Discalimer: I don't own Harry Potter, story and characters belong to J.K Rowling. And I don't own Good Life either, sung by Francis Dunnery (don't ask me who wrote it ;-), all credits go to them.

Author's note: Hello again. It's been a while, I know, I haven't really been up to writing down all the ideas running around my head. But now I did, at one in the morning when I couldn't sleep, and I think it turned our pretty well, not to say very well.
It's un-beta:ed, so all the grammar fault are entirely my own.
Have a nice read!

Softly now, you owe it to the world
And everyone knows that you're my favourite girl
But there's some things in life that are not meant to be
I'm not meant for you and you're not meant for me
Here's to our problems and here's to our fights
Here's to our achings and here's to you having a good life
From me
(Good life)

When I told you, the reaction was worse than I'd expected. At first you didn't react at all, but then all the walls broke down and you started yelling, screaming, crying, everything at once, in a very un-Hermione-like manner, but in a way that fitted our relationship perfectly.

I let you have your way. I let you yell at me, accusing me of Merlin-knows-what, calling me the worst kinds of names. I just stood there and waited until you didn't have anything more to say, no more air in your lungs, no more thoughts in you pretty little head but the loss. And then I picked you up and laid you down on my bed, where you curled up into a tiny ball, shaking from the force of you sobs. I stroke you hair and whispered soothing words, clichés, yes, but words that were oh, so true. "We don't belong together, you know that." "You are still the most brilliant, beautiful and lovely girl I've ever met, and you'll always be my special girl."

Thankfully you calmed down enough for the party that evening. Perhaps you'd realized that I was right, or perhaps it was that fire inside you that had always kept you going, no matter how bad things were. Whatever it was, you were well enough to appear, to smile, to pretend like nothing had happened. To listen to my speech and to rise a toast for love, with its problems, aching and fights.

Softer now, you owe it to yourself
And don't think that you will be left on the shelf
'Cause there's someone for you and there's someone for me
Like me you'll meet them eventually
Here's to your lover and here's to my wife
Here's to your children and here's to you having a good life
From me
(Good life)

I kept an eye on you during the years to follow. I think I became your sanctuary, your shelter from the storm. I think you needed me. No, I know you needed me. Perhaps a little too much.

Many a time you would lay on my bed, curled up into that tiny, sobbing ball and beg me not to leave you like everyone else always seemed to do. And I would assure you that no, I wouldn't. Someday, I'd tell you, you'll find the love of your life too, just like I have. And you'll get married too. And you'd nod, which would only show through the movement of your hair. And then you'd sit up, dry your eyes with the handkerchief I'd hand you, and then you'd thank me and leave.

Later on your nightly visits became less frequent. You found love, had children, lost that love, and somehow that fire inside you kept you going, kept you coming to those parties you knew you had to go to, sometimes with a new love close by. And you kept smiling, kept toasting for love, life, families and happiness.

Louder now, you've lost all your pain
You're married with children and happy again
But now I'm regretting the moves that I made
Fatal mistakes are to easily made
Enough of my problems, they only cause fights
Forget that I rang you and promise you'll have such a beautifully happy and painlessly romantic good life
From me

Then one night it was my turn to find you. You'd long since stopped appearing on my doorstep in the middle of the night, finally settling down with someone who was nearly perfect, since nothing in your life, except your children, could ever be entirely perfect.

I'd gone to the phone booth in the street outside my apartment, not having a phone of my own. I'd dialled the number you'd written down on an old paper napkin for me, and I'd barely heard the sound inside the receiver above the loud beating of my heart and the raindrops falling against the windows.

And then you'd answered, with his name, and in a voice so full of silent, calm and content happiness that I'd almost hung up.

After the usual pleasantries you'd asked that fatal question: "So, how are you, Draco?" And the words came pouring out before I could stop myself. My boring, frigid wife. The divorce. The dull, boring life of a middle-aged post-divorce man. And, above all, my regret, my longing for you.

I'd heard you draw a sharp breath, but before you'd been able to even think of an answer, I'd come to my senses. I'd apologized for bothering you, for calling so late, for saying inappropriate things. And then I'd wished you a happy life, asked you to promise me that there would be none of the pain that had overdosed your life in the past, but plenty of the love you had so desperately wished for. And then I'd finally hung up.

oOoOo

I stood in the street outside the phone booth for a long time; my neck bent back, my hands in my pockets. I'd let the raindrops fall on my face, soaking me right through my coat, cooling my skin. Mingling with the tears running down my cheeks.

Good life

The End

Author's note: Like it? Review! Hate it? Review anyway. Those are the ruels, live with it ;-)