With a loud smack, followed by a shower of soft clinks, a glass flew against the wall and broke into thousands of tiny shards. It would have been a rather beautiful sight, if it wasn't for the ugly, brownish remains of Jack Daniel's whiskey, mixed with cold instant coffee that were now slowly dancing down the plain white walls, until they too dropped onto the dirty carpet.

A big stash of random gossip magazines was sitting on the worn-down kitchen table in Harry Potter's small studio flat. All of them had one thing in common: Draco Malfoy's death was on the front page.
The only reason why he had spent money on that bullshit was that he knew his deceased friend would have had a the time of his life, laughing at the weird stories those tabloids made up about him.
He couldn't help the small chuckle, that escaped his chapped lips. The attention, the wild rumours, the capitalised headlines, Draco would have adored it.

Heavy feet got off the worn down couch and shuffled to the small kitchenette, where the drinking stash was being kept. His intoxicated brain and slurred body control made it much harder to step around the little shards than it should have been. He sighed. At one point he would have had to clean up this mess. As yet, a total of four smashed glasses graced various parts of the small room.

Another drink was poured, vodka this time. It was only around two o'clock in the afternoon, but Harry had long ago decided this didn't matter today. Nor did it the day before, the day before that, and neither would it tomorrow. He messed his already unruly locks further and pulled at a few strands at the back, a nervous habit. His most trusted confidant, best friend and the only person who truly understood him and accepted him for the person he was, was gone and wouldn't come back, no matter which voodoo cult he tried to approach. Worst of all, he failed to see the reason why Draco had taken his own life.
He had always been certain, that their trust and friendship was a mutual one, yet he didn't know anything about Draco's inner demons. The Draco he knew always wore a happy smile on his lips and had that sparkle in his eyes that surely could not have been faked. It was emhis/em job to be the miserable one, the one who would need constant cheering up and encouragement. And Draco was supposed to be the one always believing in him when he failed to do so himself.

Another sigh and Harry bit his lower lip, a stupid habit that he seemed to have developed over the last few days. He bit too hard and felt the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Clearly a sign that he needed more Vodka. Ever since he heard of his best friends death, from the television nevertheless, the world had stopped moving. Like the poor chap from the 'Groundhog Day' film, he felt like waking up to the same day over and over again: Passing out from too much Vodka; waking up to the television disturbing his current nightmare; pictures of Draco in the headlines; more Vodka; a pack crisps here and there; talk himself to get off the couch and to the bathroom, take a shit and repeat the circle all over. Random nightly sessions with his guitar, whenever he could not sleep.

A passionate musician from childhood on, Harry always found solitude in playing one of his beloved instruments. For a few days now, he was busy pouring confusing emotions into a song for his friend, whom he still couldn't believe that he'd never see again.

Draco aside, ignorance had always been his other best friend.

He shook his heavy head again. Another glass flew against the abused wall. He really should stop drinking. Blindly, he reached for pen and paper as a stroke of enlightenment hit him heavy in the head, though it might have really been the alcohol. The enlightenment was a rather short one however. Four words were scribbled down on the patient paper in front of him. Cow-pats in the rain. It was an incredible title for his song, but he was lacking ideas for all other lyrics. Again, Harry threw all former promises over board and moved back to his beloved kitchen cupboard.

The next glass of Vodka was drowned, though it might have been gin or whiskey. They all started to taste alike after a while. Harry then fought his way through a jungle empty pizza boxes, dirty laundry and some other mess here and there. Right beside his queen sized bed, was his semi-neat pile of treasure. Here, he kept his music sheets, Luna, his violin, a harmonica named Bellatrix and his guitar, Lily, amongst recording equipment and Mozart's 5th Symphony in C Minor on LP.

He reached for his guitar and tuned the instrument, the melody for Draco's song already in his head. It was going to be a slow, bluesy number with scratchy, raw guitar riffs and a very long and loud chorus. The chorus was the most important part of a song - according to Draco. The longer and louder, the better.

Harry couldn't help the brief smile, that was washing over his face. Draco was possibly the most tone deaf person on the planet and could not really tell a good song from some random radio only the lyrics would call to him.

For the next few days, Harry drunk some more, then wrote some more, just to start the same routine all over again. Filled with the desire to find all the right words to put into his composition, he blended everything else completely out of his life. And it felt good. He didn't want to think about reality. Living inside this little bubble felt good. Perfect.

Only a few days later, Draco's song was finally completed. Harry had pulled two all-nighters to work on the lyrics, that all of a sudden appeared inside his head and demanded to be written down.

Harry was even satisfied with his composition, a beautifully haunting melody with a surprisingly cheery guitar solo, that somehow complimented the piece and made it complete in a way. This was a very rare occurrence. Usually, he didn't like his work and though it rubbish. Therefore, most of his songs ended in the bin, or - if they were deemed to be passable - in a pile on the bottom of his wardrobe, sharing space with a random collection of shoes, underwear and unopened telephone bills. Maybe, he supposed, this was the result of a much needed creativity overflow, causing him to completely forget about time or the life surrounding him. He hadn't paid attention to day or night, a rumbling stomach or a dry throat. He hadn't felt so productive in ages. Quite contrary, keeping focused on his art had been rather hard. Draco always used to blame it on Harry's constantly phlegmatic mood.

The memory of a conversation he had with Draco a while ago in the small, downtrodden pub just across the road, where both of them loved to go for their random Sunday afternoon ramblings came to his mind. Hidden away in a rundown building, slightly crooked with old age, was the usually dimly lit hovel called Three Broomsticks. It was decorated with fading upholstery and carpets, and had an overall flair of mothballs and knitted socks that mainly attracted elderly customers. A pint of Stella for Harry and a Carling for Draco, their usual order was already waiting for them on the table. It was a good place for traditions.

It was the end of a rainy and severely foggy and dull day, which didn't do a lot to improve Harry's already depressed mood. Both of them occupied their standard seats at one of the frail little tables, squeezed between the counter and a small side window, that hid a burned down, scented candle. Just about an hour earlier, he had finished a long, tiring shift at the probably largest and worst Sainsbury's in town: ten dreadful hours of shelf-stocking, dealing with self important, so-called managers with a similar IQ to a pig that failed sty college twice, and even more horrible customers. This was definitely not how he had pictured his life to turn out. "My parents had always wanted me to have a proper academic education. Always kept on telling me to become a lawyer, a doctor, a banker or something else that comes with a pine-stripe suit. They never understood that this wasn't me." He stopped his ranting for a moment to take another sip of his pint. "I remember the day that I received my acceptance letter from Hogwarts school for singers and musicians. Now they would finally accept that music is who I am. And not only that, but that I am good at it. That I really have the talent to archive my dreams of playing the main violin in an orchestra. They had known that this was what I've always wanted." His now shaking hand longed for the pint glass again and within moments, the beverage was drowned in one big gulp, before the young man continued: "Obviously I was wrong. My parents somehow managed to talked me out of it, saying that they wouldn't support me and that a career in music would turn me into a drug addicted layabout. Me, still being a stupid teenager at the time believed them. I nodded my head, like the little idiot I was and send my application to the LSE one week later." He looked at Draco with big, green eyes, a faraway expression on his face and whispered: "I could play concerts right now, fill the Royal Albert Hall, the Barbican Hall. Hell, I could be at the Carnegie Hall in fucking New York City right now. I had all the options in the world!" his voice raised louder, until he shouted the last sentence from the top of his lungs, causing everyone in the pub to stop what they were doing and stare at enraged young man. Other then Harry's shouting, the place was dead quiet. Stupid me listened to my parents and what? Did I get any fancy, precious decrees? Am I the upcoming big-shot lawyer in town? I fucking failed uni, dropped out and what? Instead of filling concert halls with my music, I fill stupid shelves with stupid toilet rolls in a stupid warehouse for stupid eight hours or more a day!" Without realising it, he had rocketed out of his seat. Fuming, angry, his fist raised along with his voice. He was breathing like an ox after a long run up a hill and was wearing the bewildered expression of a guerilla who just realised that someone had stolen his last banana.

Red faced with embarrassment, he sat down again and ended his speech in a more mellow tone: "They ruined my life. They claimed to love me, to know what was best for me, but all they did was to successfully destroy the person I was and to extinguish the person I could have been."

Harry had a small smile on his face as he remembered Draco's surprisingly successful attempts to calm him down. He had been sitting across from him, like always. His face was downcast, but with a small, knowing smile on his lips, because he had heard the same speech over and over again. He had been playing with his empty glass, like always. This time, his fingernails were manicured in a bright green colour. His hair was moulded into an artful shaggy cut.

Harry pulled a face. Draco had used to change his hairstyle more frequently than other people would do their grocery shopping.

As soon as Harry finished his rant and everyone else continued to mind their own business again, Draco took his customary, dramatically deep breath and put his smaller hand on top of Harry's. "You know, I'm actually quite happy that you work in that stupid warehouse, because otherwise I would have never met you," he smiled genuinely. It was lighting up his entire face. "Also, you wouldn't be the person that you are now, and I like you very much just the way you are." He squeezed Harry's hand for a moment. "Maybe you would be a sophisticated, world travelling musician by now with a tight schedule, that spreads all over the world, but you wouldn't be you, you know. And what music would you play? Mozart? Tschaikovsky? Pieces written by certainly brilliant, well known and admired people who had a story to tell that people still enjoy listening to nowadays. Think about it. Whom would people remember after leaving one of your concerts? Would they go like 'Oh, I've just listened to the most amazing Harry Potter,' or would they be more inclined to rave about someone who's now a 200 year old corpse?"

Harry had to roll his eyes at that comment. No one was allowed to disgrace Mozart in his presence. Ever! Draco obviously knew that, but shrugged his shoulders. "You might not be famous, nor an orchestra player, but you have life experience, had so many odd jobs, met so many different people and have your own story to tell, and, if it is in your destiny to become famous one day, you would be remembered for who you really are and not as a violin playing robot."

Harry glanced out of his window with a faraway look in his eyes and a freshly lit up cigarette between his lips. It wasn't what Draco told him that always made him feel better, but the genuine care behind those words. Draco had always been someone who saw the best in things, something he truly envied. Well... learned to envy. Draco and him didn't hit off all too well when they first met.

Draco had been the force of nature, that hit him smack in the middle of a dull working day, filled with boring shelves to stock, when his supervisor approached him with this new employee in tow. The bright orange shirt all employees were required to wear was at least two sizes to big, and almost completely swallowed the short shorts he was wearing. his bare legs were too skinny and too white, his knees too wobbly, and a bright pink unicorn tattoo decorated most of his left thigh. "That's a very pink tattoo," Harry had stammered awkwardly in odd resemblance of a greeting. His social skills had always varied from a bit awkward to non-existent. Mr Snape, the supervisor had rolled his eyes at the odd display of oral skill and introduced them to another. Then he assigned Harry the task of training the newbie. Draco had just just grinned, shrugged his shoulders and offered that he had even pinker tattoos in pinker places and winked at his obviously very embarrassed colleague.

After inaugurating Draco into the secrets of shelf-stocking, Harry got back to the section he was working on before getting interrupted. Even more miserable then before, he continued to thunk stupid sanitary pads into their assigned spots and involuntarily listened to random conversations he didn't understand. He hated his live, his dull job, his stupid colleagues, whom mostly could not even hold a simple conversation in English and chatted in random 'foreign' to another. Harry assumed that the lot of them probably stopped attending school at the age of ten or so to start a career in labour work. The voice in his head, that always kind of sounded like his old 10th form sociology teacher Mr Dumbledore, kept on nagging him to admit, that the newest edition to the team looked rather cute and did not actually sound as stupid as some other mutants that somehow managed to find employment there. 'Maybe,' he thought, having Draco here will be a good thing. He would be another outsider just like him. Perhaps, they could work towards some kind of mutually miserable commeradice.

This was the only positive thought he had had during that day, and it was brutally smashed into pieces just a mere moment later.

A very off-key version of an old Van Morrison tune, jerked him out of his short lived happy cloud. Not only did the new colleague successfully slaughter one of his all time favourite songs, he also seemed to enjoy the work he was doing and this was absolutely outrageous! He was certain this went against more than just one unwritten work codex! None of the shelf stockers in the stupid warehouse was supposed to actually enjoy their work! Ever!

And it should get worse.

Another one of Harry's favourite songs got slaughtered next and a third one followed after! Not only that, but even more song followed the day after and throughout the entire week. That philistine seemed to have memorised the entire Van Morrison Greatest Hits Collection and decided to punish him, day by day, for his mere existence in crying them in his saw-like, off-key voice and often mispronounced lyrics until the songs were almost unrecognisable.

What made it worse was that more and more of their colleagues joined in and the nightly shelf stocking became a funny little singing session!They all had fun at work and the blonde devil started it!

Oh, how Harry had hated Draco from the beginning. He was a demon send straight from hell into real life to make his life a living nightmare.

"Why don't you like happy people?" Draco approached him one day and asked, but then walked away before Harry could open his mouth to answer. Somehow that question got stuck in his stupid head and left him pondering over the words for the rest of his shift.

Why didn't he like happy people?

Because he wasn't? Well, how could anyone be happy, being stuck in a life like this? His traitorous eyes and ears shifted over the hall, where the chatter and singing still went on. 'Well', the just as traitorous, little Mr Dumbledore-alike voice in his head provided: 'It seems that apart from yourself, everyone can'. So why was he so miserable?

"You can't let go," Draco told him the next day and - again - left him to mull over his words. What did he mean? He did not even know him! Did he enjoy playing those stupid mind games with him? Moodily, Harry continued to stock the same goddamn shelf he was working on for forever. He then noticed that he had put the female hygiene products into the shaving supplies section and the shaving supplies onto the stationary shelf. Cussing life in general, he was just about to start the task all over, in a mood much worse than before, when Mr Snape, decided to hop along, right in time to tell him off for his well practised interpretation of a snail in real time.

Harry almost stabbed him with a super-sized tampon that had fallen out of one of the boxes.

When break time finally and graciously approached, he ran out of the building with super-human speed to light up a cigarette in an hopeless attempt to calm his overheating nerves. Dare that evil blonde and his bottomless cheerfulness!

Too late he realised that he wasn't the only person with a nicotine addiction currently on break. Clad in his oversized work shirt, the tiny shorts and the obligatory, ugly Ugg boots, Draco sat cross-legged in the middle of the cold sidewalk, smoking a roll-up and humming yet another mangled Van Morrison song to himself. "This is good for you, you know," he remarked randomly as soon as he noticed Harry's presence behind him. Harry looked from his cigarette to Draco's, then back and looked at him with an obvious you-are-a-complete-nut-case expression written all over his face. "I'm not talking about smoking, you self diagnosed dunderhead! I'm talking about being angry, allowing yourself to let go of those emotions that have been stuck inside of you for way too long," Draco explained and nodded to himself. "I've studied psychology for a while, until I decided that this wasn't what I wanted to do for the rest of my life and quit." He shrugged his shoulders, and put his nose up in the air, probably expecting some respect for that achievement.

"But it didn't stop you from looking for your very own charity case!" Harry growled. "Go, look for someone else to fill that position, I'm not interested!" With that, he flicked his cigarette at Draco's knee and left without apologising. It was a mere coincidence anyway. His aim was too bad to actually plan that attack. Not that he would ever admit that though.

A moment later, he stopped, scratched his head and turned around. Damn his stupid curiosity. "Just by the way, what am I supposed to let go?" He knew that he would dwell on this for the rest of his shift otherwise. Draco shrugged: "Whatever it is that went wrong in your life."

"What the heck are you on about?" Harry's interest was captivated now and he sat down next to the intriguing blonde. "You just kinda look like a diabetic child with the biggest bowl of delicious ice-cream, chocolate sauce and whipped cream in the world in front of them. The child throws a tantrum, is upset, then miserable and pouty and fails to realise that a completely sugar-free replica of said ice-cream bowl is available if they only ask for it." he looked at Harry with his big, gray-blue eyes. "You're just like my father in that sense, but he's a hopeless case." Draco threw his cigarette butt on the road and got up. "Get a nice hobby, play music for example." Draco skipped back into the warehouse, a smirk decorating his face, just as if he had known that this was the very root of Harry's misery.

Harry starred after him and slowly started shaking his head in bewilderment.

Now, sitting on his sofa with the completed song in his hands, this was one of the favourite memories he had of Draco. His perceptiveness and brazenness had always managed to free him from the smallest and most miserable holes that he constantly dug for himself. It was Draco, who bought him Lily, his beloved guitar. He did no longer remember what her exact words were, but it was something amongst the lines of: "When classic music fails you, try becoming a rock-star instead.

And for the first time in ages, Harry felt content.