His blood dripped steadily onto the cold floor, a deep crimson against the white marble. A stark contrast, grotesque yet beautiful. His clothes were ripped and singed. Mud caked his platinum hair and dirtied his fingernails. He was bruised and he was beaten. But after a long and terrible battle, the war was over.
Draco had made it out alive.
For the break that will make it okay
It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered. Not anymore.
He was the only one that had made it out alive. His parents had succumb to the bright green ray of the Killing Curse. Through all his strength and cunning, he could not save them.
Draco had failed.
And it's hard at the end of the day
A house elf Apparated to his side, but Draco dismissed it with a snarl and a wave. He would fetch his own damned whiskey. He strode to the study, hardly registering the familiarity of the bookshelves, the expanse of the desk, or the smooth grain of the wood beneath his fingers. His aim was singular: his father’s favored vintage.
For nostalgia’s sake.
Yes, he would drown himself in it tonight.
Memories seep from my veins
An hour later and Draco still was not numb. He had long since finished his father’s vintage and had moved on to cheaper, more effective liquors. His tongue felt lazy, his vision was fuzzy, and his stomach churned, but the emotions in him ran as strongly as before.
Guilt. Fear. Loneliness. Regret.
I'll find some peace tonight
Platinum hair tumbled into his eyes as he remembered his father. Though he was cold and cruel, everything he did was for a reason. The emotional standoffishness taught Draco independence. The beatings taught him strength.
As long as he had his father, he would not falter.
From this dark, cold hotel room, and the endlessness that you fear
His mother. She was encouraging where his father was disparaging; gentle where he was sadistic. She tucked him in when he was a child, listened when he had a problem, held him when he was scared. She taught him everything his father could not.
As long as he had his mother, he would be human.
You're in the arms of the Angel; may you find some comfort here
And what was he now that they were gone?
They battled side-by-side, wands flicking faster than Draco thought possible, faces twisted in hard concentration and utter ferocity. Their murderer stood behind them.
Bellatrix. His mother’s sister. His own aunt.
His own blood.
There's vultures and thieves at your back
They were supposed to be protected. The deal he struck with Moody and Potter was supposed to have ensured their protection. A flash of anger, a spark of revenge. They were supposed to be alive!
She was supposed to be alive.
That you make up for all that you lack
The flash disappeared like lightening. Tears dripped like fire down his pale cheeks, stinging when they seeped into the numerous open gashes. Did it matter that he was alive now that she was gone? She was his world. She had seen through the bullshit to who he was, despite their malicious past, despite his alleged present, despite their impossible future.
It's easier to believe
He loved her.
He never told her that. All that time they had spent together, sneaking off in the middle of the night like two Shakespearean lovers, looking at the stars, making wishes that they knew would never be granted.
He loved her.
It was too much. He hoisted himself off the couch and stumbled towards the door, throwing himself onto the patio and into the night.
The night which killed her.
The night where he watched her die.
He fell to his knees before the heavens, whiskey bottle hanging limply in his hands. Draco sobbed.
She was gone.
That brings me to my knees
Her arms were unlike any others. In her embrace, he was stronger than his father. In her embrace, he was gentler than his mother. In her embrace, he found purpose.
From this dark, cold hotel room, and the endlessness that you fear
In her embrace, he found home.
In the arms of the Angel; may you find some comfort here
“Draco?”
It was her voice. It was faint.
It was a hallucination.
He cried harder. He could not live with a hallucination, with a shadow of the woman he had once known. He needed her alive. He needed to be with her, to have her in his arms, in his bed, in his life.
“Draco?”
Louder now, coming from his house.
A hallucination.
“Draco.”
If he answered her, maybe she would leave him. Leave him to his misery. His hell.
His voice was cracked and choked. “What?”
Movement behind him. The soft rustling of material. A slow exhale. Whispered. “Look at me.”
On his knees, he turned. The whiskey bottle dropped from his hands, ringing sharply off the carved concrete, shattering the night’s silence.
A shudder of release. A wracking sob. She pulled him in tightly. Draco buried his head in her hair and held on for dear life.
He could not speak. What could he say? But he had to say something. He had to make her real. So through the sobs, past his ungraceful tongue, in a puff of whiskey-soured breath, came the most intimate syllables he would ever utter.
“Hermione.”