Here Comes Alone Again

He sat at the bar staring into his drink. He'd lost track of how long he'd been there; it could have been an hour, or it could have been ten. The only words he'd spoken since he's located a bar stood and parked his ass was 'I'd like a Scotch', and 'Can I have another?' A few women – and a man or two – had tried picking him up, the bar tender had attempted to make small talk when the bar became quieter, and he gave them all the cold shoulder. He wasn't in a talkative mood. He wasn't in any mood. He was numb; partly because of the alcohol, partly because of … other reasons. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to think, barely wanted to breathe. He wanted to go home, lock himself in one of the many rooms in his Manor home, and put a rope round his neck. Maybe he could provoke his father enough – he'd deliver a fatal hit.

But for now, he'd sit at this grimy bar, ignore the grimy people and drink the piss-water Scotch and block out the world; block out the pain.

As he ordered his fifth or sixth double, his thoughts ambushed him before he could do a thing about it…

He was crying. He was always crying nowadays. Perhaps it was the aftershock of the war? Or maybe he'd just had enough; whatever the case, his eyes were blotchy and he was making awful hiccupping-gasping noises, trying to hold back his sobs. He always did.

'Harry?' His head shot up like a bullet from a gun in one of those stupid Muggle films. His eyes were puffy and red, like the rest of his face. His green eyes were jewel-bright and he had tears on his lashes. His eyebrows were pulled together in a broken look of despair, and it broke my heart. 'Harry, will you tell me what's wrong?'

He shook his head. He always shook his head. It was usually partnered with a hoarse 'No,' but he made no other noise besides sniffling and taking deep breaths every few seconds, presumably trying to stop crying for my benefit.

I sat down beside him anyway – he had indicated he didn't want to talk, not that he didn't want company – and pulled him into my arms. He almost crawled into my lap, and rested his head against my chest, the tears coming full force again.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered.

'I know,' I replied.

…

…

'Hey, pretty boy.'

'Not interested,' Draco said, voice gruff, picking up his glass and draining it. It didn't burn anymore.

'Oh, come on. Young lad like you sat all alone in a bar like this? If you're not here to hook, what are you here for?'

'For the cheap alcohol, and an easy escape – not cheap conversation and cheap people.'

'Oh, you're feisty – it's kind of a turn on.'

Draco stood up, turned his most dazzling smile on the arrogant bastard, and tipped the freshly poured glass of Scotch over his pompous head. 'I'm not interested,' he said slowly, as if trying to teach a child to talk. He then turned on his heel and walked out of the bar and into the snow.

It was white, a pure white, like the white of a hospital…

'I'm sorry, Mister Potter, I am.'

He sat shell shocked. I put my hand on his shoulder, but I don't think he remembered I was even there. He sat on the leather-backed chair, hands clasped in his lap, staring at the coffee-stained, documents-covered table. I looked at the doctor. 'Are you sure? Are you sure there's no cure? You… you have magic! You're better than any Muggle doctor! We're better! Surely there's something. There's… I… We… Please. Just please,' I looked at him, at his tense body with its fine tremors, at his fisted hands, and his pinched face, and sighed, 'help him.'

…

…

There had been many hospital trips after that – Muggle and Wizard. There had been so many different nurses and doctors and specialists and super-special specialists, and they had all said the same thing; 'I'm sorry, Sir, there's nothing we can do for him'.

Draco sighed and kicked a lump of snow, which turned out to be a snow-covered lump of pavement. He swore loudly and walked into the alley which was far enough out of sight so that it abled him to Disapparate.

He appeared in the Manor's garden. He was aiming for his rooms. He was allowed to be disorientated.

He looked around and he suddenly couldn't breathe. It hit him like a ton of bricks; He's gone. He's not coming back. There'll be no more sitting by the river under the pear tree, watching the sun go down. There'll be no more sitting on the porch swing in the middle of summer, talking about work and life in general. There'll be no more us.

He fell to the frozen ground, ignoring his protesting knees, and curled into a ball. He had lost his mother two months after the war ended, now he's lost him, too. He had lost everything he'd ever cared about, everything he'd ever loved…

'You know I love you, don't you?' he had whispered to me one night, when I held him after he's had one of his breakdowns. The tears had stopped twenty minutes ago, but I couldn't bring myself to let him go. We'd been friends for four years, together for two, and he'd never said this to me. I had never said it, either, but I didn't think it was needed. We already knew. I still couldn't help but smile.

'And you, too.'

'Me too, what?'

'I, uh, I-'

He chuckled. It sounded amazing. 'I know you do.'

I smiled and buried my face in his hair.

'I'll miss you, you know.'

'No, you won't. You won't need to. Stop it. Just stop. You're not going anywhere. You're not leaving me. You're not.'

'Draco…'

'No! You are not leaving!' It was my turn to cry. It seldom happened, but when it did, it was only around Harry.

He extracted himself from my arms, and took my face in his hands. 'I'm sorry!' he cried, 'I am! You know I am! There's nothing I can do or say! There's nothing anyone can do, Draco! I have to go!'

'Please. You can't. You can't do that to me! You're all I have left. I've lost my mother, I cannot lose you too! You can't leave me with him! He'll kill me! Please!'

'I'm sorry! Please, stop crying. Stop. Please, Draco, please.'

'You can't. You can't. You just can't. I won't let you. No, you can't.' I had rambled on for a while, I don't know how long. We had both calmed down eventually. But I couldn't let him leave me. It would kill me.

…

…

He had lain on the floor for hours. The sun had risen by the time he prized himself from the ice. He looked at the Manor glittering with ice in the weak sunlight. He couldn't go in. He couldn't face his father. He had to get out. He had to leave. There's nowhere for him now; nowhere to be, nothing to do. He sighed heavily and Apparated, thoughts clouded…

'You're telling me he has a Muggle disease?'

'Yes, Mister Malfoy.'

'How is that even possible?'

'He is a half-blood, Mister Malfoy. It is not unknown for Wizards to be diagnosed with Muggle illnesses and diseases. It is rare, but not unknown.'

'But he can get better, can't he? You can save him?'

'I'm sorry, Mister Malfoy.'

'You have to be joking. It's an illness, there has to be a spell! Or a potion! Something? Anything? Please, doctor.'

'There are no cures. We don't have one, and the Muggles don't have one. Cancer is vicious, Mister Malfoy. Once it spreads, he could have only weeks.'

'You can't let him leave me!'

'I am sorry…'

…

…

Harry James Potter

I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble usually finds me.

July 31, 1980 – November 14, 2003

Draco stood as still as a statue. The freshly-dug earth was now frozen, but it wasn't covered in snow. It was covered in flowers - bunches and bouquets and garlands – and cards and the tears of hundreds. It had been a large funeral. Draco had hidden at the back, unable to hold himself together.

Now it was just himself, he could come within twenty feet of the black marble headstone. He smiled at the epitaph. It made it a little easier to breathe – for a few seconds. And then he hit the floor.

'I can't believe you're gone. I can't believe you left me here. I need you. I.. I can't do this without you. Please, come back. You can't have gone. You killed V-Voldemort, you can't leave me! You should be invincible! You… I… We should have grown up together, just you and me, like we talked about. It was going to be just us, remember? In a little house by the sea, away from Lucius and away from your horrible Muggle relatives, away from the memories of the war and away from all our mistakes.

'I'll see you soon. I'll be with you again sooner than you know; there's nothing here for me anymore. You're all I needed after Mother died. And now you're gone too, and there's nothing to keep me here. I love you. I do. I really, really, fucking do. I love you.'

He stood up then, fighting the tears, and put his hand on the freezing marble.

Here comes alone again, he thought. I'll be with you soon.

Someday we might find
Some sacred place in time
But until then all we'll share
Are dreams we've left behind
'Cause everything's broken
Everything's vacant
Everything's wasted time again

-Wasted Time – Fuel

Just a short fic I came up with about an hour ago. I was listening to Wasted Time and started writing and this is what happened. I haven't read it through, so if it's shit, I apologize. I hope you like it – I haven't posted anything in a while.

ChaseAwayMyFears