How Fate Intended by hoboheartache on ao3

Mother,

I have come to a conclusion that I need your guidance on-

He frowned, and threw the parchment to the side, pulling out another.

Dearest Mother,

How are you? I have been-

"No, you idiot, that's stupid."

Mother and Fathe-

That was also scrapped, there was no way on the good green earth that he was going to discuss boy troubles with his father. Draco sighed, rubbing his face frustratedly, trying to figure out why this was so difficult.

Oh, I don't know, maybe because you're asking her for advice about confessing your unyielding attraction to the one you fancy? Who just so happens to be Harry bloody Potter? His rhetorical question was met with his own sardonic snort, as he leaned forward in his seat and planted his head firmly on the ink splattered parchment, convinced that if he hadn't already rubbed ink into his face during his previous dramatic groan of frustration, he certainly had now.

Anger swelled through him, as it often did when he was without his best friend, and Draco grabbed up all of the scattered parchment, lighting them aflame-he needed to release the anger in some way or he would surely explode.

"Oh-what's the point."

He dropped the faintly glowing ashes to his desk and huffed tiredly, staring down at them with hatred. Even if he managed to keep Harry's name out of the letter, his mother was bound to figure out exactly who he was referring to in all but five seconds. She would then write back a letter in her beautiful calligraphy that manages to be both reassuring and whooly unhelpful, and then proceed to mosey down to his father's study and gossip about it for precisely three hours-likely over a glass of brandy.

Draco knew his parents well-too well, some would say, as after his rather sheltered childhood-and he knew that they would be of no help even if they tried.

Defeated, Draco snatched another parchment from his desk and settled down to write about his completely drama-free school year, his irritation subconsciously leaking out and singeing the parchment's edges.

Daphne Greengrass was not a fool.

She had been born and bred to be a business woman, brought up as the Greengrass heiress in line for an ever increasing fortune and flourishing business. Her upbringing and promising inheritance drew suitors like bees to honey, and an environment such as that bred women of an ironclad fortitude. Her mother had been of a similar childhood, and one of Daphne's earliest memories was of the woman taking her up in her arms one night, when the servants were all gone to bed and her father was working away in his study. She was just a child then, still not quite understanding as the warrior of a woman whispered harsh words of truth in her ear.

"Be strong, Daphne, or be destroyed by those who wish to own you."

Her mother had molded her a set of armor forged of unyielding steel, and her father further embellished it with gems and lace.

He was a good man, the Lord Greengrass, and assured of himself and of his family. With a determined set in his jaw, he went about life with a firmness that soothed those of strong will and made everyone else a tad nervous. He had come upon her kicking up a fuss one day, when she was a moody child of seven, and swept her up in unwieldy arms, kissing her nose with a small smile.

"Pretend to be an angel, my little demon, or they will tie you down as if caging a beast."

Her armor was molded from the blood and tears of the generations of women before her, and accented with the gems and laces of her family's wealth.