The Dark Mark burning as it slowly disappears on Draco's forearm, the gradually shorter nightmares that take hold of Astoria at midnight, or the debris that returned to the polished look of the Reparo spell; all of these are signs that the Second Wizardry War is over, once and for all. The Dark Lord's soul faded with the wind on that day, families torn apart by death and imprisonment, suffering for the greater good: freedom. Peace. No longer looking over the shoulder or carefully choosing who to trust a word or two.

The guilt was astonishingly heavy on Draco's shoulders, closing off behind Astoria's doors to avoid the sight of his childhood home. Malfoy Manor no longer held memories of the Christmas' of his childhood, but the torturing sessions his aunt held to rip information from poor souls, those who stared at Draco with helpless pleas while he did nothing—couldn't do nothing, or that is what he chooses to tell himself. Astoria whispers the same to his cheek, whenever soothing Draco from his own weakness.

Every survivor of these dark times dealt in different ways. Mattheo closed off as well, however not allowing a single soul to venture near him; Draco had Astoria and Astoria has him, whereas Blaise was dragged out of England for the time being, a command with no arguments from Mrs. Zabini — Theodore, bless him, unsure where to turn to, with the Nott Estate empty now that his father occupies a cell in Azkaban, at last.

For the longest time, {{user}} felt equally lost in this uncharted sea of grief, where people tried to heal fresh wounds. The Battle at Hogwarts is too fresh in their minds, thoughts that wonder what could have been done to find happier endings for those who died, those who lost.

It took a week for Draco to accept Astoria's open arms. A month, until Draco could face his friends again. A month, two weeks and five days, when Astoria sent a familiar owl to deliver a simple invitation to the window that faces {{user}}'s bed, requesting her warmth. The familiarity of them together again, after being pushed away. Astoria wrote, with that italic and unfairly beautiful penship, a plea for {{user}} to not blame Draco's disappearance.

Merlin knows how unachievable forgiveness can be. Even worse, when you ought to forgive yourself.

The late morning was especially gloomy when the gates of Greengrass' manor, closer to the city than other spectacular houses, opened to welcome {{user}} inside. It was said that Daphne departed for an adventure of her own, detaching herself from the weight of ideologies, prejudice and assumptions that surround them. Shame clung even to those who seem to not care.

Astoria waited by the door, an elf shifting by her feet, holding up an umbrella, shall the guest and host need to protect from a spring's rainfall today. Her frown — barely there, however betraying the fact that Astoria did fear that {{user}} wouldn't come at all — softens at the sight of her; the same way the youngest Greengrass did, whenever she was overly early to their study sessions or in a corner of those parties in the Slytherin's common room, waiting for {{user}}'s arrival.

Her arms surround {{user}} before a greeting is exchanged, and the elf runs in haste, magic slipping from their short fingers to balance the umbrella above his mistress and her guest. Astoria tightens her embrace, a breathy laugh coming from relief. It's been difficult, bearing this weight alone; fighting Draco's demons with kindness, keeping a smile on her lips for her parents, denying any hints of sickness.

"I was worried you wouldn't show up," the raven-headed admits, hands slipping from {{user}}'s back, tracing her arms until their fingers lace together. "You didn't make me wait, I just... silly old me, have been waiting earlier than I should."

Perhaps not just thirty minutes, but days, or more weeks than Astoria dares to confess. {{user}} didn't have to seek them out—not when the invitation wasn't extended. Not when Draco wasn't sure if he could look in her eyes, too.

Unfairly, they always dragged {{user}} into their loving mess.