You talk about life, you talk about death,
And everything in between,
Like it's nothing, and the words are easy.
You talk about me, and you talk about you,
And everything I do,
Like it's something, that needs repeating.

It's a warm spring's day when he tells her. She hasn't seen him for months. He hasn't written for months. Just invited her over to the Manor, out of the blue. She is surprised. Pleasantly? She is not so sure. It has been four years since the war. Four years since appearances mattered and who you were with was everything. She feels oddly confused, and a little disconcerted at his invitation. She was just getting used to life without him. She was starting to like it.

I don't need an alibi or for you to realize,
The things we left unsaid,
Are only taking space up in our head.
Make it my fault, win the game
Point the finger, place the blame
It does me up and down,
It doesn't matter now.

She hasn't been over to the Manor in ages. What she remembers is grandeur, a tasteful, smug elegance. What she sees is entirely different; a bare cage for broken butterflies. She guessed the war had taken more than money from this family. She thanked all that was above her that her family hadn't been that involved. She thanked Merlin and God that she hadn't been broken like he was. It had seemed cowardly, at the time, to run away, but she knew now that it was the best decision.

'Cause I don't care if I ever talk to you again.
This is not about emotion,
I don't need a reason not to care what you say,
Or what happened in the end.
This is my interpretation,
And it don't, don't make sense.

He hasn't changed much in four years. There are still bags beneath his eyes, his hair is still white-blond and slicked back neatly, his irises are steely grey. But the warmth that used to exist inside them has long since faded, replaced by something new. It is alien to her. And yet there is a sort of life in them that seemed to have been lost last time she saw him. She wonders why he called her there.

The first two weeks turn into ten,
I hold my breath and wonder when it'll happen,
Does it really matter?
If half of what you said is true,
And half of what I didn't do could be different,
Would it make it better?

He says her name, and it feels strange when her heart does not leap. It has not leapt at the thought of him for a long while, and this thought is pleasing to her, and perhaps a 

little sad. She is no longer attracted to this man, a shell of what he used to be. This is a strange revelation and she revels in it for a few seconds. She had been certain for so long that she loved him, and yet, now she knows she does not. She might have done, at some point, but not now. Not this broken man she sees before her. Maybe, she thinks, perchance absence makes the flames of love flicker out? Or, maybe she never quite realised what love was.

If we forget the things we know.
Would we have somewhere to go?
The only way is down, I can see that now.

He tells her his news, and, to her surprise, it does not hurt. There is no resounding pang of deep pain that echoes in her heart. She congratulates him, and means it, despite the fact that she had once longed to be in the woman's place. Back when appearances mattered and he was cute, pureblood and rich, he was perfect. Back when she didn't realise his flaws extended further than being a snobby ladies' man.

'Cause I don't care if I ever talk to you again.
This is not about emotion,
I don't need a reason not to care what you say,
Or what happened in the end.
This is my interpretation,
And it don't, don't make sense.

And she tells him, truthfully, that she needs to leave, and he bids her farewell. He seems strangely awkward, but she feels nothing unordinary. In fact, she feels almost peaceful. As if the knot in her stomach had finally loosened. And it was weird. And it made no sense. But it was good. She was going to meet a childhood friend of hers at a coffee shop afterwards. She remembers with a smile how they always used to talk of boys, especially him, and her mouth turns up at the corners as she realises that they haven't talked of him at all recently. She had moved on. And it was good.

It's really not such a sacrifice
'Cause I don't care if I ever talk to you again.
This is not about emotion,
I don't need a reason not to care what you say,
Or what happened in the end.
This is my interpretation,
And it don't, don't make sense.

Her fingers touched the doorknob and he called her name. For a fleeting second, she imagined him begging her not to leave, holding her in his arms and kissing her tenderly...then it was gone. He stepped a little closer and she raised her head, daring him to break down all the barriers that she had built, daring him to rekindle the dancing flame that she had once held in her heart for him. Because it was the way of the world, because it was bloody unfair. Because she had moved on now and she didn't want to know.

"Pansy."



"Yes, Draco?"

He paused. She can't read the emotion in his eyes.

"I never loved you. You know that."

"I know that, Draco."

And it didn't hurt. It didn't hurt at all. Because she didn't care for him, she didn't care what he said or what he wanted or what he felt. Because she was free.

He stared at her in what seemed to be surprise. After years of enduring hissy fits and hysterical sobbing, he seemed to have been expecting her to beg him to take her back.

She opened the door and left.

And it don't have to make no sense to you at all,
'Cause this is my interpretation, yeah, yeah, yeah.