November 2004

Three months ago Astoria has died. Two months and two weeks ago was her funeral.

The whiskey burns down Draco’s throat as he sips on his third glass of the day. These days are hard. Between paperwork and business trips, he never had time for himself.

Her death still traumatized him. And it was weird — Draco never loved her, Astoria never loved him. They were friends, agreed on marrying each other just to make both their parents proud. But more?

His mother and father were pushing for an heir, Astoria wasn’t willing to cross that boundary of intimacy with Draco. Because he was still hung up on you. And she had know it.

Draco stayed by her while she battled the blood malediction.

Friends.

You even attended the funeral. He saw you, dressed in a black formal dress, hair bound up. And between pure grief and agony, he buried himself in you behind the gazebo in the Manor garden.

He never answered your letters after that.