Drinks, Draco, and Morbid Musings
Disclaimer: Quite obviously, I'm not the author of the Harry Potter books. I am but a poor, struggling writer, typing out some words on a much abused keyboard and then posting the end result on this website. Unless you catch me on a weekend. Then I'm a clown.
I'm sick of this shit. I'm sick of this life, these people and this world. They all laugh like nothing's happened, but I know that everything has. Nothing will ever be the same again, and they can laugh all they like—but I know the truth. The truth is; people have died. The dead are a constant companion, and the guilt they bring never truly goes away. I can see their faces, I can see their names. I can see their graves. Was it worth it? Was all of that loss really worth it? The blood spilt... the blood. Lots of that. Pure-blood, half-blood, mud-blood. There's no fucking difference any more. We all look the same, people. Skin and bones and shit, that's what we are. We are thoughts, too, though these days I prefer drinking over thinking. That's why I'm sitting in this mouldy muggle pub, downing vodkas and cokes like I'll never see another drink again. If Harry and Ron have their way, I probably never will. So it's for the best, I tell myself, to go for it and let myself get completely bladdered. Pissed, I promise myself, is going to take on a new meaning tonight.
Now, if I see something I like—and I suspect I probably will, because everyone looks the same to me when I'm browsing for lonesome tossers—I won't be going home alone tonight. I never go home alone, because going home on your own stops the party. Why stop the party, when you could take home a loser and drink some more? And once you're both far too drunk to care, that's when you know you're safe to make your move on the asshole drinking your rum and staring at your chest like it holds the answers to all of life's questions. That's when it's best to go for it and kiss your one night stand. It all goes fairly quickly from there, of course. From experience, the sleaze you've taken home with you doesn't deserve your bed, so fuck him on the couch. Make sure he's really, really drunk if he's a muggle. That way you can cast spells and he'll be seeing so many stars he won't notice a thing. By now, the Ministry knows what I like to do, so they don't freak out when I perform magic in front of muggles. My kind of muggle's a drunken muggle.
Tonight's muggle looks half decent, I think. Blonde hair and he smells like he's had a wash recently. He tries to give me a name and buy me another drink, but I don't want his name or his drink, so I grab him by his hand and drag him out of the pub. I live two roads away from here, so it'll be quicker than attempting to find out where he lives. Besides, if we go to his place we'll probably end up in his bed, and I don't deserve that. It's better to retreat to my couch, where I can forget for a few moments how shitty life is, and I can go to sleep with this man's performance replaying in my head instead of a Quidditch match, or a nightmare about Voldemort the bloody bastard. What a wanker. He wasn't content to just be miserable on his own; he had to drag us all down with him. I know misery loves company, but that selfish hypocrite didn't have to make me that company. He made all my friends company, too. But somehow, Harry and Ron, the saintly Gryffindor saviours, managed to regain some dregs of happiness at the end of all of this. I know I'll never be happy again.
"Where're we going, beautiful?" I look up at my company for tonight, and somehow his words manage to arrange themselves into some understandable order. There's logic to this question. He wants to know where we're going. What should I tell him? "My place." would do it. "Somewhere we can get more sloshed." makes sense too. I settle for the former, and that seems to sit well with him.
"What's your name?" I look up at him again with some annoyance. I never tell anyone my real name. It's my rule—I don't want intentional repeats, and I don't want a bloody relationship. I don't do feelings with guys. Not in that way, in any case. If I want to talk about my emotions, I'll go to Ginny.
"Hannah," I say eventually. It's not that far from the truth, really. They both begin with an 'H' don't they?
"I'm Draco," he tells me with what's supposed to be a charming smile. It makes my skin crawl, if I'm being perfectly honest. "I tried to tell you earlier, but you didn't really let me..." He continues. Did he never stop to think that maybe—just maybe—I didn't actually want to know his name? What's the point of going on a pub crawl in search of good booze and an easy shag, when the guy you pick up has manners and is acting like a sissy boy taking a virgin out on her first date? There's no bloody point. I've changed my mind. This boy (I'm quite hesitant to even call him a boy, as he hardly seems like a male at all) isn't worth so much as my couch, either. He's worth so much more than that. That's why I can't have sex with this innocent bystander. He is far, far too innocent for a girl like me.
"I—I'm sorry, but I have to go..." I say, before running away from him. Running's what I do best, and I'm running towards another bottle of vodka and another pint of tears tonight. There's no use in trying to forget, because now all I can think about is that boy and how innocent he is, and how, once upon a time, I used to be as innocent as that. But that once upon a time happened a long time ago, and in a mental state from far, far away.
A/N: Enjoyable to write, but was it enjoyable to read? Let me know in a review please! I may continue this, if you want me to.