#I want to balance that sense of mischief and joy and kindness that's so wholly Astoria Greengrass

[lumoshyperion]

I just want to experience the affectionate tension of always being called by my surname by that one person until the moment one of our lives is in danger and they tenderly call me by my first name

I saw this post on @bluewanderings blog with the tag "#dark au drastoria....... much to think about" and decided to write a quick scene based on that for the dark au sequel. Astoria has been hurt while smuggling a Muggleborn family out of the country, and apparates away without thinking where she's going.

This takes place a while after Draco found out about her rebellious activities. She thought he would hand her over, but he never did, and has been helping her access restricted ingredients such as aconite for Wolfsbane potions.

This is just a short, out of context scene that slots nicely into the fic!! it's a gift, for wife, with love 😘💙

Astoria leaned against the wall, holding her arm to her chest and clutching her wand with a trembling hand. She knew she had lost a lot of blood and wouldn't be able to apparate again until the wound was looked at by a healer. But she had no idea where she was, or who she could turn to.

And there was someone approaching from the laneway on her left. So she held her breath and waited for them to pass. It was a tall wizard in emerald robes, with neat platinum blonde hair. Astoria bit her lip and shrunk into the shadows of her little alcove. It can't be him, she thought. I wish it were him.

The wizard stopped, their shoulders suddenly tense. Astoria raised her wand, ready to strike them down if needs be. But then they turned and scowled at the alcove and she almost laughed for joy and relief.

"Whoever is there, I'm really not in the mood," said Malfoy, an irritated edge to his voice as he brushed his robe aside and clutched the wand in his pocket. "Show yourself."

"Well, that's a shame," Astoria replied, shakily, as she stepped out of the alcove and into the dim light of the laneway. "I was rather hoping for that dance you promised me."

The moment he saw her, his eyes widened and his expression turned to one of alarm and horror. "Astoria," he gasped, stepping forward and catching her by her uninjured arm as she tried to move further into the laneway. "Are you alright? What happened to you?"

She looked down at his hand, before glancing back up at his face. He'd never called her by her first name before. Not even when they were children. "You know I can't tell you that," she said, with a small smile. Malfoy rolled his eyes, then wrapped his arm around her waist, guiding her out of the alcove and down the laneway. She glanced around at the buildings, trying to ignore how the warmth of him made her cheeks flush. "I tried to apparate home, but I missed. Where are we?"

"Diagon Alley. My shop is just around the corner."

Astoria frowned. It was a populated area, miles away from any of the safe houses or secluded forests that she usually retreated to when things were dire. Her last thought before she apparated was of safety. A fire to keep her warm and the company of someone she trusted, someone she cared about.

She glanced over at Malfoy, as he carefully guided her away from the crowds and down a side entrance to his shop with a look of determination on his face. Perhaps it wasn't a mistake after all and she was exactly where she needed to be.

Once they arrived at the shopfront, he led her up the stairs to his flat and sat her down by the window. She slowly peeled her coat off and folded it over the back of her chair, watching Malfoy blanch as he looked at the wound on her arm. “You’re not squeamish, are you?” She asked, genuinely. “Because I can look after it myself, I just need -”

"No," he said, before abruptly kneeling down and holding his wand over her arm. "Tergeo."

Astoria winced as the blood drained from her wound. Malfoy withdrew his wand and looked up at her with concern, but she shook her head and smiled. "Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired."

"I don't usually entertain rebels," he replied, before standing up and waving a hand towards the oak cabinet on the other side of the room. "I have some Dittany. Wait here."

She watched as he retrieved a small vial of brown liquid. When he knelt down again and opened it, the smell of copper and spices reminded her of their classes in the dungeons back at Hogwarts. But before she could say anything about it, she was distracted as he held her arm in his hand and applied the potion to her wound with a tenderness she'd never associated with him before. The skin immediately started to knit itself back together, and it felt like a thousand tiny bee stings, dancing across her arm.

"Why do you do it?" Malfoy asked, suddenly and without looking up. "Surely you must know that you can't change anything."

Astoria's shoulders tensed, but he still didn't let go of her arm or look up at her. They'd had this conversation before, but it was always concealed in carefully worded questions and loaded glances. Even after their conversation on the bridge, there was still so much that she kept from him. Because, in spite of all that he had done for her, he was still a Malfoy.

He had a reputation to uphold. One that had been nearly ruined by his decision to put off his career at the Ministry for a while in order to pursue his passion in Potioneering. And if he handed her over to the Ministry, the rumour that he had gone "soft" would finally go away, and he would be elevated and lauded for his achievement.

And yet, he kept her secret. He brewed Wolfsbane for her, he kept a stock of restricted ingredients for her, and now he healed her wounds without pushing for answers on how she got them. And, beyond all of that, Astoria wanted to be honest with him. Because however much she tried to be strong and brave, she was tired of fighting on her own. She wanted the company that he offered. Whatever form it took and regardless of how much of a risk it was.

The tenderness with which he held her arm, and whispered her name in the laneway, was something she couldn't help but be drawn to - like a moth to a flame.

"Because I realised I couldn't just stand by and watch anymore," Astoria finally replied. "I know it isn't safe, and I know I can't change anything, and I'm better off just following along with everyone else, but... I couldn't do that anymore. I had to do something. Even if it only makes a difference to a few people."

She paused, looking down at her arm. The wound had healed over nicely, but Malfoy was still smoothing his thumb across her skin in slow, soothing circles. "I was smuggling a family out of the country," she confessed. "They didn't fight in the war. They lived a quiet life before all of this - in fact, their son never even got the chance to go to Hogwarts. Their only crime was being born to Muggle parents."

He suddenly let go of her arm and looked up at her for a long moment. Then he stood up and walked over to the oak cabinet, before returning to her side and holding out his hand. "There's something I want to show you," he said. There, in his palm, was a bronze key that shone in the firelight.

She looked up at him for a long time. Considering her options, wondering if she could trust him. Wishing that she could. And then she made a decision, stood up, and took his hand.

Before she could say anything, they were transported to a small clearing in the middle of a forest. The sudden journey threw her off balance, and she swayed a little, but looked around as he lay a steady hand on her waist.

"Sorry. I didn't want to risk being seen or heard leaving the flat," he said, watching her take in their surroundings. The forest was dense, stretching as far as the eye could see. And there was a sense of calm in the air that Astoria hadn't felt for a long time.

"You made a key into a portkey?" She asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "Really?"

He scoffed. "My father did, actually. He was never one for subtlety." Astoria withdrew at that, her guard suddenly up as she pulled away from his grasp and glanced around the clearing. But Malfoy raised his hand in reassurance and continued, "He built this place in secret. Only he knew about it, and it was passed onto me when he died. The key is a portkey, but only for those that we trust with the secret."

Astoria turned around and looked at him. "I don't understand."

Malfoy inclined his head towards the forest and she followed his gaze. When they had arrived, the clearing was empty. But it was like the house had always been there, somewhere in the corner of her eye, hidden by magic, until that moment. It was a large stone house with vines crawling up the walls and the chimney, as if the forest was trying to reclaim it. She glanced back at Malfoy, who said, "It's yours."

"What?"

He shrugged. "My father had it built just before the war. It was assurance that we would always have a place to go, should we ever need it," he explained. "He was a coward, but he always put us first."

Astoria looked back at the house and frowned. Most families had a plan in place, should the war be lost. Even her father had money put aside and a promise to take them far away, if things became too dire. All thoughts of a dowry were thrown aside when the war began. Family came first, after all.

"I thought you could use it for your - friends," Malfoy elaborated, as she looked away from the house and back at him. "They'd be safe here. You would be the new secret keeper." She opened her mouth to respond, but found that she didn't know what to say. He misinterpreted her and raised a hand in reassurance. "You can wipe my memory when we get back to the shop, if you like."

Astoria shook her head. "Whether you remember this place or not, you would still be held accountable if I were found out. I can't protect you."

Malfoy scoffed. "I don't need your protection, Greengrass." She sighed and crossed her arms, and he glanced down at the key, turning it over and over in his hands. "You're just as stubborn as you were in school, you know that?"

Astoria gave a short laugh, in spite of herself, and he looked back up at her. "I don't believe for a second that you remember that." He raised an eyebrow and she added, "You never took any notice of me, or anyone else."

"I did - I noticed you," he said, genuinely. "How could I not?"

Astoria looked back at the house, for a long moment. He followed her gaze, and they stared at the old stone in silence, until she glanced back at him and said, "Draco... Are you sure?"

Without speaking, he offered the key to her. His expression was resolute, so she closed the distance between them and took it from his hand. It was still warm from his touch, and was a comforting weight in the palm of her hand.

"Well," she said, glancing back up at him with a playful look. "Aren't you going to give me a tour?"

Draco offered his arm and smiled.

[satin-swallow]

We Are No Longer Quite Ourselves

“Whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.” - e. e. cummings

Fandom: Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries Characters: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson, Dorothy Williams & Hugh Collins Rating: G Genre: Romance, Philosophy, Life

My contribution to the January round of the Year of Quotes Challenge, for Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries! Thanks for keeping us writing, @missfisherchallenges​. 

I disagreed so wholly with e. e. cummings, I thought I'd better write about it! Jack Robinson, Dorothy Collins, Hugh Collins, and Phryne Fisher reflect on thinking, believing, knowing, and feeling.

Please read and comment at AO3 if you have a moment. Thank you!

i. think.

 They put a lot of stock in feeling, Jack Robinson thinks.

 While he can cherish as much as the next man the way he loses himself in her eyes, her arguments, he can’t quite make the leap to agreeing that he is only himself because of it. His thoughts have been his friends this many years, and indeed have guided him keenly through a world of brushstrokes that have striven to drive him mad with their blend of colour and subjectivity.

 His thinking gives him sense, reason, rationality.

 He will never agree that these are not himself when they have brought him home from war, turned his anxieties to an active productivity, given meaning to the senselessness of agony, and turned him time and again to a mission that is always present at the core, when the wild winds of doubt blow.

 Nor will he allow the implication that the presence of others in his being is a fault to be rectified. By extension of that principle, he is certain that he would have been completely shipwrecked without the steady circle of other voices in his head to anchor him at port.

 He doesn’t trust himself to recognise the Truth every time he questions it.  

 As he lies in blue silence, midnight in his breathing, and the soft weight of love on his shoulder, he knows full well that balance is the mark of order. Here in this dangerous space between recklessness and paralysis is the answer to the queries of his heart and head combined. Somewhere between alone and together is the pinnacle of peace.

 She’s breathing so softly, and it’s reason that tells him she’ll do it again, come back, and come back to him with each smile and red kiss.

 It’s disordered feeling that lies, whispers to him in the dark on other less comfortable nights, and brings out the fear that turns to jealous regret, or aggression at the sight of blood on white silk. It’s disordered feeling that hopes to break them apart, and tries with his hurts to disrupt their hearts.

 He loves her much better, with thoughts in his head, and people to tell him the difference between cherishing and devouring.

 They put a lot of stock in feeling, Jack Robinson thinks.

  ii. believe.

 Dorothy Collins believes what her mother once told her.

 “Ave Maria, gratia plena,” she whispers softly over Christopher’s head, kissing the feather-fine hair that tickles at her neck, as he snuggles closer than she ever thought possible.

 It’s nightmares again, of the inexplicable kind -- faceless shapes and shadows in the corners of the room he shares with his brother, and stories he can’t even repeat when she asks him what’s wrong. So they pray together, the prayer of St Michael, and ask his guardian angel to watch over his sleep.

 And now as he holds tight to his mother, she turns to hers with the gentlest hope.

 “Mother Mary, watch over my boy,” she asks, “and when I can’t be there to hold him as close as I want to? Grant him the kisses of Grace that consoled your Son in His darkest hour.”

 She can feel the warmth of the smile of Heaven, the deep residing joy of the closeness of love -- and she thinks of her mother, gone now three years, and cries a little as she rocks her son to calm. How wonderful is this bond, this Truth that stretches across the ages to take her mother’s hand and extend it passed the veil to touch her so sweetly in mercy.

 She’s never alone, and it’s more than comfort to her little soul, it’s light and life, and every little atom of her being, a promise of Goodness when the world screams in their faces. In the perilous winter of the violent that seem to dominate the streets with their shouting, she finds herself grounded in peace and the wonder of a Hand pressed lightly to her shoulder.

 “Thank you, Mum,” she whispers into the night, making the sign of the Cross over her breast and her child, and offering her heart for all the suffering and broken.

 “Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”*

 Dorothy Collins believes what her mother once told her.

 *Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the our of our death. Amen.  

iii. know.

 Better to know, Hugh Collins. Better to know.

 He remembers how he fretted over a Crucifix, once -- the bold doubt in his mind and the three days he wasted in fear and upset. He remembers how it drove him to the cold of his bones, dismissal and hardness in the face of any challenge.

 Not even the Inspector had been able to give him the clarity he had needed. How he had silenced the whole thing in his mind.

 As his wife settles in, beside him on the sofa, sighs a contentment his heart can hardly bear, he looks down at that same little Crucifix, and smiles.

 To think he had been more content to drift between hope and despair, holding to nothing, rather than settle on a Truth that might contain hardships along with its bliss. To have her, he knows, is sacrifice and challenge alongside the sheer electricity of her looking at him daily, but he wouldn’t trade it for a second for that empty No Man’s Land of stoic protection from the pain of knowing that life isn’t only easy.

 His chest constricts at the thought that he might never have loved her.

 How much darkness ought to be avoided to make it worth never having the light?    

 His newspaper rests almost limply in his hand, heavy with the weight of reality despite what he thinks he can control. Her squeeze to his arm is everything he’s ever hoped for. His kiss is quick, fervent in its hurry to answer her call, pressed just firmly enough to her temple to share everything he knows: like how much he needs her.

 “I love you, Hugh,” she whispers beside him, and the burning of tears is impossible to repress.

 “I love you too, Dottie,” he declares, in his own quiet fervour.

 Better to know, Hugh Collins. Better to know.

iv. feel.

 It’s an impossibility to share all that Phryne Fisher feels.

 The vivid light of the world around her seems to coalesce in her gut from moment to moment, and pounce on the nearest opportunity for mirth and mayhem. Every flower is too beautiful, every song too sweet, and she knows she’ll never contain it all, despite the colossal nature of her desires and delights.

 She’s driven from the core by this fire, and no matter her generosity with it, it burns and burns and burns.

 She gives it away like too much fairy dust, a sprinkling here and a sprinkling there, covering everything in it with as much verve as she can muster. She lives, and she cries, and she screams, and she loves with an openness that seems never to be exhausted despite how painful it can be.

 Then, is pain not a feeling too? A deep ocean blue in the spectrum of colour?    

 She knows that she is most herself when she embraces it, takes it to her veins with abandon.

 Of course, as she watches him one day, his frown over his breakfast as though it’s a puzzle to be solved, she knows too that there’s more to this than her – her feeling, her heart. She knows that without him, the morning sun will be a little less golden, the air a little cooler than the burst of affection that blossoms in her chest, and sets her mind to mischief.

 And it’s clear in a vivid moment, the parade of faces before her – Mac, and Jane, and her mother and more – that being herself is only a part.

 She slips from her chair like a wisp in a breeze, and sneaks and attacks as he fights back too late. His laugh is free, bold and unmanaged as she presses her lips up against it once more, and smothers his protestations that his breakfast will get cold.

 When he finally breaks, and looks her square in the eye, adoring and adored, she knows the Truth, once more.    

 It’s an impossibility to share all that Phryne Fisher feels.