So just like that you're fucking dead and gone
You can only wear a crown of thorns for so long
We built an empire and you took the throne
But you built it from bayonets and sat there alone
I hope your queen was worth it
xXx
Nothing but a blacklist
With friends like you,
There's no need for enemies
With friends like you,
There's no need for anything
xXx
You're on my blacklist and there's nothing left to say
—Blacklist
Draco hadn't drank in a long time. Days, months, years—they all blended together—, but it felt like an age, and he knew, certainly, that the time since he last had partaken lay somewhere in the distant past. He wasn't sure, either, how long he'd been sitting in the dark, how much time had passed since she'd left him alone to this torrential swirling of emotion. But now he rose, striding determinedly across the plush carpet, filled with a resolve born of frigid fire. His hand shook ever so slightly—the fury or the nerves, he couldn't say—as he reached for the bottle in the dark liquor cabinet. He stared at the liquid, hypnotized, as it flowed smoothly into the tumbler and then he threw it back furiously, savouring the burn that rent his throat, then his chest, finally resting in his stomach alongside his violent anger.
He poured himself another. Seething. The rage burned just beneath the surface so that he couldn't feel the heat from the fire upon his face, nor the cool of the glass in his palm. It surged over his skin again and again, a growl escaping from low in his throat. He was pathetic. His grip tightened. She was pathetic.
"Filthy whore." Coming back again and again. "Stupid fucking bitch." Gone.
Another glass. And another. And another. And then, somehow, a crash, and the glass was scattered through the fire, its broken shards reflecting the hot tongues of flame in their erotic and flickering dance. He screamed his rage into the darkness, the heat pouring through his veins and wreathing his heart in a painful blaze of hatred and self-loathing and revulsion.
"What did I do to you?" he whispered raggedly, leaning into the wall. He stood, silent, his mind rushing. He was beyond forgiveness. He was a monster. He'd broken her. He— He was broken, too. And he could feel the slivers, of what once was a heart of ice, stabbing through his chest, the pain ripping the rest of his body to shreds. "What did you fucking do to me?" he roared.
Splinters rained over the carpet as the nearby chair shattered against the wall. Another followed it. The lamp crashed to the floor; the near-empty bottle; the book upon the table, its pages fluttering through the air. Draco's wand lay forgotten in a deep corner of the room as he wrought his rage into a destructive force, tearing to pieces the room in which he stood.
