Tonight I Wanna Cry: Of Misery and Memory
Title: Tonight I Wanna Cry: Of Misery and Memory
Chapter: First Verse
Author:phantom_puppet
Rating: PG-13 most probably
Chapter length: 1727 words
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or related characters, nor do I make money from them, no matter how hard I wish it were so.
"Alone in this house again tonight"
The bottle of Chateau Siarac 2000 had only recently been opened, yet Draco thought there was not nearly enough. It was his third of the evening and he sat slouched against the wall, cradling the flagon in the crook of his arm between sips and trying not to cry. A fine wine from the right bank of the Gioronde River in France, the Siarac had been one of Harry's favorites. After the second bottle, Draco had given up walking through their flat - his flat - to the kitchen to retrieve more of this mind-numbing lubricant, so in a stroke of what he considered sheer brilliance, he had placed the crate and corkscrew beside him in the dark room.
The pale green curtains had been drawn. The lights were off. Draco preferred the dark. It was only in shadow he could pretend life was nothing but a horrid hallucination. He hadn't remembered ingesting anything that could produce such effects, but he could pretend, couldn't he? He hadn't gone to work in weeks; hadn't gone outside in nearly as long. Old friends had stopped coming by after a while for he refused to speak with them, refused to let them infiltrate his delusions as he could no longer hold up the facade that he would be alright. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to smile again.
"I've got the t.v. on, the sound turned down, and a bottle of wine"
A classic movie played on the television - a Muggle device that Harry had introduced to him by insisting they purchase one for their home. He remembered how bewildered he had been when he first saw it.
"It's a telly, Draco," Harry laughed. "You watch things on it."
"Is it like a pensieve or something?" Draco had wondered aloud.
"No, love. You watch stories on it. Some are longer and called films, which you can also watch at the cinema. There are also shorter ones called programmes that come on during the week and are really long stories broken up like chapters in a book."
"I still don't get it," the blonde moaned.
"Oh, Draco."
Harry put his hand on his lovers shoulder, "How can someone so brilliant be so clueless? It's just like wizarding pictures..."
It hadn't taken long after that for Draco to grasp the concept and even less time for him to fall in love with the idea. Harry had finally gotten the point across by comparing it to the theater. Now, staring at the silent screen, Draco pined for the days when he and Harry would curl up in bed and watch a film together, debating cinema and falling asleep in one anothers arms.
Casablanca played, and that too, had been one of Harry's favorites. It pained Draco to watch it, but he could not bring himself to turn it off. Instead, he had it muted, looming as a silent distraction. He knew it word for word, as did Harry.
"Rick! Rick, help me!" Draco cried, grabbing ahold of Harry.
"Don't be a fool. You can't get away," Harry grinned, wrapping his arms around Draco's waist.
"Mmm, Harry," Draco sighed, nuzzling into the embrace.
"That's not quite how it goes in the script, luv," Harry whispered.
"We'll write it in later. Shut up and kiss me."
"There's pictures of you and I on the walls around me"
He glanced away from the television for a moment, tears glistening in his eyes as their favorite scene flashed across the screen.
"Rick! Rick, help me!" he whispered to no reply.
"Gods, Harry!" he moaned, his gaze resting upon a picture above the bed. "How could you do this to me?"
Running his fingers through his already dishevelled hair, he chocked back his tears and took a long swig from the bottle. Unable to stop his cold grey eyes, he forced himself to survey the pictures hanging on the walls in an attempt to prevent the shedding of tears that threatened. What had once been a decorative love nest now felt like a shrine - a memorial to lost love.
Hanging in a beautiful mahogany frame was a cut-out from the Daily Prophet of Harry Potter, age 14. The Skeeter wench had captured a wonderful image of Harry facing the Horntail in the TriWizard Tournament of that year. It had only taken a short while before Draco had gotten sick of watching a younger Harry zip and zoom about the dragon's head on his Firebolt. Harry constantly said that that was proof positive he was a better seeker than the Malfoy boy. This usually led to steamy arguments and even steamier reconciliations. Sitting there, however, Draco would have given everything for Harry to look at the old clipping and try to prove his much recited theory once again.
"The way that it was an could have been surrounds me"
The sullen blonde sat staring at the wide open double closet doors, surrounded by mementos of a love and life once cherished. Framed in the same mahogany as the photo, the ornate aperture showcased many of Harry's things, from his Hogwarts robes to the too-small faded jeans and black mock-turtleneck he had worn on their first date, all kept for sentimental reasons. The queen-sized bed lay unmade as usual; the forest green comforter crumpled near the end of the mattress. The pillows still had the slept on look; if you looked hard enough, you could still see the imprint of Harry's head on the left one. Draco had attempted to sleep in the bed after Harry had gone, just once. He had lain there for a mere minute and a half before deciding he could no more bring himself to disturb the place where he had last loved Harry than he could bring him back. And so, we find our hero spending his nights crying himself to sleep, curled up in and clinging to the smells of one of his lover's once worn sweaters on the sofa.
Atop the headboard sat Draco's favorite photograph, taken mere weeks before Harry had gone. They had gone with Hermione and the Weasel - yes, this many years later and he still favored the name - for their anniversary and Granger had taken a spectacular shot of the quintessential couple sipping champagne and kissing. It had been the perfect moment, and sitting there, watching them laugh and kiss and drink, he had to fight harder than ever not to let tears spill.
Glaring at the gold framed picture from dark, sunken eyes, he caught a hitch in his throat and decided to kill it with another swig from the bottle.
"You're both going to hell, y'know that, right?"
"Ron!" Hermione whispered fiercely.
"Oh, you honestly can't play the sodomy-will-send-you-to-hell card, Weasley. From what I've heard, you had yourself a few gay, ol' romps back in our Hogwarts days, yourself, old chap," Draco smirked, resting his hand on Harry's thigh, only slightly possessively. "Does the name Blaise Zabini ring a bell?"
Ron sputtered.
"Besides, Ron, whatever happened to that confrontation you pulled right after you found out I fancied Draco?" Harry asked, slyly. "How did it go? Oh, right! 'Oh, Harry! Does it have to be him? Can't you fancy Dean or Seamus or Neville? Hell, mate, I could even cope if you fancied me! Anything but him!'"
"What?" Draco choked, snorting champagne out of his elegant, refined nose. "You have got to be kidding me, Weasley!" he laughed as Ron turned the same shade of red as his hair.
The memory laughed at him from behind the frame. Had Draco known that the end of such great love was drawing so near, maybe he could have done something different; done something to make Harry stay.
"I'll never get over you walking away..."
"Harry, please don't go in to work today. Please! I just... I have a horrible feeling. Please, just stay home with me!" he pleaded.
"Lovely, you know I would like nothing more than to stay here with you. However, we are incredibly close to tracking him down. Voldemort, lovely! He is getting stronger every day, getting closer as we speak. Kingsley is in St. Mungo's because I wasn't prepared for the last attack!" Harry told him, tired and exasperated.
"Then prepare here, Harry! You have all the res-"
"Draco, what do you think I am doing all day? Do you think I sit at the Ministry playing Exploding Snap all day just to get a break from you? I don't! I slave away all day to protect your arse, just like I protect everyone else's too!" Harry snapped. "I can't do this anymore..."
"Wha-"
"I'm going to work. We'll talk when I get home," Harry sighed, slamming the door behind him.
Draco stood in shock, transfixed for what could have been an eternity. What in the hell had just happened? He knew Harry worked for the greater good but -
There was a rapping at the door.
Draco snapped back to attention, wondering if perhaps it was Harry, come back to apologize for over-reacting. "Harry always has the best apologies for when he's being a prat," he thought, opening the door.
"Har-" he gasped, and crumpled to the floor.
"Finally!" the tall, blonde man on the other side of the door drawled. "And I caught the little blood traitor off uard with a stunning spell at that!"
"Well, he is your brat, Lucius. You should have been able to reign him in long ago," spat the heavily lidded woman that was his companion.
"Bellatrix, darling," the elder Malfoy seethed, "I murdered my own wife. I am about to send my only heir to an early grave. What makes you think I have qualms about doing as such to her dearest sister? Watch your words if you wish not to meet the same fate."
A strong chill raced up Draco's spine. He wiped a cold sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and blinking back tears, finished the last of the bottle of wine and reached for the next.
"How could I have been so stupid? You were already late for work; it was foolish to think you would return when you had already stated otherwise," the ex-Slytherin sobbed.
"If only I had known it would end this way..."
Chapter: First Verse
Author:phantom_puppet
Rating: PG-13 most probably
Chapter length: 1727 words
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or related characters, nor do I make money from them, no matter how hard I wish it were so.
"Alone in this house again tonight"
The bottle of Chateau Siarac 2000 had only recently been opened, yet Draco thought there was not nearly enough. It was his third of the evening and he sat slouched against the wall, cradling the flagon in the crook of his arm between sips and trying not to cry. A fine wine from the right bank of the Gioronde River in France, the Siarac had been one of Harry's favorites. After the second bottle, Draco had given up walking through their flat - his flat - to the kitchen to retrieve more of this mind-numbing lubricant, so in a stroke of what he considered sheer brilliance, he had placed the crate and corkscrew beside him in the dark room.
The pale green curtains had been drawn. The lights were off. Draco preferred the dark. It was only in shadow he could pretend life was nothing but a horrid hallucination. He hadn't remembered ingesting anything that could produce such effects, but he could pretend, couldn't he? He hadn't gone to work in weeks; hadn't gone outside in nearly as long. Old friends had stopped coming by after a while for he refused to speak with them, refused to let them infiltrate his delusions as he could no longer hold up the facade that he would be alright. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to smile again.
"I've got the t.v. on, the sound turned down, and a bottle of wine"
A classic movie played on the television - a Muggle device that Harry had introduced to him by insisting they purchase one for their home. He remembered how bewildered he had been when he first saw it.
"It's a telly, Draco," Harry laughed. "You watch things on it."
"Is it like a pensieve or something?" Draco had wondered aloud.
"No, love. You watch stories on it. Some are longer and called films, which you can also watch at the cinema. There are also shorter ones called programmes that come on during the week and are really long stories broken up like chapters in a book."
"I still don't get it," the blonde moaned.
"Oh, Draco."
Harry put his hand on his lovers shoulder, "How can someone so brilliant be so clueless? It's just like wizarding pictures..."
It hadn't taken long after that for Draco to grasp the concept and even less time for him to fall in love with the idea. Harry had finally gotten the point across by comparing it to the theater. Now, staring at the silent screen, Draco pined for the days when he and Harry would curl up in bed and watch a film together, debating cinema and falling asleep in one anothers arms.
Casablanca played, and that too, had been one of Harry's favorites. It pained Draco to watch it, but he could not bring himself to turn it off. Instead, he had it muted, looming as a silent distraction. He knew it word for word, as did Harry.
"Rick! Rick, help me!" Draco cried, grabbing ahold of Harry.
"Don't be a fool. You can't get away," Harry grinned, wrapping his arms around Draco's waist.
"Mmm, Harry," Draco sighed, nuzzling into the embrace.
"That's not quite how it goes in the script, luv," Harry whispered.
"We'll write it in later. Shut up and kiss me."
"There's pictures of you and I on the walls around me"
He glanced away from the television for a moment, tears glistening in his eyes as their favorite scene flashed across the screen.
"Rick! Rick, help me!" he whispered to no reply.
"Gods, Harry!" he moaned, his gaze resting upon a picture above the bed. "How could you do this to me?"
Running his fingers through his already dishevelled hair, he chocked back his tears and took a long swig from the bottle. Unable to stop his cold grey eyes, he forced himself to survey the pictures hanging on the walls in an attempt to prevent the shedding of tears that threatened. What had once been a decorative love nest now felt like a shrine - a memorial to lost love.
Hanging in a beautiful mahogany frame was a cut-out from the Daily Prophet of Harry Potter, age 14. The Skeeter wench had captured a wonderful image of Harry facing the Horntail in the TriWizard Tournament of that year. It had only taken a short while before Draco had gotten sick of watching a younger Harry zip and zoom about the dragon's head on his Firebolt. Harry constantly said that that was proof positive he was a better seeker than the Malfoy boy. This usually led to steamy arguments and even steamier reconciliations. Sitting there, however, Draco would have given everything for Harry to look at the old clipping and try to prove his much recited theory once again.
"The way that it was an could have been surrounds me"
The sullen blonde sat staring at the wide open double closet doors, surrounded by mementos of a love and life once cherished. Framed in the same mahogany as the photo, the ornate aperture showcased many of Harry's things, from his Hogwarts robes to the too-small faded jeans and black mock-turtleneck he had worn on their first date, all kept for sentimental reasons. The queen-sized bed lay unmade as usual; the forest green comforter crumpled near the end of the mattress. The pillows still had the slept on look; if you looked hard enough, you could still see the imprint of Harry's head on the left one. Draco had attempted to sleep in the bed after Harry had gone, just once. He had lain there for a mere minute and a half before deciding he could no more bring himself to disturb the place where he had last loved Harry than he could bring him back. And so, we find our hero spending his nights crying himself to sleep, curled up in and clinging to the smells of one of his lover's once worn sweaters on the sofa.
Atop the headboard sat Draco's favorite photograph, taken mere weeks before Harry had gone. They had gone with Hermione and the Weasel - yes, this many years later and he still favored the name - for their anniversary and Granger had taken a spectacular shot of the quintessential couple sipping champagne and kissing. It had been the perfect moment, and sitting there, watching them laugh and kiss and drink, he had to fight harder than ever not to let tears spill.
Glaring at the gold framed picture from dark, sunken eyes, he caught a hitch in his throat and decided to kill it with another swig from the bottle.
"You're both going to hell, y'know that, right?"
"Ron!" Hermione whispered fiercely.
"Oh, you honestly can't play the sodomy-will-send-you-to-hell card, Weasley. From what I've heard, you had yourself a few gay, ol' romps back in our Hogwarts days, yourself, old chap," Draco smirked, resting his hand on Harry's thigh, only slightly possessively. "Does the name Blaise Zabini ring a bell?"
Ron sputtered.
"Besides, Ron, whatever happened to that confrontation you pulled right after you found out I fancied Draco?" Harry asked, slyly. "How did it go? Oh, right! 'Oh, Harry! Does it have to be him? Can't you fancy Dean or Seamus or Neville? Hell, mate, I could even cope if you fancied me! Anything but him!'"
"What?" Draco choked, snorting champagne out of his elegant, refined nose. "You have got to be kidding me, Weasley!" he laughed as Ron turned the same shade of red as his hair.
The memory laughed at him from behind the frame. Had Draco known that the end of such great love was drawing so near, maybe he could have done something different; done something to make Harry stay.
"I'll never get over you walking away..."
"Harry, please don't go in to work today. Please! I just... I have a horrible feeling. Please, just stay home with me!" he pleaded.
"Lovely, you know I would like nothing more than to stay here with you. However, we are incredibly close to tracking him down. Voldemort, lovely! He is getting stronger every day, getting closer as we speak. Kingsley is in St. Mungo's because I wasn't prepared for the last attack!" Harry told him, tired and exasperated.
"Then prepare here, Harry! You have all the res-"
"Draco, what do you think I am doing all day? Do you think I sit at the Ministry playing Exploding Snap all day just to get a break from you? I don't! I slave away all day to protect your arse, just like I protect everyone else's too!" Harry snapped. "I can't do this anymore..."
"Wha-"
"I'm going to work. We'll talk when I get home," Harry sighed, slamming the door behind him.
Draco stood in shock, transfixed for what could have been an eternity. What in the hell had just happened? He knew Harry worked for the greater good but -
There was a rapping at the door.
Draco snapped back to attention, wondering if perhaps it was Harry, come back to apologize for over-reacting. "Harry always has the best apologies for when he's being a prat," he thought, opening the door.
"Har-" he gasped, and crumpled to the floor.
"Finally!" the tall, blonde man on the other side of the door drawled. "And I caught the little blood traitor off uard with a stunning spell at that!"
"Well, he is your brat, Lucius. You should have been able to reign him in long ago," spat the heavily lidded woman that was his companion.
"Bellatrix, darling," the elder Malfoy seethed, "I murdered my own wife. I am about to send my only heir to an early grave. What makes you think I have qualms about doing as such to her dearest sister? Watch your words if you wish not to meet the same fate."
A strong chill raced up Draco's spine. He wiped a cold sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and blinking back tears, finished the last of the bottle of wine and reached for the next.
"How could I have been so stupid? You were already late for work; it was foolish to think you would return when you had already stated otherwise," the ex-Slytherin sobbed.
"If only I had known it would end this way..."