This is a story of love and loyalty, fearfulness and fearlessness, and development.
It's not really a story of Scorpius Malfoy (although, in the strictest sense it is), but it is a story of childishness combined with very adult fears.

This is a story that in some ways, everyone is familiar with. Familiar because everyone has fears, and everyone has the ability to face them.

I began writing this story well before the Cursed Child was released. Accordingly, many of the now-cannon dates of birth are incorrect. Please forgive me. If it's any consolation, I don't regard the Cursed Child as cannon, anyway.

You have never been the couple that was good at open communication. He preferred it that way, and you preferred it when he was happy. You spoke at length over certain issues, but only in a superficial sense and never daring to scratch the blackened surface which hid away things neither of you were comfortable with. Your normality had been carefully constructed. Designed to hide the past by casting an opaque sheet over the uncomfortable reminders of it in your everyday lives.

It had gotten to the point where it was neither a tango nor a salsa to carefully sidestep those issues in your daily conversation. It required neither tact nor grace; not even a sharp wit. It was utter normalcy, and in some ways it suited you.

(You had never been the wittiest of sorts anyway, you concede, although you fancied yourself as somewhat graceful.)

There were times you wished that he was a little more conversational, perhaps a little less guarded, a little less careful. You imagined that if he were less like himself, he might have been more spontaneous, more passionate and more honest.

You always felt somewhat guilty about harbouring these feelings. After all, you were taught - amongst other pureblood lessons - the importance of maintaining strict indifference towards romance; the art of constructing the most impenetrable of disguises, the most motionless of masks. But beneath it all you felt most human when somewhere in your chest begged to be loved; something he never seemed capable of or interested in.

It wasn't as if your marriage was arranged. You knew even before he proposed that he was unlikely to be the most attentive of husbands, and in some ways you enjoyed that. You liked the solitude it gave you, the ability to do things for yourself and have time to breathe. You were never one of those couples who clung to each other like a well-rehearsed sticking charm or who finished each other's sentences. You loved Draco Malfoy, and although at times it seemed illogical, you felt certain of that. You weren't sure he reciprocated that love, but you knew he liked you, which was more than anyone else he ever had contact with at the least.

An apt for communication was neither your strong point, nor a trait you suspected he valued in others, however in some cases you'd come to recognise it as absolutely necessary. You happened to have been in one of those situations, and it was one that was not easily addressed.

Fear wasn't the correct term, but there was some kind of trepidation you felt when you leant against the cool tiles of the bathroom thinking about it. He would never have physically maimed you in any sense, he was far too careful for that. But he never perfected the pureblood poker face, and he was often irrational and quick to temper in situations which he couldn't control.

You conceded that the matter in question was one of fairly drastic proportions. It was definitely and completely outside of his control. Outside of yours, really, in some ways. You were almost one hundred percent certain he had never banked on the fact, never even worried about the possibility that you would have fallen into this situation, because you'd never noticed it yourself either. Not until the symptoms themselves became exceedingly obvious, and a healer confirmed your suspicions.

You were pregnant. For you at least, nothing felt more wonderful.

The sickness, the discomfort, the guilt you felt about lying to him about it for weeks now was worth nothing in the face of what grew inside of you, getting stronger and evolving more every day, nurtured by your own body. Somebody who you didn't yet know, but that you loved already.

You knew that you were completely unprepared to be a mother, but you thought that if you tried your hardest, then you wouldn't be completely horrible at it. And if he wasn't prepared to be a father then maybe you could make up for that void.

That thought lingered uncomfortably in your stomach, and you lurched for the toilet bowl again.

~.~

You'd dressed, showered and rehearsed your lines over and over before he returned home. It was then that you found yourself completely unprepared. The dinner was forgotten, and even a quick wand waving couldn't disguise the fact that you'd neglected to organise something. He didn't seem to mind, in fact, he was in a rather good mood. Thanking Merlin, you managed to come up with something half-hearted before eight o'clock.

Dinner was better rehearsed than the phrases you'd turned over in your head all day. It was the same conversation; repeated and rephrased so many times you knew half of the answers to your own questions before you'd even asked them. He knew the conversation so well that he could calculate exactly how long he had to finish his meal before the conversation ran as dry as the bread you'd hastily shoved on the table.

Failing to find a gap in the normalcy to insert a conversation starter for more pressing news, you felt slightly disheartened when dinner came to an end and he thanked you softly with a chaste kiss on the forehead, before slipping off to the unused bedroom he'd converted into a library.

Following him in there wasn't a conceivable option, so you charmed the dishes to do themselves and swept around the house picking up and putting down items, feeling uncomfortably nervous as your heart pounded like the hooves of centaurs.

Finally, sick of it all, you carried yourself up the stairs into your bedroom and flopped back onto the bed in a sort of childish manner. Lying there was sort of relaxing; spread out on your back, pillows tossed haphazardly on the ground so your head lay on the cool sheets.

That's how he finally noticed you; eyes closed in contemplation, hand resting carefully over your fairly flat stomach, dark curls strewn out messily over the bed from when you'd flopped down. He just stood there at first, you could tell from his soft breathing, and you considered feigning sleep although you knew that was just an attempt to avoid facing him.

Eventually he cleared his throat almost awkwardly, and you opened your eyelids; eyes glued to the ceiling.

"You look tired," he offered, his voice sounding more detached than caring. The comment was simply one of those fillers he used to avoid uncomfortable silence or topics that were less desirable. You chose to ignore it. There were more pressing things to talk about, and perhaps it was the hormones, but you were beginning to grow tired of the circles you found yourself running in with him.

(Of course it had taken something so drastic to change that.)

He looked so out of place standing at the side of the bed, shifting his weight uncomfortably, looking unsure about approaching you. He opted for sitting at the end of the bed near your feet whilst looking at you with a perplexed irritation, probably compounded by your lack of reply.

"You're not feeling well," he began again. A statement, rather than a question was something he used commonly. He offered you something to agree with rather than to elaborate on, but you'd decided not to allow yourself any way out of what you had to say.

"My health is adequate."

The phrase sounded so contrived and false when you thought about it. Perhaps you were both contrived at the time, your relationship had fallen into something forced and plastic, sugar coated and varnished with a clear lacquer.

"Then what is it?" he asked bluntly, face slightly stony.

And then the moment had come. You were rather hopeless with wit, and you supposed he was rather tactless, so it was unlikely this was going to be a comfortable conversation no matter how you presented it. If he was blunt, you figured you should be too, so you sat up gingerly on the bed, legs crossed and looked decisively at his pale face with sharp features.

"I'm pregnant," you announced, and the words tumbled out of your mouth with a lot more ease than you had expected.

There it was. An impromptu phrase, hanging between you, for the first time in months. For some reason the air seemed to be thicker than usual, tasting foreign and sticky in your mouth. You swallowed, feeling your saliva constricted by the hard lump swelling in your throat.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked, although it was evident he'd heard you clearly. His face was twisting into some kind of unflattering mix between shock, horror and anger.

It was rather exciting really, dangerous even. You hadn't really ever had a proper row.

"I'm pregnant," you repeated, firmly. You willed your pulse to slow down; your breathing to stop catching in your throat. It was a wild feeling; an anxiety laced with utter conviction.

"How?" The question sounded more like an accusation.

"Well, how do you think?" you replied, knowing very well that he hated rhetorical questions.

"I thought you had this covered," he spat, anger building, his jaw straining.

"Sometimes unexpected things happen; it's not always one hundred percent effective."

He paused, absorbing your words. The tension was palpable. If you had reached out to touch him, you were sure his skin would have burned you. The eyes, a usually disinterested grey-blue, brewed the colour of a storm cloud.

"This is your mistake."

"I don't think I managed to get pregnant on my own."

"I didn't neglect my side of the bargain."

"I wasn't aware that this was a concession or a trade-off."

"I thought I could trust you."

He stood up again from the bed, gesturing with rapid hand movements which both scared and amused you simultaneously. You admitted it was slightly thrilling fighting so clearly with him, although you couldn't say you enjoyed it.

"To do what exactly? I took all the precautions I could, it's not as if I'd planned this to trick you," you hissed.

He flexed his jaw again involuntarily and sat back down on the bed, staring at his hands.

"How are you going to fix this?" he asked; his voice cold and uncaring.

Your blood boiled. You weren't completely sure what he'd meant when he'd said "fix", but there was no way you would be deprived of something that made you feel so complete. It wasn't fair, and maybe if he'd stopped to pay you a bit of real attention, you thought, you wouldn't have felt so strongly about the living being that coexisted with you.

Draco didn't understand. He had something to do all day, he wasn't lonely or bored or under stimulated. He didn't seem to care about being detached. He was loved by someone, even if he'd never cared to think about it.

"Fix this?"

Your voice was shrill at that point and sounded strange. You'd never thought you could make such a fuss over something; you'd never thought you'd have something worth making such a fuss over.

"Clearly you can't keep…it," he said, incredulous. "We're completely underprepared. I don't want a child and you can't take care of it yourself."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you don't know how. You've never been a mother before, have you?"

"And I suppose I must take classes before I become one?"

"If you ever become one," he corrected, "I'd rather know you'd be adequate first, yes."

"I'm sure I'd be adequate! Women have been doing this for the past two thousand years, Draco, it's not exactly a new concept!"

"Yes, but you're just not this sort of woman."

"Oh, considering that you know me far better than I know myself, please enlighten me as to what kind of woman I am."

"I never claimed that," he snarled, side stepping the important question.

"But you think you should be able to instruct me on the future of the child, rather than consult with me?"

"Well yes, it does happen to be my fucking problem as well as yours!" he yelled, turning to snap at you, your faces only inches apart. "In fact, it's more of my problem because now I have to bloody convince you that it's a bad idea, before I even get to sorting out the main problem here! How can you be so blind, Astoria? We would make atrocious parents!"

"Why?" you challenged.

"Look at us!" he motioned, flipping his hands back and forth, gesturing to the two of you, "we don't have the money we used to, you don't even work, what would everyone say? They'd know it was unplanned."

"It's not about money, or work, you know neither of those are real problems, and when have you ever given a toss about what anyone else thinks? The only opinion you care about is that of your blessed father and you bloody well know he doesn't give a fuck anymore."

"My father knows what's best for me."

"When are you ever going to give up that mantra? Your father almost got you all killed, or have you forgotten about that slight in your history?"

"How dare you-"

"How dare you? How would you know anything about being a parent when you were brought up next to the Dark Lord and-"

"For fucks sake!" he almost screamed, and you stopped to catch your breath, just for a second. You stared at each other, face to face, noses separated by hot breath. His hands were pulling at his hair, yours were balled into fists. You looked more defiant and confident than you felt; he looked stressed and angry, frustrated and just a little bit broken.

"You said this was my mistake," you began, "and maybe you're right. But if this is my mistake, then I get to choose how to deal with it, so you better decide what you're planning on doing, because I will be having this child."

"I cannot be a father Astoria."

"Well you can either learn, or you can find someone else who will appreciate your cowardice on that issue, but we all know what daddy would think of the shame of breaking off your marriage."

"I'm not a coward."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not a fucking coward!"

"You don't want this because you're scared of it."

"It's a fucking baby, not the apocalypse."

"You're driven by fear Draco. It's the reason you've never said a word against your father-"

"Stop it."

"-it's the reason you used to hulk around with those dim-witted thugs at Hogwarts-"

"Shut up, Astoria."

"-it's the reason you joined the Death Eaters; the reason you shut yourself off from people; the reason you never admit that you're wrong-"

"Shut the fuck up!"

And you did, only because that time he sounded different. Crackly almost, like you'd finally worn him down, to something beyond the opaque sheet.

He breathed heavily, pulling his face away from yours and staring at the ceiling. You realised that he was blinking back the moisture which pooled at the edge of his eyes. He pulled the back of his arm hastily across them and turned back to face you, eyes looking a darker, more a grey sort of blue, the skin below them adorned with dark, tired-looking circles.

"I don't know how to be a father."

"We already addressed this-"

"No, I mean, I don't know how to be a good father."

"You don't want to try though, so how on earth do you expect to be one?"

"Even if I tried."

"Why not?"

He seemed to balk at this comment, and simply raised his eyes to yours in a defeated manner.

"Look at me, Astoria."

The phrase was pleading, almost desperate, something you'd never heard tumble from his lips. It was foreign and strange, and yet somehow pleasant, like you'd pried open the hard exterior to find a precious pearl.

"I don't know how to be a good person, let alone a good father. I used to be a Death Eater for Merlin's sake. I have a huge black tattoo on my lower forearm, if my surname isn't enough of a giveaway. The child would be cursed from the day it would be born just for being a Malfoy. It's as bad as being a Black, which technically, I am as well."

He exhaled heavily and ran his thumb nervously over his lip.

"When it comes to children, all I know about my own childhood was getting presents and money and travelling and not being allowed to say anything lest it ruin my parents sparkling reputation. Or being left at home with blasted Dobby who was forever trying to lock himself in the oven. I wouldn't know what to do with a child Astoria, I wouldn't know how to treat them, or how to act.

"I don't know the first thing about showing affection or love, surely you would know that better than anyone else. I couldn't make it happy, I couldn't make it love me or want me. I probably wouldn't even be able to remember its fucking birthday, so the only thing I actually learnt as a child would be useless."

This seemed to exert all his energy and he bit his lip childishly, his hands clasped in his lap and looking straight at the wall to the right of the bed.

"You could try Draco, which would be better than nothing. I would rather have that than do it on my own."

After an unbroken silence he stood, as if to excuse himself from the uncomfortable situation, and walked towards the door stiffly.

"Are you leaving?"

"No" he sighed, rubbing one eye with his fingers. "I'll be downstairs for a while. Go to bed and we'll discuss this in the morning."

"That's not going to make you fear it less," you called down to him as he descended the stairs evenly.

You thought you might have heard him pause, just for a second, before he disappeared into the hall and you flopped back onto the bed, exhausted but triumphant.