The Blower's Daughter
Fall blew in with a bitter cold, and rush of crackled sienna leaves. The rain poured like melted honey, sheets of liquid falling from the sky. At night, Harry stood under his window, watching the lights bounce as the TV played his favorite show; blue, black, red, flashing colors, stills during particularly dramatic scenes. Harry wished nothing more than to be in his apartment with his lover watching their favorite show.
Over and over, he asked himself what kept him from going up, demanding another chance, offering anything in return to be loved a little longer. Draco did love his English breakfast, after all. Harry couldn't imagine him having such a wonderful one, since the day he was forced to leave.
Now Draco sits on Harry's favorite couch, cuddling with a buxom blonde that lacked a very particular organ. It made Harry sick. All the promises, the glances over Harry's Pasta Sauce, taught by a friend from Italy, the chocolate and whip cream in bed, meant nothing to Draco, but broke Harry's heart all the same.
Harry introduced so much to Draco. Television, playstation, fair-play... Harry did so much for Draco. He went to all different sources, to learn how to cook a good meal. Draco fell in love with him over Filet Mignon. His Filet Mignon.
Then Draco tossed him aside for a cheap dirty old taco.
Dark had settled in. With the setting of the sun, Harry realized, so had his pain and torment from Draco. It was only food, after all to him.
It was a good thing too; as soon as Harry smiled in the dark, for the last time, tasting tears shed for Draco, Ron Apparated beside him.
"Mate?" he asked questioningly. He wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder, "Let's go home, yeah?'
Harry looked over at Ron and smiled for the first time in days. "Yeah."
I can't take my mind off of you... until I find somebody new