The Gentle Strains

She hears their muffled argument before she’s fully down the stairs. Astoria witnesses a moment between Draco and Hermione. Epilogue compliant; however, this takes place before any weddings. I do not own the Harry Potter universe; I just like to play in it!

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She hears their muffled argument before she’s fully down the stairs.

It’s a trick of the corridor, mostly, of angled passageways and empty spaces. Astoria is closer to the ballroom than she is to them, but she can hear their voices more than the faint thrum of music, or so it seems right now.

Sucking in a breath, she closes her eyes and pauses on the stairwell. Fights for poise and rationality—he’s doing nothing wrong, she’s reading too much into it like a paranoid loon, and it’s not happening on purpose. She went to Hogwarts too, after all. She’d seen the way they’d always stumbled across each other; seen them ignite with the force of a hatred so strong it had awed her, once. Mudblood, and inbred, and ferret, and things worse than that; she’d heard it all.

But then, she hadn’t been watching. Draco had seemed so distant and sophisticated, destined for many things too big to fathom. She’d been somewhat of a silly girl, and completely out of the sphere of his awareness. If he’d fought with Granger on a daily basis when they were all scarcely out of nappies, it hadn’t mattered—had never even occurred to Astoria that it might, someday.

It matters so much now.

She recognizes the strains of the waltz filtering out of the closed ballroom doors. Throwing the party had been Draco’s idea, diplomatic in the extreme considering how much he hated associating with Potter’s lot. The whole affair is, more or less, brownnosing, but it had been fun to plan, especially with Draco’s input. Astoria had memorized the order of the songs, and her waltz is next—her favourite, Draco’s favourite; their song together. If it starts now, he won’t even hear it.

Tipping her chin up, Astoria moves down a step and takes care to be light on her feet. She can see them now, half hidden around a bend in the corridor. Granger looks sharp in her dress robes, practical but strangely pretty, but it's her flushed face and fiery eyes that mark her as beautiful. It pains Astoria that no one else seems to recognize this in Granger—or, even more upsetting, that no one else seems to recognize the cause of it. She watches as Granger raises a hand, poking Draco hard in the chest to mark the obvious staccato of her words. Astoria is jealous, and it's a wretched emotion.

Strangely, however, Granger is the easier of the two to observe, if only because she's impossible to relate to. Hermione is somewhat of an abstract concept, a strange larger-than-life type woman; if Astoria feels threatened by her--and she does--it seems too big and surreal to have any control over. Either way, it’s something Astoria will never understand, this not-quite-hate filled bond between Potter’s friends and her own fiancé; something that forever will leave her on the outside. However, Astoria knows what it is to look at Draco with marked desire, and she recognizes the look in Granger’s eyes with such certainty that her heart clenches and she has to suck in a breath.

That’s what matters now, of course, the hatred and the desire and the allure of the forbidden. It staggers her how much it matters, when Draco’s ring is weighing down her finger; when just last night, he had held both of her hands and said, “I can’t wait to have you as my bride, my falling star.”

Steeling herself, Astoria forces her gaze to move to Draco. He’s standing too close to Granger, much too close for the rules of personal space and polite decorum. One hand rests on the wall beside Granger’s head, and their body language is so obvious that, for a moment, Astoria’s vision blurs and she has to blink. It only hurts more when she sees that Draco, too, is flushed; that he looks frazzled, like he’s falling apart. She’s used to him reserved and practiced; polished, as any good Pureblooded husband ought to be.

“I love you,” he’d said on countless occasions, but he had never once looked at Astoria as he’s looking at Granger right now. Distantly, she wonders if Granger’s fiancé has ever seen her like this either. If Weasley knows what he's missing.

Abruptly, it is all too much. She turns away and moves as silently as possible towards the ballroom. The gentle strains of their waltz slice through her, but she holds her head high and smiles at the guests. Tells herself it will be different when they’re married, different when he really is hers; then tells herself not to think about it, since the choice is not really hers, in the end. Snaring a Malfoy had been a coup for her family. Astoria had always been a silly girl, and falling in love is just plain silly—too silly to contemplate when—

When he doesn’t love her. Not yet. If it stings, Astoria will pretend it doesn’t.

Their waltz is long since over when Draco finds her. He’s brought wine, and he offers her the glass with an elaborate flourish.

“Darling,” he says, bowing a little.

She takes the glass with a gracious smile, and is a little charmed despite herself. It is cool beneath her lips, and she tries to stare coquettishly at him as she drinks. His stare is appreciative—Astoria knows she’s pretty, and not in any sort of practical way—but not quite what she wants. She’s guaranteed for him, and he has the look of a man who knows this; he’ll have her eventually, and as often as he likes. Astoria feels dull in a way she doesn’t know how to handle, and the wine sloshes uncomfortably in her stomach.

Never will Astoria say anything.

She’ll never love you, she wants to say. Wants to scream words like can’t and wrong and unfair. Draco’s hand finds her own, and she feels his fingers toy with her ring, with the Malfoy diamonds. She feels trapped and suffocated; aged and empty.

Thinks, You’ll never love me.

Then, Draco is turning to face her and lifting her hand. His lips graze her fingers before he gives her a gentle tug. Fits his hand snug against the small of her back, and leads her towards the floor.

Astoria knows the dance without thinking, without Draco’s lead. Gliding along with him is effortless and light. She lets him whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and ducks her head close to his chest. She can’t see much from this angle, but that is fine. Being a silly girl, she pretends she’s hidden; pretends it’s just the two of them.

He is mine, she thinks, my someday husband. Presses her fingers into his shoulders and holds on.

Not once does Astoria look to see where he is looking.

The End

Notes: This was originally posted on Archive of Our Own. I am trying to move all my stories to the same place. As stated, J. K. Rowling owns this world! I'm happy to hear any comments!