You know everyone is looking at you with compassion. Pity is the word they use when they don't bother to try to make their words sound nice. It's Saturday afternoon – or is it Sunday? You don't care, you have no reason to do so. You're lucky for knowing that it's still weekend and that all the old ladies who pass by and look at the glass of whiskey in your hand just sigh despondent, watching you throw your life away.

They don't know that you have nothing to lose, that's why you don't care.

You should not be here. It's a muggle's area, full of people that you once believed that were no more then inferior creatures, second class citizens – or even worse than that when you thought that even house-elves had their use and they were not even considered creatures of any importance and…

You don't want to think about house-elves.

You don't want to think about anything that may bring memories from your years at school. You don't want to think about the incredible future that your mother guaranteed that you'd have in every smile, you don't want to think about what you are and what you represent. That is the reason why you got into this shitty bar in this shitty neighborhood in London. Because all you want is to forget.

You are drinking the third glass – it can also be the fourth, who knows? You honestly don't give a damn about it: you have not been giving a damn about anything for a while. On Monday you'll be perfectly shaved wearing some extremely expensive suit made only for you, smiling and making more gold get into your Gringotts vault. You'll shake some hands, laugh a few times and make business. But today is not Monday – it's the weekend. And on weekends you allow yourself to stop pretending and behave how you really feel: you are miserable, drinking while hoping it can function as an obliviate and wipe off all those feelings.

At the beginning of it you tried. You tried really hard, you keep repeating to yourself. You went to all those parties in the high society, danced with some of the prettiest ladies available and always had someone next to you in bed next morning. You knew that what happened was unavoidable: you had her falling at your feet, begging you to come back and you just ignored her. You could do better than that. It was obvious that Draco Malfoy could get the best and did not need to settle down for that girl with bushy brown hair whose hand was constantly dirty because of the ink used while she wrote all those things on parchment.

You had her. You stole her kisses in empty halls, had her affection and slept in her bed. You had her smiles on graduation, many notes codified sent by owl, a portkey to that weekend in Paris. But this was not you: you were not the guy who believed in "being exclusive". You didn't do serious relationship: you are a fucking Malfoy, remember that? You bragged to your friends about that witch desperate for your affection, sending you a lot of letters and being responsible for some of those hickeys even though you never exactly said who was this witch.

There was a moment when she decided to take a step further. That was when you gave two steps back and she fell straight into the abyss. You were not there to hold her and to be honest you never were. You broke up and spent a few weeks apart until she came to you and asked for you to try again. She cried. She knocked on your door late at night to ask for a second chance. She even sent you a box of those goddamned sweets she knew you loved. She went to that stupid ball and her smile could light up the world when she came talk to you. She did not had that smile after she heard you saying to fuck off and understand once that you were not what she wanted. You had made no promises and did not want her to stay around you like a fucking vulture.

You didn't think she'd leave you running and never looked back. You didn't think that she may have come all the way after you but that there's a limit for everything and you crossed the line when her pride and self-preservation became more important than you. You were not imagining that a few months later she would be on the cover of that fucking Daily Prophet with that bloody Weasley laughing like he was not that piece of shit he is. You were not imagining that you would have to live in a world where year after year you'd receive that bloody newspaper in the morning where those bloody journalists made sure to have a new picture of her with that dickhead. You didn't think you would see pictures of her babies and how much they looked like that bastard. You didn't think she could be happy with that bloody ginger and two kids while you were condemned to a shitty marriage with a woman that hated you with the same intensity you hated her. You did not think that you'd played the part and had a baby to make it look authentic or even only appropriated.

You could not imagine that almost two decades later you'd meet her leaving her kids on Platform 9 ¾ and waving them goodbye while they got into Hogwarts Express nor that she would smile to him while you knew you could have been the one. You didn't notice that you are an asshole unable to see what was obvious.

The last swig goes all the way down your throat, bitter like the recent discovery.

"I love her".

N/A: English is not um mother language so I'm sorry in advance for any mistakes. If you spot those, please let me know so I can fix it.

This fanfiction was originally written in Portuguese in a Monday night when I got in a blue mood out of nowhere and decided to embrace it, with help of my ITunes who decided to play "Let Her Go" on the shuffle mode so I could have this idea out of nowhere.

Thanks to Marcela who helped me to figure out a few things and made some adjustments so I could be kinda happy with the final result of this drabble – at least made me happier than the original text had.

Thanks to you for reading it. Feel free to make my day and write me a review – I would appreciate any comments in order to be able to improve my writing. See you soon!