes ablaze.
“Are you laughing at me?” he snarls, his body twisting angrily so that he is now looming over her.
She is unfazed. “I’m afraid I am, yes.”
“Why?” He clenches his fists.
“Because you are pathetic, Draco. I know all about the war, and what you and your father did. You’re both lucky you’re not soulless wrecks, locked in a cell somewhere.” She meets his furious gaze. “Instead you get to walk free, soul very much intact, if a little singed at the edges, with only a broken wand to worry about.”
“Only a broken- only a broken wand?” He is shouting now. “Easy for you to say, swanning about as if you’re better than it all. I mean look at this place,” he gestures angrily around the room. “You’d never even think a witch lived her for all of this Muggle shite. You cannot possibly imagine what it’s like to have it all taken from you, for the simplest spell to be a struggle, to feel like a failure every time you reach for your wand only to remember you’ve been judged not worthy enough to own one.”
Astoria is rooted to the spot, her eyes misting as a familiar tightening encircles her chest. “How would you possibly know what I feel?” she hisses, feeling her hands begin to tremble and clenching them down by her sides.
Draco is startled by her sudden change of temperament and falters, his sneer waning at the edges.
“You think I don’t know how it feels to be robbed of something you should have the right to by birth? You think I’m not exhausted by my own never-ending failure? Life is unfair, Draco, and if I can come to terms with that then you damn well can too!”
He stares at her as her chest heaves for air. “I don’t understand-”
“Oh, just get out!” she screams, wrenching herself from the floor and snatching up his discarded clothes, tossing them out into the hallway as he watches her rage from the floor in silence.
She doesn’t look at him, sitting down heavily at the table (where only an hour ago she had been writhing in ecstasy beneath his ice-like touch) and lets her head fall into her hands. She doesn’t move again until she hears him rise to his feet, the clink of his belt buckle out in the hall, and the eventual slam of the front door as he steps out into the turbulent night.
And then she gives way, tearless sobs wracking through her entire body as the events of the afternoon come back to haunt her. Her secret is out; it is only a matter of time. She is not sure she will be able to bear it when they all know.
And then there is Draco (Astoria resents herself for the jolt his very image sends straight to her navel), who she is pushing away with all of her might because that will be the worst blow of all. When he realises who she really is, what she really is, he will never look at her again, never touch her the way he did tonight and that, she realises with a dull ache, is the thing she will care most about losing.
Chapter Five
Author/Artist: enchantedteapot
Pairing(s): Draco/Astoria
Prompt number: #99
Word Count: 9,368
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bad language, scenes of a sexual nature.
Beta(s): My undying gratitude to NRC (at ff.n) and writermerrin
Summary: (To use the original prompt) ’There’s a reason we’ve never heard of the younger Greengrass sister - she’s a Squib.’
Author's Notes: My betas were both amazing. Any and all mistakes still in here are completely my own, due to last minute editing/rushing. Also credit to the genius writers of BBC's Sherlock Holmes from whom I *borrowed* a line or two for the first chapter. Enjoy!
24th June 2004
Draco watches Astoria sleep from across the room. She is draped over the couch, shivering in her rain-soaked sundress beneath his coat, hair matted and mascara streaming down one cheek. Her arm curves down towards an empty bottle of amaretto, the last of it still glistening on her parted lips.
And so she is flawed, it seems. Draco finds himself revelling unduly in this; it is satisfying to have company down at the bottom of the moral hill and though he may not know her secret (for she hasn’t actually spoken a word since they left the house), the very fact that she has something to hide is enough for him.
He knows he is in love with her and it is rather beginning to concern him. He barely knows the girl, has only met her twice and kissed her just as often and, most worryingly, she doesn’t seem to give a damn about him. He couldn’t even have conclusively said that she knew his name before this evening.
“Take me home, Draco.” It had sent shivers of pure adrenaline down his spine. She had needed him. She was desperate, and she chose him to save her. And of course he did, without hesitation.
He had planned to be angry when he left for the house tonight, indignant about the way she had abandoned him on the street last September. He’d even practiced his best sneer as he’d fastened his bow tie, determined to let the young Miss Greengrass know that one simply could not keep kissing a man (yes, twice this has happened now, not that he’s keeping count) and disappear off again without so much as a by-your-leave. It was infuriating- positively maddening, in fact- and he wasn’t going to stand for it anymore.
He was going to take her out for dinner and she was bloody well going to like it.
But of course, all that seems rather redundant now.
He rises from his perch by the window, his own glass dry and in need of a refill. The flat is in darkness, the only light coming in streaks through the large bay windows as the mid-summer storm begins to rage outside. The rooms are large but invariably bare, almost as if she has just moved in or (a disconcerting thought) preparing to leave.
Draco frowns; he’ll have to put a stop to that.
The living room is dominated by an unused fireplace, the walls untouched except for a black and white poster depicting some art-house French film he has never heard of and a large aerial photo of the Champs Elysees. Neither of them are moving which Draco finds both dull and a little strange.
He explores until he reaches the kitchen, which is far too clean to have ever been put to much use. A handful of takeaway menus litter the dining table as if to emphasise the point. He tries the first cupboard: wine glasses, a lot of them. The second is bare but for, oddly, a solitary clove of garlic, looking rather forlorn in the empty space. A cursory check of the fridge contents (three lemons, a teaspoon and a bottle of white wine,) confirms the worst; the girl it seems cannot take care of herself. He arches an eyebrow; he’ll have to buy her a bloody House Elf at this rate.
Eventually he hits his target, a bottle of something suspiciously alcoholic. He splashes a healthy amount into his glass and knocks it straight down in one. The tang of liquorice burns his throat and he grimaces, cursing young women and their fondness for sweet liquor.
“Help yourself.”
He starts at her voice and turns. Astoria is standing in the doorway, her slender silhouette stretching out towards him as she wraps her arms across her chest, attempting to hold the pieces together. He stares at her, watching her shoulders rise and fall with each ragged breath, and is mesmerized. She is a beautiful wreck.
“Are you going to tell me what all of this is about?” he asks, rather too callously, attempting to feign indifference. She simply shakes her head and he knows he will not ask again tonight.
She steps towards him, bare feet on hard wood, and slides the glass from between his fingers. He watches her intently as she takes a sip for herself, eyes flickering upward to meet his gaze over the rim. After a long moment she lowers the drink to the table, the sticky sweet stain shining on her bottom lip.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice cracking with tiredness. He nods silently. “I really don’t know what-”
But he cuts her off, taking the last step to close the distance between them and swallowing her words in a chaste but forceful kiss. At first she does not respond, standing stock still as his lips move against hers, a battle of her resolve and a test of her will. But when he perseveres, demanding her attention with a guttural growl as his fingers thread more tightly into her hair, she is unable to abstain any longer.
She grabs at his arms, her fingernails biting through the fabric of his shirt as she presses her mouth against his with all the fire she can summon. His tongue darts against her lips and she melts into the sensations; his hand gripping her waist, the taste of him on her lips, the warmth of his skin pressed against every inch of her. It is too much and not enough all at once.
Before she can reason with herself, her fingers are at his collar, fumbling with buttons as he pushes her backward, legs colliding with table. There is a desperate urgency to their movements; Astoria forcing herself on before sanity has a chance to catch up and Draco all too aware that she could call time at any moment. He will take as much as she is willing to give until then.
He is lifting her dress, the wet fabric peeling inch by inch from her pale skin till it is tossed to the floor. His shirt and heavy belt are soon to follow and she is being lifted, legs curling around his hips as she adjusts to the hard surface of the table beneath her. They never once break apart, their lips too obsessed with their counterparts, tongues on the offensive as they push and pull and struggle against one another.
Astoria is lost to him. She has no doubt the moment to stop this has come and gone and that she willingly let it do so. She needs this to consume her, to smother her every sense until she can no longer remember the events of the day or the past eleven years that built up to them. It should matter that he is Draco Malfoy. It should matter that they are little more than strangers, both broken beyond perfect repair. But now his hands are on her thighs, her lips at his neck, and suddenly he is pressing between her legs and both their worlds go black.
It is not until much later, as they both sit in their underwear on the kitchen floor sharing a cigarette, that either of them speaks.
It is Draco who breaks the silence. “There is something you should know.” He chooses his words carefully. “About me, I mean.”
This is not a conversation he had ever hoped to have, but he knows he must risk telling her if he is ever to call her his own. She says nothing but looks up at him with dark eyes.
He runs his fingers through damp hair. “Last year, there was a trial over certain figures’ involvement in the war. The Wizengamot, they- well, they snapped my wand.” He comes out with it quickly for it is easier that way, like removing a splinter or re-setting a bone.
She arches a sculpted eyebrow. “Is that some sort of euphemism?”
He eyes her smirk darkly. “This isn’t a joke. They took my father’s, too. Technically, neither of us are permitted to perform magic anymore. The only reason the whole bollocking world doesn’t know about it is because we managed to pay the right people to keep it quiet. No press reports, no public court records...”
She frowns as something tugs at the recesses of her memory. “Your umbrella?”
It is Draco’s turn to smirk. “And there I thought you never paid me any attention. Yes, I managed to reclaim the pieces, found a black-market wand maker who arranged them inside it as best he could but it isn’t the same.” His jaw tightens. “You have no idea how hard it is, living without proper magic. Makes me feel so fucking useless...”
Astoria stares at him as he runs taught hands through platinum hair in frustration. The irony of his confession- to her, of all people- is not lost on her, and she fails to suppress a sardonic laugh. His head snaps up, his steel eyes ablaze.
“Are you laughing at me?” he snarls, his body twisting angrily so that he is now looming over her.
She is unfazed. “I’m afraid I am, yes.”
“Why?” He clenches his fists.
“Because you are pathetic, Draco. I know all about the war, and what you and your father did. You’re both lucky you’re not soulless wrecks, locked in a cell somewhere.” She meets his furious gaze. “Instead you get to walk free, soul very much intact, if a little singed at the edges, with only a broken wand to worry about.”
“Only a broken- only a broken wand?” He is shouting now. “Easy for you to say, swanning about as if you’re better than it all. I mean look at this place,” he gestures angrily around the room. “You’d never even think a witch lived her for all of this Muggle shite. You cannot possibly imagine what it’s like to have it all taken from you, for the simplest spell to be a struggle, to feel like a failure every time you reach for your wand only to remember you’ve been judged not worthy enough to own one.”
Astoria is rooted to the spot, her eyes misting as a familiar tightening encircles her chest. “How would you possibly know what I feel?” she hisses, feeling her hands begin to tremble and clenching them down by her sides.
Draco is startled by her sudden change of temperament and falters, his sneer waning at the edges.
“You think I don’t know how it feels to be robbed of something you should have the right to by birth? You think I’m not exhausted by my own never-ending failure? Life is unfair, Draco, and if I can come to terms with that then you damn well can too!”
He stares at her as her chest heaves for air. “I don’t understand-”
“Oh, just get out!” she screams, wrenching herself from the floor and snatching up his discarded clothes, tossing them out into the hallway as he watches her rage from the floor in silence.
She doesn’t look at him, sitting down heavily at the table (where only an hour ago she had been writhing in ecstasy beneath his ice-like touch) and lets her head fall into her hands. She doesn’t move again until she hears him rise to his feet, the clink of his belt buckle out in the hall, and the eventual slam of the front door as he steps out into the turbulent night.
And then she gives way, tearless sobs wracking through her entire body as the events of the afternoon come back to haunt her. Her secret is out; it is only a matter of time. She is not sure she will be able to bear it when they all know.
And then there is Draco (Astoria resents herself for the jolt his very image sends straight to her navel), who she is pushing away with all of her might because that will be the worst blow of all. When he realises who she really is, what she really is, he will never look at her again, never touch her the way he did tonight and that, she realises with a dull ache, is the thing she will care most about losing.
Chapter Five