This is my first story in a while... This is AU, obviously, not quite sure where it's going to end up. It won't be fluffy, I don't like that anyway & there might be some smut. It'll end up being short probably, too. Hope you all enjoy this & please review! If no one does then I'm just going to assume no one is reading it... P.S. listen to the song, too, good times gonna come by Aqualung, because I listened to it a lot while writing this & clearly stole the name.
Summary: Draco Malfoy locked himself up in his family's mansion after the war, ignoring the rest of the wizarding community. But when he starts to reminisce of his past lover, that fiery Weasley, he starts to wonder if he should give reality a second chance.
Disclaimer: I don't own him, but I wish I did.
good times gonna come
Wearily and unsteadily, he managed to peel his eyes open. His head felt constricted and heavy as he tried to lift it to survey his surroundings. The room was littered with random articles of clothing, pieces of parchment, empty bottles and discarded books. He swung his legs over the edge of the king sized bed and forced himself to stand up, crushing a pile of newspapers all from the past month. He looked over to the window, but he could only see a sliver of a grey sky due to the heavy, dark curtains. A shiver came from no where and travelled through his body as he stared at the small glimpse of the real world from where he stood. What time was it? And what day? These little things were a nuisance and insignificant, but he tried to keep up. He grasped the glass bottle on his night stand and dry swallowed two of the little white pills, still staring at the covered window. He let out a breath and threw his head back as he turned to the door. He thrust it open, and the sound echoed throughout the vast, empty hall. It felt like it matched the beating of his heart as he studied the dusty, grey mansion.
It had once been the house where all the parties were held. Anyone who was anyone, or anyone who had ever been accused of being connected to the Dark Lord showed up. He lazily led himself towards the massive staircase that led down to the front room of the house. This place... this place. He didn't have any words to describe the actual appearance. Now that he was bordering twenty, he wondered how he never found his home hostile or eerie as a child. There were many looming statues and portraits of people he didn't know or didn't care about. Sometimes he thought he was a mistake, but then he would correct himself. He was created to carry on the pureblood bloodline. Neither one of his parents were fond of children, but his mother was always a bit more kind and supportive. Every once in a while, he missed her. She was known for her beauty, and that she seemed to become even more so with age. She had even saved his life from Voldemort, bless her poor soul. His father, on the other hand, he had strived for his approval his whole life. And in the end, his father put his own life first rather than his son. He brushed the thought from his brain, because that was years ago. His father was rotting away in Azkaban, dead for all he knew, and his mother had been killed shortly after the war ended. Family had always been the least of his concerns.
He carelessly picked up a pack of cigarettes from one of the end tables in the front room. He tossed them from one hand to the other as he travelled on to the kitchen. The sound of the footsteps bounced all over the massive, vacant room as he sat down at the counter and picked up his old lighter , holding it before his eyes. Brushing his thumb over the front of it, he felt the ridges and bumps of the old words engraved into the metal square. Every man is guilty. Sighing, he lit a cigarette and took a deep breath of the sweet smoke. Less than three years ago, this kitchen had been bustling with house elves ready to serve his every whim, and he abused that advantage. So he set them free. It was a stupid and frivolous thing, but it made him envious that they were freed so easily and he was still chained to the despicable reputation of his parents. He locked himself up in his house after his mother's death. If the real world wasn't going to give him a chance, he wasn't going to give it a chance. He'd rather die alone, anyway. He pushed himself up from the stool and threw the lighter back down on the granite counter as he turned away to return to his room. The little device flipped over onto its other side, revealing the second half of the message. Of all the good he did not do.
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REVIEWWW, please. Sorry.