(A/N: Rated M for language and mature content.

DM/HP SLASH. This is my first (maybe last?) attempt at something less fluffy (though, it's going to end fluffy since I can't do angsty very well). I did have it up before but deleted it until I could tweak and edit it. So, if you've seen it before; that's why. The first person perspective just seemed to make this easier to write, oddly enough... dunno why but it's a first and last for me.

Warnings: MalexMale slash. Language. Lil' bit o' smut. Derogatory speech. Asshole!Draco (seriously; I wanted to gut him a few times writing this).

Enjoy.)

"Get out."

Those were the last words I said to Harry. And the idiot nodded sadly and left without another word or even a last glance at me. He never could say no to me, I mused bitterly. I wasn't even sure what caused my mouth to say those words in the first place or the situation that lead to them. We had just gotten home after another horrid Ministry affair and I had too much to drink. I'd like to blame my anger and lack of self control on alcohol, but I know it's just not true. I wasn't all that drunk. Sometimes I wished I was, maybe I wouldn't remember everything so vividly.

Even when nearly blindly drunk, I never was out of control. I'd curse more and be downright filthy if Harry were around, but I never had done something out of character. I rarely had barriers or inhibitions to begin with, so I wasn't a different person drunk. I was an arsehole sober, I was an arsehole drunk.

Harry is being snuggly and infuriatingly understanding of my foul mood and I lost it. I push Harry away violently at one point when he embraces me, his warm hands sliding along my sides, making him trip and stumble away. He rolls his lips on a giggle, covering his mouth with a hand, as he rights himself. I don't think he even realizes I shoved him instead of him tripping. Harry's lack of anger seems to spark my fury. I glare darkly when he looks up and giggles sheepishly. He isn't exactly sober either.

"I'm not even worth your anger now?" I spit, my hands clenching. I feel only slightly better I'm not imagining them around his slim, pale throat. Even in my current state that would have sent me out of the room, away from him, probably shaking in shock and remorse. I feel an irrational urge to hurt him; not kill the git.

Harry stares at me a moment, blinking owlishly, before he shakes his head once, a goofy smile on his face. "I don't want to be angry at you. I don't like being angry with you. We're over that phase, aren't we?" He smiles and steps closer to me, intending to embrace (and probably grope) me but gets no further than a foot away when my fist connects with his jaw.

He only gapes at me as he brings his hand up and cups his injured jaw. "What the fuck?" he murmurs sounding more shocked than angry.

We didn't punch and hurt each other anymore—not since school really. Not since we'd finally figured out that our touches could be more pleasurable. I can't remember the last time either of us laid a hand on the other that didn't end in orgasm or at least very happy thoughts.

His emerald eyes are full of confusion, not anger like I'd hoped. The bastard doesn't even have the decency to yell after I'd punched him. I'd probably be happier if he'd hit me back. But he doesn't. He just stands there, holding his already swelling, purpling jaw with a hurt and confused look on his face. Part of me wants to just sigh and turn around, go to bed and wish whatever insanity crawled up my arse died in the night. Another part wants to continue this, lash out.

I glare and push Harry harshly. "I don't want some useless faggot touching me anymore." I don't know how I say that without wincing. I hated when my father had called me that and there I was, throwing it in his face. I know he'd been called the same thing while being pummeled by his oaf of a cousin on numerous occasions. Even without personal history, I spit the word, filling it with scorn and as much disdain as possible. I feel possessed; I just want to lash out and hurt him.

Harry's eyes darken for a moment as he drops his hand from his face. "Really?" he asks, his voice low. I want to rub my hands together with glee when I see the dark look, but Harry only continues to stand there, still looking hurt and confused. The anger is already fading and I want to scream.

Harry's lack of reaction only further enrages me and I don't even know why. So I throw various breakable objects, shouting horrible things about Harry's parents (well, the lack thereof) and his Muggle family. Nothing is sacred. I sneer at Harry for taking my cock up his arse, degrading his manhood, mocking his friends and job, anything I can think of.

The hateful words just spew from my mouth, I don't even mean most of them. Harry stands there, a guarded expression on his face, watching me rant and rave like a three-year-old. A large, violent three-year-old that throw hexes and verbal barbs just as easily as punches. After a few moments, I stand in the middle of the ruined room, my chest heaving and my face red with my efforts.

"Are you finished now?" Harry asks calmly, after a moment of quiet. The only sound is my heavy breathing and Harry's toe tapping softly against the tiled floor, as if waiting for my answer.

I sneer at him and don't answer. I could probably salvage something but I don't. I just cross my arms and glare.

"Can you tell me what the fuck is going on now?" Harry asks, just as calmly with his hands spread out in front of him. Almost as if he's pleading. It makes my chest hurt and I don't want to look at him any more. I can't. I don't want to see what expression will be on his face. What expression I put there with my irrational, childish and hurtful actions.

I have no answers for him and it makes my fists clench.

I look him over, from his fine leather shoes I'd recently given him to the top of his messy black hair that I could never tame and couldn't keep my hands out of. I completely avoid looking at his face or in his eyes. I sneer and walk away, finally turning my back to Harry. "I'm done. That's what's going on. I'm done with you. Get out."

[[+]]

Owls peck and tap at my windows, daily.

I knew they were from Harry so I ignored them.

The owls then came every other day.

Then weekly.

It took almost 3 months before the weekly owls turned into monthly ones. 6 months for them to come maybe every other month and then after a year, Harry had stopped trying. I disgusted myself when I mourned and celebrated that fact simultaneously.

I never read a single one. I always sent the owl away, not even bothering to take the note tied to the bird's foot or Incendioing the unrolled, unread parchments when the bird got vicious and refused to leave the missive undelivered. I couldn't bear to see Harry's hateful words, or worse, words of acceptance, understanding or pleading. I still don't know why I didn't ever read one or owl back. Not even once. I didn't even send a 'fuck off, Potter'. Pride was the only answer I could come up with—possibly sheer stupidity. Either way, I'd thrown him away. I had no real answer to give Harry, so that didn't help at all. I dimly thought I could blame it on someone slipping me a potion or cursing me, but it didn't feel entirely true and Harry at least deserved to know the truth.

Not that I could even explain the truth. I had looked at Harry that night, felt warmth and love flood me and immediately on the heels of that, a fierce panic sunk heavy claws in, nearly stopping my breath. I wasn't meant to love the damn Gryffindor. I wasn't meant to have the man love me. It was only supposed to be the thrill of fucking the Golden Boy or maybe his for fucking the ultimate 'bad boy'. Not a... relationship. A few satisfying weeks had somehow turned into months and then years when I wasn't paying attention. I have no idea what brought the whole thing crashing down on me that night, but crash it did and I felt like tearing into my own skin.

Instead, I tore into Harry. I can honestly admit I regret it now. Not that I can change it.

I spent the rest of that night silently raging at Harry for having the audacity to love me, care about me and protect me—people would still try to send harsh words at me only to be met with Harry's wand or stony face. None would, or could, stand up to him when he got that fierce, determined set to his face and body. It shortly became highly arousing to see him like that. The Boy-Who-Lived was really the only thing that kept me from painful hexes most times we were out together.

I never admitted to the thrill that went through me at the thought, only later letting it become something that made my pride prickle and howl with injustice. Harry's later apologies, because the bastard could tell when it started to bother me, only made it worse. I couldn't stand to have him fight for me and I couldn't stand it when he tried, once, to step aside. (Honestly, he couldn't win and it took me awhile to feel like an utter bastard about it.)

Harry kept sneaking glances at me over the course of The Evening, obviously aware (to some extent) of my inner turmoil. People think him oblivious but the man was sharp, especially when it came to something that held his interest (namely me and those that he cared for), and I cursed him for that as well. I plastered on a smile and would nod at him. At one point Harry had snuck us into a dark alcove, pinning me easily against the cool stone wall. After a brief but heated kiss he'd murmured 'I love you, Draco' in my ear, making me shiver deliciously.

But then the Unknown Panic Beast in the back of my mind had snapped. That wasn't the first time he said that he loved me, but something was different that time and it made my vision go dark. I shoved Harry away from me without a word, wiped his kiss from my lips with the back of my hand and sneered at him before walking back into the party.

I didn't even wait to see if Harry followed me, inwardly too afraid and ashamed to see the confusion or hurt that was sure to be swimming in those emerald eyes. I can admit to being a coward. I can lash out and hurt him, but I couldn't stand to see the aftereffects. I didn't even look at him again until I'd exploded at him later in our flat.

Thankfully (well, if you ask me) I never bothered to get along with Harry's friends so I didn't have any awkward moments to worry about. It was easy to avoid them, so I did. I'd kept friendly with Pansy and Blaise -it didn't do to not have a source for gossip- but other than my ailing mother, those were the only other people I really spoke to.

I tried to blame my small social circle on Harry, but the man had tried to get me out and about numerous times. Even offering to spend time with my old friends from school. Go with me to meet new friends or even stay home while I found friends, in case I wanted to find people with a common interest he didn't share. I had scoffed every time, sometimes snidely pointing out my friends would not want to bother with him and Harry stopped asking. I started to resent that too; he was too good to spend time with my friends? I was pretty sure that's when my Irrational Panic Beast was born; I was convinced Harry didn't think I was worth the effort anymore (apparently years of effort were not being counted by the Irrational Panic Beast).

I wanted to blame Harry for not trying to bring his friends around, but it took almost 2 years before the Gryffindor had stopped trying to get me and his friends to socialize. I know it was for both our sakes; for his friends' as much as mine. At Harry's last effort, I'd blithely called Hermione a Mudblood brood hound, after she'd excitedly told Harry she was expecting her third child. I thought it spoke of my personal growth that I hadn't mentioned the red-headed oaf seemed to be quickly headed into the same large litter numbers he'd come from, maybe even trying to surpass his parents.

Harry didn't agree.

His eyes had darkened dangerously at my words and he'd barred me from coming over for almost 2 weeks before I'd broken and mumbled what might be considered an apology. Harry had stopped trying after that.

My rational mind reminded me I was being a horrible prat and not even trying at all, making everything worse by being combative and demeaning (I refused to think it was my childish way to keeping all of Harry's attention and time to myself). It made my chest and head hurt to think about, so I figured I'd blame Harry. Or Hermione. Luna was insane, so maybe it was her fault. It certainly wasn't my shortcoming.

Shame and regret weighed me down as I reflected and remembered. I still missed him, of course, but I was smart enough to keep away from Harry. I'd acted deplorably and I wouldn't blame him if he hexed my arse raw on sight. I rarely ever felt bad for how I'd treated him Before, we'd made our peace with our past turmoil but this... I shied away from thinking about it because it made me feel retched. More so when I couldn't explain why.

[[+]]

I sat in one of the smaller parlors in the Manor, having awkward tea with my mother. We'd sat in stony silence for almost half an hour when she threw a folded newspaper at me. I restrained the urge to scold her or point out how rude it was when I caught the photo on the front.

Harry.

With some other wizard.

I wasn't prepared for the painful twist I felt in my chest and was frankly shocked by it. I'd barely thought about Harry anymore, or so I told myelf. It'd been over a year since I broke it off, but I didn't dwell on it overly. (I needn't say that I counted only once a day as 'overly'.) I'd even started dating. Well, fucking random men I met at clubs. If they more often than not had black hair or green eyes (rarely both at once, regrettably) my subconscious was kind enough not to make it obvious.

I could hear the Irrational Beast's (when did the panic leave?) snarl of MINE in my mind as I looked at his gorgeous moving image and had to breathe deeply for a moment. Both because I'd stopped doing so and to keep myself from reaching out and touching the photo-Harry. I slowly looked up at my mother (I could practically hear a tearing noise as I took my eyes off of the photo) and raised a pale eyebrow at her.

Of course the only effect it had was to make her scoff daintily. She gave the Malfoy Brow as good as I or my father ever did. "Yes?" I drawled, but I didn't sound as unaffected or aloof as I'd hoped and mentally cursed myself. My mother was a perceptive woman; give her the slightest indication and she could calculate volumes.

As she was, no doubt, doing right this bloody moment.

She calmly blew on her tea and took a sip before she raised her eyes to look at me. I noted her pale blue eyes held a curious sparkle. "Nothing, dear. I just thought you kept up on social gossip," she said, in a falsely calm tone. "Seems like Harry might be announcing a wedding soon." She calmly sipped her tea again, and I completely missed the smug little smirk she hid behind her teacup at the pained expression that flitted—unknown and completely unwanted—across my face as I looked down, snatching the paper up and opening it.

I looked through the article, trying not to seem like I was too interested. Merlin, I hated when she called him Harry and not 'Mr. Potter' like she used to at the beginning of our relationship. It reeked of acceptance and familiarity. Especially now, when we were clearly no longer even speaking.

Apparently my attempts at keeping her at a distance by 'missing' tea or dinners with her didn't work. I'd foolishly hoped she wouldn't see Harry as anything but a public icon or a random, distant lover by never allowing the two interact, even though both asked on numerous occasions why it hadn't happened. I really should have known better. My mother had been one of the few people that had been happy with my decision to be with Harry. Surprisingly, it didn't even have anything to do with his status or wealth; she just liked that he occasionally had made me happy (when I allowed him to). Infuriating woman.

"I don't see an engagement announcement," I finally muttered, stoically ignoring the relief I felt. I tossed the paper back to the table with a careless flick of my wrist. I wanted to cringe and hex myself at the relief I heard in my voice, knowing my mother surely heard it as well. I tried to tell myself I didn't care if the bastard got married, he could do as he wished and it wasn't my concern.

I nearly believed it...

My mother hummed and tilted her head back slightly, looking down her nose at me and pinning me with that unnerving ice-blue gaze again. "No, but just look at that photo," she said, her voice holding a subtle hint of giddiness and something vaguely gushy. Like some third year fan-girl. Infuriating woman. She tapped the moving photo with one perfectly manicured fingernail and released a happy sounding sigh. I'm surprised she didn't simper and flutter her eyelashes, truly making her over-dramatics complete. I had to grit my teeth to keep from reacting to the irritating noise. "I don't think we'll be waiting long for one, however." This time she smirked openly, making me grit my teeth. Again.

I had to remind himself not to sneer at my mother. I closed my eyes a moment and wanted to hex myself again when my eyes wouldn't stray from the photo of Harry. He was laughing. I could even see his gorgeous green eyes twinkling, slightly crinkled in the corners, with happiness. Merlin, did I miss the sound of it (and wanted to cringe again when I realized I hadn't heard it for ages even when we were still together). He had a hand firmly (and possessively, I tried not to notice with a sharp pang) around the waist of the taller dark haired wizard.

There was no mention of the man's name and I didn't recognize him. It was obvious they were close, as the man's smiling face was partially buried in Harry's neck, his lips close to his ear in an obvious attempt to whisper something. Whether an attempt to keep an intimate uttering private or a bid to be heard in a crowd I didn't know, and frankly I didn't care.

Another painful pang ripped through me when I knew what that man was smelling: musky, sweet spice that was essentially Harry. I barely restrained the groan as I tortured myself with the photo. Why did I care? Harry was no longer mine. I'd tired of him and threw him away like an old broom—a well-used, old broom. I looked up and saw my mother looking at me, a calculating look on her face before she'd schooled her features into a mask of polite boredom.

"What about you, my darling Draco? Any new romantic interests?" she asked, gracefully crossing a leg over the other and angling her legs down. She rearranged her robes before giving me her full attention.

A lie wasn't going to work. I nearly sighed with annoyance and resignation. I briefly considered telling her about the 'romantic interest' I'd shagged against a wall in the back of a club not even two nights ago but just merely shook my head once and gave her a bland smile. "No, mother. Not as of yet." I sipped my tea and prayed to all the Gods that my mother would lose her interest in my personal life and I could finally leave. When she sighed and put down her tea cup, I wanted to pull my hair in frustration. Bugger.

"Draco—" She started softly. I knew that tone and my teeth made a nauseating squeaking sound as I clenched my jaw. "You've had time to recover, move on. You need to settle down." She gave me a piercing look that made me want to squirm like a child, making me awkwardly aware that maybe she did know what I was getting up to these days. Pansy was going to pay, I swore. There was no other way for my mother to know such things. I was happily imagining turning Pansy's hair Gryffindor red or making all her body hair grow to obscene lengths. Permanently.

"I don't need to recover, mother. If you remember, I threw him out. And I don't wish to settle down yet. I'm still young yet," I said blithely.

I couldn't help but gape when my mother snorted inelegantly, raised her chin and waved a dismissive hand at me. "Please, Draco," she said, even rolling her eyes rudely. "You ran away from that man, scared. You aren't getting any younger, Dragon," she chided and raised a pale eyebrow at me.

I hated that endearment only because I was powerless against it; I could never resist my mother, especially when she clearly loved me and had my best interest at heart. I resisted gritting my teeth again, expecting her 'helpful' assistance.

"I won't give you the speech your father did and tell you to marry a witch and produce an heir. However—"

She paused and I nearly sat forward, anxious for her next words despite myself. I knew she had no need to gather her words, my mother was rarely at a loss for them. She was just being overly dramatic and I was annoyed I'd fallen for it.

"Draco, you need to find someone and be happy. I shan't place limitations or stipulations on who that is—just that you do it. I had hoped Harry would be that someone, but frankly, you didn't deserve him." She picked up her tea and took another dainty sip, tactfully ignoring my stunned silence. "It's probably for the best you ended things when you did; you were hurting that poor man."

How dare she! I did deserve him. Well, alright... maybe not, but I had wanted him and a Malfoy gets what he wants.

I felt anger flush my face to be quickly replaced with hot guilt as I slowly realized how true her words were. I proved quite well how much I hadn't deserved him. I never could understand how Harry was so receptive and willing to open his heart to me, knowing the way most of his past relationships ended. Whether 'family' or romantic entanglements, they didn't tend to end well and I was just another terrible example of people that left a gaping hole in his heart and (let us be dramatic here) soul.

If I wasn't so selfish, I would've been happy Harry was able to find someone that made him smile like that. Instead, I felt the Irrational Beast growl that my Harry was off some where with some one else.

I never did claim I wasn't a bastard.

Or rational.

I'm sure I resembled a guppy for a long moment before I shut my mouth with a sharp 'clack' and glared at my mother. It was only years of training and deep rooted respect that held my tongue and temper. Instead of a childish tantrum, I carefully set down my teacup and left the room without a backward glance. I didn't need to turn around to see my mother's expression; an embarrassing mix of triumph and pity.

I stalked to my rooms and as soon as my door shut, and I could feel the privacy wards snap and sizzle into place, I screamed and threw the most expensive thing I could find that would break.

A priceless vase, it turns out. I shrugged carelessly; it was old and ugly anyway.

I quickly turned and found a jade dragon; a gift from Harry. He gave it to me, with a sheepish smile, on our first anniversary. I adored it, not that I ever told him.

It quickly joined the vase against the wall to shatter and sprinkle onto the floor. Triumph flared briefly before I was overcome with a stab of grief. I threw myself on the ground near the broken green pieces. I was sweeping the pieces into a small pile, muttering "Harry, I'm so sorry" as I tried to find them all, unaware of the many cuts I gave myself in the process.

It didn't even register I was weeping as I swept my wand over the pieces, furiously muttering a repairing charm. I stared at the repaired dragon in my palm, sniffling pathetically, and closed my eyes in misery. There was a small chunk missing from one delicate wing; hardly noticeable really, but it stood out starkly me. Mocking me. No matter how many Accios I performed, I couldn't retrieve the missing piece.

I wanted to scream in frustration at how appropriate it seemed. The broken dragon; irreparable. My relationship with Harry; irreparable. It was tragically poetic.

I was a fool, a cruel stupid fool. I wasn't over Harry, and probably never would be. My breath hitched, my eyes still riveted to the small green dragon as I gently turned it in my palm, and wondered if I could ever think of a way to win him back. I winced; I'd have to grovel and probably say a lot of horribly true and painful emotional things. Words and thoughts I should have said a over a year ago. And even then, there was no guarantee that Harry wouldn't just turn and walk away from me. I honestly wouldn't be able to blame him. Even so, I knew he deserved an apology at the very least.

Was Harry worth it?

I eyed the jade dragon and knew the answer. Yes; he was.

The true question; was I? I didn't know, and I feared the answer. I knew I wanted to be, but I didn't know if it would be enough.

Would he even see me or listen to a word I had to say? I honestly wouldn't blame the man if he hexed me the moment he laid his beautiful emerald eyes on me. I shivered lightly at the memory of those green eyes gazing at me. As breathtaking as they were sparkling with happiness, I always preferred them hazy and dark with desire.

Did I dare to try to win Harry back from another man? Of course; it wasn't even worth asking, really. I am a Malfoy and nothing stopped me from attaining a goal once I've set one. Not even a stubborn, taken Gryffindor would get in my way.

Would I succeed?

I didn't know and feared the answer almost as much.

[[+]]

I tell myself I let another year go by.

But it was more accurate to say that a year had slipped by as I worked on myself. In my resolve to get Harry back, I knew I had to change... or at least sort myself out and become able to keep rational thought. Harry deserved it but so did I. I never really allowed myself much self reflection; I think I always feared what I'd find.

It took awhile to realize that if Harry had been able to see something worthwhile, it was there. I just had to find it and cultivate it. Even if I never succeeded in my goal of winning Harry back, it would certainly help with any future relationships. I tried not to think negatively, but I was trying to be realistic.

Pansy was quite happy to act as my pseudo-mind healer since I refused to see a proper one; I wasn't that fucked up. Naturally she was there to help me, but mostly I knew it was for the gossip worthy information I was going to tell her. I resisted for a while, but she had promised nothing would ever leave her confidence. I know she had kept my secrets before but even still... I nearly made her take a Wizard's Oath. I realized I needed to show her more trust than that.

Plus, she had bitched me out for nearly a solid hour, offended and hurt. After about a week, I finally got over myself and we got to the serious things. Things that made me wake in the middle of the night shaking, bathed in cold sweat.

Mostly, I awoke feeling shame and guilt; groaning and laying in bed for hours after, mired in thought and hating the entire endeavor.

After that, I found a relative peace and even some insight. I couldn't remember the Muggle mumbo-jumbo technical terms but it boiled down to me lashing out, like a spoiled sodding child. My lack of, for a better term, 'people skills' and early affection caused me to self-destruct and mistrust loving relationships. (It made sense, I hated to admit it. I was loved as a child but rarely hugged or touched. Malfoys didn't do such things. I tried, mostly jokingly, blaming my mother but Pansy wouldn't allow it. Cow.)

I recalled I most frequently (and viciously) lashed out when Harry was affectionate or loving. I nearly punched him the first time he had said he loved me. Thankfully I didn't, as it would have ruined the mood being as I was still inside him at the time. I slid out of bed as soon as he fell asleep and disappeared for a week. I truly regret that and found myself wondering what made the man stay with me after that.

Naturally, after each revelation Pansy would sooth me, congratulate me on my 'growth' and then call me a plethora of creative names. Apparently, I was too much of a 'bastard', a 'wanker' or an 'arse' and needed something more creative to describe my actions or personality. I think the tamest (lamest?) was when she called me a 'great, flopping dung bag'. I believe she was feeling ill that day, but I still like to mock her for the utter lack of creativity of that one.

I do adore the woman but she tried my patience more than once; I nearly slammed the door in her face numerous times. If it wasn't for the fact that she was actually helping, I probably would have set the wards against her with painful results.

It took so sodding long. There wasn't a spell or a potion that would help. Just time and retched, soul sucking, talking and even then she didn't have any miraculous answers.

Most often, it was immensely helpful to just talk to her, get things out of my mind and in the open. When I finally got around to telling her about my last night with Harry, her brows rose nearly to her hairline and she called me every foul name she knew—which were many and rather creative, as well. After her last muttered curse, she gave me a level look. I knew her well enough to know she wanted to snarl or scowl at me (possibly hit or hex me) but she was too vein for it. She refused to wrinkle herself further, not on my account.

"I'd always wondered what finally made him leave. Well, darling, color me surprised it was you," she said in a dry, sarcastic tone. I spent a few moments sputtering, as the realization that she was defending Harry dawned on me. She laughed merrily and slapped at my arm sharply before she grew sober once more. "I do regret not taking the time to get to know him better, though." Her face was pensive and a bit regretful. Apparently, Harry was worth facial movement and subsequent wrinkles, the bint. "By the time I realized you felt something for the git, you never came around anymore." She raised an eyebrow and lifted her chin, ever-so-slightly looking down her nose at me. "Ignored my owls and floo calls, as well, you complete arse."

I sat dumbfounded for a solid minute. "I never thought you'd have any inclination to sit down to have tea." I felt like a bastard, of course, for how many times I'd told Harry the opposite being true. It honestly hadn't occurred to me she would have wanted to. Pansy was glaring at me openly now and it was an effort not to react to that withering glare.

"Of course I would. He's the bloody Savior of the Wizarding world. Why wouldn't I?" she asked huffily and flicked her hair over her shoulder. "Not to mention it was clear he was important to you." Her glare softened slightly but it was more of a penetrating stare now. "I have the distinct feeling it wasn't because of him we never sat down together, either."

I'd be blind to miss the shrewd, knowing look.

I proudly refused to flinch and changed the subject, unwilling to get into that subject with her at the moment. Thankfully, she let it drop, knowing full well my lack of answer was indeed an answer in the positive, and we continued onto many other things.

She produced the well-known Muggle book from her huge handbag at this point, thumbing through it and declaring with authority that I have Mental Issues for the nth time. (I could almost see the capitalized letters with the emphases she placed on the words.) It was practically a ritual by now. She raised the book, about something called psychology, I noticed with a raised brow. I'd seen her look in it before but never noticed the title. I snorted a laugh; of course I have mental issues. I thought back to The Evening and cringe; no sane person behaved in such a manner, especially towards someone they loved.

So, I nodded along and we continued our talks, usually over tea, and she'd occasionally flip through the book and respond with something that sounded like gibberish until she translated it into 'pig-headed, bloody arsehole' for me to understand. Honestly, I spoke three languages fluently, could read and write Latin and Muggle psychology 'speak' baffled me most times. It was rather embarrassing and befuddling.

My zeal to win back Harry had cooled over the months. Not for lack of desire, but because I started to feel uneasy when I thought of trying to ruin whatever was making him happy. It was a rather strange thing to feel and it took a weeks (and Pansy's stupid, huge, helpful Muggle book) to figure out my motivations. My wishes for his happiness outweighed my own wishes. It made me feel rather mature. I was smug for a moment but it deflated quickly. Whenever I spied the few photos of him recently, the desire to leave him be overrode the desire to have him again.

An annoying inner voice reminded me I'd lost my chance, I wasn't good enough or deserving of the happiness I knew I would have found with Harry (Or if I allowed it this time, should the chance be granted.) It was hard to ignore that voice; it sounded too much like my mother.

It wasn't easy but I was able to look in the mirror and make my face portray various emotions. It was almost embarrassing. People were able to smile and make any other sort of face without even thinking about it and I had to practice. I had years of 'training' to over-come. I had only ever let Harry see such things before and even then it was only in the bedroom—or, more accurately, wherever we happened to be involved in vigorous activities at the time.

Pansy was only slightly helpful with this endeavor but she'd scoffed and called me a callous twat when I tried to show concern for her troubles. I admit my face looked more like I was constipated, but I promised her it was my best effort. I didn't have a mirror or any time to practice, but I thought I nearly had it.

Oh well. Maybe it's the thought that counts for this as well?