Prompt: Yellow, write a story taking place during the day.
Warnings: substance abuse (alcohol)
Yellow
I've had enough of dancehalls
I've had enough of pills
I've had enough of streetfights
I've seen my share of kills
-The Who
It's three o'clock in the afternoon and Draco Malfoy is on his third gin and tonic at some Muggle bar whose name he can't remember.
He thinks he might be near Manchester, but in the two years since the war his Apparation has been shaky at best and he often miscalculates. He's spent more than a few nights on the streets and woken up more than a few mornings in unfamiliar cities with an all-too-familiar hangover.
His parents are worried about him, he's heard from the few acquaintances he's run into on his escapades. But his parents are trying to lie low and rebuild the family reputation, as though a renewed interest in philanthropy and his mother's insistence not to be listed as next-of-kin in Bellatrix Lestrange's obituary would lead the rest of the world to forget their part in everything.
Draco, for his part, had made the effort to search for a respectable job; something entry-level in the ministry, perhaps, or managing accounts for a shop somewhere. Over time, he'd broadened the search to include even menial labor: working as a cashier for any of the shops that lined Diagon Alley, bartending for Madame Rosmerta…
No one was looking to hire him, to be connected in the slightest with the name Malfoy.
It was true that he didn't have to work; his family was sitting comfortably on a sizeable inheritance. His own parents had never worked a day in their lives, save for his father's involvement in various boards of overseers.
But since the war, sitting around in Malfoy Manor all day was its own special form of torture. Potter may have convinced the Ministry against sending his family to Azkaban, but teams of aurors patrolled the Manor regularly, inspecting for any clue that the Malfoy family might still be involved with the Death Eaters, even after the Dark Lord's demise.
And so Draco has taken to spending his days at pubs – always a different town, and always a Muggle bar, since he doesn't want to meet anyone who would recognize him on sight (blonde hair and grey eyes and an aristocratic nose are bad for that) – and drinking to make it easier to wallow in his self-pity.
His hair has grown out past his ears and he hasn't shaved in ages, so he's sure he looks like any other drunk, the only difference being his age. Draco is sure that the Muggle clothes he's wearing aren't in fashion, but the alcohol swimming in his brain keeps him from caring.
He knocks back the rest of his drink and slams the empty glass down against the counter. The bartender – a girl with dyed pink hair and a ring through her eyebrow – glances at him.
"I'll have another."
"You sure about that, mate?" she asks, looking him up and down and probably coming to the conclusion that he's an utterly pathetic human being.
He nods at her, handing over a pile of Muggle money – he has no clue how much; he never did learn the value of pounds and pence – and blinks around at the nearly empty bar around him.
The bartender shakes her head in disapproval, but pours him another drink anyway.
"Take your time on this one, y'hear me?" she asks as she sets it down in front of him. "Don't make me have to cut you off before the sun even goes down."
Draco glares at her, taking the drink and praying that maybe with this one he can wash away the guilt and sorrow. In another universe, he'd be sober and clean-shaven and able to flirt with this bartender and go home to a not-completely-dysfunctional family and get up in the morning for work.
But that's not the kind of person he is.
The bartender's judgmental gaze tells him all he needs to know.
It's three o'clock in the afternoon and Draco Malfoy is on his fourth gin and tonic at some Muggle bar whose name he can't remember.
I'm finished with the fashions
And acting like I'm tough
I'm bored with hate and passion
I've had enough of trying to love
