Vonne: Let's get right to it! :)

Selenehkate: Thank you! I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much as the last ones, as well!

Doni: HAH! I tried to make it only slightly hint that Goyle might feel that way for Pansy, but I'm glad that you caught on!

VoldyismyFather: I felt bad for Goyle, too. :( But in the books I'd always imagined them together, too. HA!

Isabella120: Alright, I will update this today and the next as soon as possible! Thanks for the review. You reminded me! :)

Dramione1996: HA! I titled the last one 'Bliss' as in Ignorance. Ignorance = bliss. HA :)

Mentarisenja: Exactly! Both Goyle and Pansy were wrong in this, even is Draco doesn't see how he's ruining everything on his own. He didn't have to take everyone's advise, and he didn't have to drag Pansy, his family, and Goyle down along with him. Then again, his ignorance is what makes him a bit innocent. Either way, both of them are to blame. Because Goyle's definition of happiness and normality is way far off.

Shining Bright Eyes: I like that, how you put it there-- that Draco's blinded by the pursuit of his own happiness. Very true!

Anavell: Thanks! I'm really glad that you liked it. I hope you like this chapter just as much as the previous one, too! And I'm glad that you had a feeling that Goyle liked Pansy-- I definitely tried to 'hint' at that.

Jade2099: HA! Oh wow, I love that comparison. I didn't even realize that their conversation was a lot like "Moonlighting", but it was pretty similar! Either way, that was a compliment because Bruce Willis' and Sybil Shepherd's relationship in that show was hilarious.

Note: "Up in Blue" taken from the song titled, "Tangled up in Blue". :)

Chapter Twenty One:
Up in Blue

Over and over again, through the restless mind that belonged only to Draco Malfoy, the rhythm of the same sentence pounded repeatedly in his otherwise fuzzy head. "So," his mind asked him, daring and inquisitive, "is that it?"

Was the result of happiness that he'd so desperately strived for where he was currently? Pitched in a rut, walking down the gravel road from his best friend's house in a bitter daze, soaking wet in red wine that was moment by moment ruining his clothing? He tried to piece together where his brilliant plan broke but came up with no successes. Instead, he ran his forearm across his forehead, wiped his face free of the alcohol, and continued in his solemn stagger. What was it that went so blatantly wrong in this equation? Where, exactly, had he made his misstep? He'd been certain that he'd followed the guidelines, the previously set out steps that could have-- should have-- helped him achieve his goal. And yet he'd done nothing more than a completely useless three-sixty. His eyes found the protruding radio in his pant's pocket, glanced down angrily at it, and then turned away decisively.

And so then, why wasn't he starting down the road towards his house? Furthermore, he couldn't seem to tear himself away from the wandering that had led him down the absolutely incorrect detour. He kept his hands in the pockets of his jacket, as far away from the toy radio as possible, and thought maybe he could fix it. Much later than he'd expected, the sky was almost an unruly shade of black. Above him, the stars seemed like eye holes, for someone above to awkwardly peek through, as if to keep watch. Childish and a bit too characteristically immature, Draco Malfoy found himself wondering if Severus Snape was scrutinizing the situation at all.

For a moment he paused, staring at the cluster of trees ahead of him, half expecting to see Snape's looming black shadow push from the darkness, wearing a look of pure exhaustion. He'd tilt his head to the side, put on an all too serious look of annoyance, and ask Draco to, please, if he could, enlighten him- what exactly was he doing? But nothing of the sort came; no spectacle of the ghost of Severus Snape made its divine appearance. And, quite frankly, Malfoy stood in solitude with an overly disappointed fixture etched across his pale face.

Then again, he could always try the radio.

"Nonsense," he scolded himself out loud, shaking his head back and forth at his sheer stupidity, even laughed an almost too maniac one. Perhaps he was as exceedingly mental as everyone had so feebly suggested. At once he turned his thoughts from the thing, which he now regarded as putrid and silly. He even turned away from the clearing ahead of him, where he'd once expected to find Snape. Because, after all, why was it that he was always relying on other people to determine how his life should pan out? Wasn't it his life to lead? Wasn't it his hypothetical movie to direct?

In life, Snape once told him that all actions have consequences and all decisions need an action to follow up with. Of course, then Draco Malfoy had been knee deep in a grave he'd been working on digging for much longer than several hours. But even now, even unrelated to such choices as Voldemort and the Death Eaters and the whole Wizarding World in general, he could finally see the significance of it. What he needed to do was make a choice, act upon it, and face the consequences. So, curtly, he took to wandering along the detoured path, pushing through the road that was not so much a clearing as it was a hidden venture. Ducking occasionally, he pulled through the emerald brush, ignored the peep-holes that he only half regarded to be the stars, and felt comfort in the growing numbness that the bothersome radio caused in his side.

The house in the distance was large considering it only currently housed only one being. Even in the far distance he could just barely make out her figure, how lovely it was even from so far away. The dark lining that was nothing more of Pansy Parkinson walked by her window, blew out the candle that was the only existing light, and then vanished behind the blackness. Any sane man would have thought Draco crazy at this moment, more than any other moment in the world. Pushing on towards the blackness of the large home, he couldn't quite believe it himself. Whatever he was doing now, he blamed it on the wine; even though he'd barely had any of it, there was still enough left on his entire front to fully intoxicate him.

Either way he wasn't turning back, either way he was acting upon selfishness and desperation and greed. He couldn't do this, couldn't loose his best friend and, furthermore, couldn't loose himself. And while each passing step made him more and more dizzy with anxiety, still he didn't spin around and retrace them back to the main road, back to his house, back to his own bed. What surprised him, what actually shocked him more than anything, was how quick it took to get up to her house at all. Within moments he was standing on her porch, looking just as awful as he had the first time he'd shown up at random in the night. And, begrudgingly, he wondered if such appearances would become a habit to him or, at worse, already had become a habit to him.

He knocked because he hand to. Despite each simple pound sending quick jolts up his wrist, he knocked. And in the night he heard her clamor down the steps, could even hear her sigh aggressively through the thin walls of her own house, and waited until she leaned forward to pull open the front door. Though her attitude undoubtedly changed when she saw that it was her fiance standing at the porch in front of her. Her tired expression faded, replaced by a more uplifting and bright one. She smoothed her hair behind her ears, smiled wonderfully, and leaned back with flirtatious posture, "Draco," she mused girlishly, "what is with you showing up at my home so late at night?"

"Pansy," Malfoy could only manage to breath, half trying to squint as to not take her in fully, "I have to talk to you."

"Ah," Pansy smiled, still slightly distance from him, "well, does it have something to do with the fact that you're covered in red wine?" She cocked her pointed chin at Malfoy, an even wider beam spreading across her visage. And it struck him; Pansy Parkinson was not in love with him. Sure, she thought that she was but, really, he couldn't see why or, most importantly, how. He'd never been anything but a presence over the past couple years and it was even perhaps safer to say that he wasn't fully there. For the majority of the time that Pansy Parkinson had spent with Draco Malfoy, there was not truly much to get to know.

He came out with his thoughts so quickly, that the moment she'd heard him speak her entire seductive fixture melted. "Pansy," he breathed, "you're not in love with me."

Pansy blinked. For a beautiful woman, confusion was not a look that rested well on her face. "What are you talking about?" she asked him, giving him a look that was more angry than hurt. Despite herself, she was pressing her torso forward, gripping her hip as if to remain even slightly balanced. "Are you drunk?"

Malfoy paused. Did he in fact have to be drunk to come up with such a revelation? "No," he clarified sheepishly, looking down at his shoes, now nothing more than the likes of what they used to be. "I'm not. But I am sure of it, Pansy. You're not in love with me just as much as..." then came the difficult part. He winced, mentally hitting himself for it. But the woman on the radio was right, as much as he loathed himself for admitting it, even silently. He couldn't bring her down with him- couldn't subject her to this misery. Even a woman like Pansy didn't deserve such treatment. Sure, she was cruel and selfish and vain, but Malfoy wasn't good for her, wasn't truly good for anybody, really. And, all things bluntly considered, he knew that he had to come out with it. "You're not in love with me.... just as much as I'm not in love with you."

"What's gotten in to you?" Pansy spat, seemingly awkward at the oncoming silence. "What the hell are you talking about?" There was no trace of ever having loved him in her tone. In fact, she sounded more like she wanted to murder him than anything. Her lovely eyes were not so lovely as they burned lively with the flames of rising fire. She cocked her head inside and Draco stepped in, wincing once she'd shut the door behind them. In the darkness, her voice cut through the air like a hurdling knife. "We've been through this before. Twice now, I presume."

"Yes," Malfoy whispered, feeling more sheepish than ever. Perhaps he shouldn't have come. Perhaps he shouldn't have remembered the stupid radio or Severus Snape. "But, I... I was lying to you then and..."

"You we're lying to me." Pansy merely stated, repeating his sentence back to him out loud as if waiting to see whether or not he could hear the stupidity in it. "What does that even mean?"

What did it mean? Surely, she'd had a point. "I'm not sure, exactly," Draco continued, beginning to regret even coming to her house in the first place. But he'd been stupid, been selfish and blind. What good was aiming to better oneself if the only solution was regression? And more and more he figured that damned woman on the other end of that silly little toy was right-- he was absolutely mental. What right did it give him to mess with someone else? And for his own personal benefit, even? "I just know that... that I can't marry you, Pansy. And I'm so sorry."

An immense stretch of silence laced the two of them together while, at the same time, drew them further apart. Inside her temples Pansy could feel the blood rush through her veins. Eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, she located the figure of her now ex-fiance, and planned on hexing him right then and there. "What is it?" she finally asked, hate and detest growing behind her otherwise unfaltering voice, "why don't you like me? Why haven't you ever liked me?"

Draco could feel his own pulse slow down. Everything about his entire being seemed to freeze over. Even beside her icy tone of voice, he felt like he wanted only to stumble towards her, wrap his arms around her. She'd been his friend for as long as he could even stand to remember. She was wrathful and at times awful, but more than often he'd known her to be almost exactly like him in every way possible. He said, denying everything that he knew, "we're two different people now, Pansy. I... I'm not like my father. I'm not anything like I used to be." But that wasn't true and he knew it, even saying it aloud he knew the falseness of it. He was just as deceitful and cunning as he'd always been, just as selfish and sly. And even when he'd tried so much to stray away from it, it had never even deviated from him in the first place. Shoulders lowering solemnly, he felt almost sore in his moment of complete disappointment.

Pansy tossed her head back, forced a nonchalant laugh. "You could be on to something, Draco. Because you may very well be the most insufferable person I've ever had the displeasure to know." When Malfoy didn't bother to defend himself, she continued roughly, "I've thrown myself on you... and finally, just finally you agree to be with me. And so I accepted that. But you're right. I could sense something off about you... sense that you were someplace... someplace inferior. Inferior like the rest of them. Inferior like Potter and the Ministry."

"Potter?" Malfoy asked, still wincing at the sheer distaste that plagued him as he said the name, "Potter and the Ministry? What are you talking about?" He'd known, of course, that even though Pansy wasn't still a Death Eater, she'd have jumped at the chance to form such ideas up again. And why wouldn't she? The promised that Voldemort had made to the whole lot of them had been perfect and unimaginable. A moth, trapped to the flame, she'd been captivated by the lies and still, after all this time, believed such a thing was obtainable. But this Draco knew, still knew and had always known. Either way, the comparison to Harry Potter seemed to sting him bitterly.

"I'm talking about Potter and... and Weasley and... fucking Granger." She croaked, her eyes now finally filling with long awaited tears. Almost embarrassed, she smoothed them away from her eyes, wiping them on her silk robe aggressively. Then, nodding, she added spitefully, "you're right. Maybe I don't know a single thing about you."

But still Draco couldn't deny the twisting pain that ached in his chest. Feeling heated and slightly delusional on his own, his only thought was, in fact, to rush forward and hold her. But he didn't move, remained rooted to the grounds of her marble flooring until the silence was almost simply too much to take. Longingly, eyes beginning to moisten with fresh tears of his own, Malfoy stepped forward, shook his head timidly. "Pansy..." he offered desperately, "please, don't cry. You don't want anyone like me, anyways. I'm all... here. I'm..."

"Crazy," Pansy stated for him. "Absolutely, one hundred percent off your bloody rocker."

Malfoy froze. Sinking slightly, he asked her figure that stood there unmoving in the darkness, "huh?"

"At first," Pansy continued, speaking almost too quickly after he'd finished talking, "I'd ignored what everyone else was telling me... what the... the word was around the block. They said you'd lost your mind. People were actually saying that, Draco. And then with the therapist..."

"The therapist?" Malfoy choked, feeling instant humiliation flush over him, "how do you know about the therapist?"

Pansy huffed frustrated, "I was your future fiance!" she reminded him frankly, "your mother simply mentioned that you..."

"You got into a conversation with my mother about... about my personal...?" For the most part, Draco was completely oblivious to the fact that he'd been stammering for the past several minutes now. His face took on a new color of pale, further showing off his blunt embarrassment. "W-When?"

"Does it matter?" Pansy shouted back, the first time she'd actually truly done so. She looked like she was going to pull out her hair. So deranged was her appearance that she almost looked absolutely unrecognizable. "Well I'm telling you right now it doesn't. The fact is I ignored the obvious signs. Because I was so blindsided by... by... I don't even know anymore! And the crazy thing is... the absolutely mad part about this whole thing, is that I actually thought you were sane behind all that gossip?"

Despite himself, Malfoy heard his voice echo, "and now?"

"Now?" Pansy laughed, growing red in the face. She wasn't crying anymore, but her cheeks were stained of their past presence. She placed both her arms tightly across her heaving chest, looking as if she were about to sincerely jump on him and rip him to pieces. "Now I'm all for the idea. You coming over her to tell me such... such nonsense. That, Draco, is proof enough right there."

And finally Draco Malfoy couldn't help himself. The massive lump in his throat was aggressive and persisting. No longer could he feel his limbs. He was melting and he wasn't entirely sure that he could take it. And it wasn't only Pansy, but it was Goyle and the woman on the radio. How was he going to tell his parents? How was he going to take back all the damage that he'd caused with Goyle, his best friend through his entire adolescence? Had he been this blindsided with the idea of happiness that he'd managed to completely wreck up everyone else's lives in the process? An entirely new wave of self loathing washed over him, almost knocked him down off of what seemed like jellied legs. Nausea persisted ruthlessly, a tidal wave of green took over his morose face.

His blond hair fell limply in front of his forehead, the last of his being to completely deflate. What was left now but complete misery? He'd thought he'd seen it all, thought nothing could get more worse, but this was it-- now he'd lived through what he'd been so sure was utterly impossible. He'd hit rock bottom. "Now, I need you to leave, alright?" Pansy swallowed a large lump in her throat, the only thing truly keeping her from tearing him apart. "I need you to leave my house."

"Please," he found himself begging, "don't be angry with me, okay? I.. I made a mistake. A stupid mistake and it's absolutely my fault. You're right about me, Pansy," he pleaded, "maybe there is something wrong with me that I haven't been seeing."

"That is absolutely the case," Pansy nodded. "Now I'm giving you to the count of five." She leaned over him, pushed the front door back open with one forceful hand, and then shifted her weight. Responsively, Draco backed up. He wiped his face, placed both palms on the side of his forehead as if he were in fact truly loosing it. And then, once he was out of the way, Pansy smiled degradingly and swung the front door so aptly shut that the slam caused a slight wind to fly in front of Draco's face. The noise rung in his ears even when he'd heard her retreating footsteps ascend the stairs once again, completely vanishing out of sight.

And that was it, what he was sure he'd had to do only a short while ago. Yet another brilliant plan of his having gone to shit. With newfound anger he dug the little radio out of his pocket and thrust it with full force against the dirt ground. The thing clattered across the gravel, made a slight skid, and then sat still in the night. But whatever had possessed him to do so instantly faded. He slid forward, moving with an excessively slow pace, and retrieved the radio in one hand, staring down at it as if it had caused nothing but absolute pain in his life.

Then, pressing his aching back against the thickest and most near tree trunk he could find, he slid to the floor with a miserable groan. Defeated, he pressed his head backwards against the bark and kept his fingers tight around the Muggle object, something he only slightly wished he'd never found in the first place. And there he sat for several hours before the night dragged on. When finally he picked himself up, dragged his aching body across the dirt, and redirected himself on the path home.

Everything was hazy and blurred and forming together to make one big image. Draco leaned forward, scanned the scenery in the sepia toned light, and took one big breath in. His fingers were blue and wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle that was only half full. Shaking slightly, he leaned forward and examined the squiggly bartender, whose only look in his direction was that of disapproval. On his own he stretched his body towards Draco, pried the bottle from his hand, and tossed it over his shoulder like an irresponsible child. But, not to worry, Draco lifted a free finger and pointed at the surface of the bar, keen on ordering another. It is the bartender, however, who did not deliver. He shook his head and put on a demeaning expression, "I think you've had enough," he advised, all too content with delivering to Malfoy the cliche. Draco's face fell unwillingly downward on impact. Perhaps it was not a good sign when the person who refuses to sell drinks is the bartender himself.

"Oy!" Someone who sounded like the far distance is shouting in my direction. Draco ignored his call towards him and he leaned forward, attempting to receive a drink despite the bartender's refusal. His plan, however, didn't go considerably swimmingly. He missed the surface of the bar by a long shot and completely slid off of the stool, colliding to the floor with one, rag doll-like flop. Uncharacteristically he giggled, despite his sensibly utter embarrassment, and didn't bother to pick up his pride-less pieces. The same voice that had shouted at him before inquired over the current bustle, "isn't that the Malfoy boy?"

On the ground Draco's entire body sunk into the floorboards. Previously in the night he'd felt rather accomplished towards making it thus far without having been recognized. However, such a detection was nonetheless inevitable. His mind told me, "Draco, you're intoxicated. It's only plausible that you've come to be surprised at the expected." Though his reasoning didn't do him much good. He was hoisted up from the ground from under his arms and, despite swinging around to avoid being cornered, the two men on either side of him had him locked in quite an admirably strong position.

A new face leaned in, scrutinized his front momentarily, and then backed away placing his hands on his grotesquely wide hips. He confirmed their suspicions and noted above the clamor, "that's him alright." At once, Malfoy swung his shoulder back unsuccessfully, and proceeded inform them that they would very much regret it if they did not let him go at once. This, however, only enticed them in a choir of laughs, further heating Draco's frustration. What he'd come to realize about himself, even five whole years after the Battle, is that he'd become less fueled by hostility and more by the need to carry on unnoticed.

Draco slurred, "I'm advising you, gentlemen, to let me go at once." Truly, he didn't know why he'd decided to throw in the flattery aspect to his threat, but there it was, at once out there like his current physical appearance, drenched in red wine and a further killed pride. So maybe he didn't go directly home. But he'd had to go someplace and the bar had seemed suitable... or at least it had a moment ago-- perhaps when he'd had too much wine thrust in his face already to be able to make a perhaps better choice. Of course he couldn't go out and about unrecognized! And, bitterly, he swore at himself for not remembering the scarf, coat, and hat.

His eyes were glassy and his nose was running like a faucet sink. He looked like a jumbled waiter, black tie undone and sitting like a scarf around his shoulders. The front of his white shirt was only half untucked into his black trousers. Like a dog owner, he commanded the mutts, "now," but this only further amused them. His human support at his right had been laughing so hard that he'd doubled over, forcing Draco Malfoy down along with him. "Imbecile," Draco muttered, now crunched with his eyes in a level position with the floor. He swallowed hard, tried to will himself up another drink, and when his strong desire only proved to obviously fail, he had to reconsider how intoxicated he truly was.

What he remembered was wandering home from Pansy's. Or, at least, the very last mile or so. He'd stood at the fork of the road, contemplating home or Hogsmeade. Now, mentally murdering himself, he loathed his decision, wished for once that he possessed the admirable ability to pass up on a cheap drink. "Well," one of the men around him slurred, just as drunk, if not even more so that Draco himself, "why is it we haven't seen your pretty little face around lately?"

"I'd advise you to consider that yourself," Malfoy grunted, being slightly flopped around by the amused men at his sides. "Actually," he added begrudgingly, "I think that your question falls under what most would consider rather obvious."

The fat man, stuffed underneath his sweater to hide his possessive hip to waist ratio leaned forward. There was not truly a look of hostility in his face, but just perhaps minimal anger overtook by a sense of overwhelming inquiry. "Hiding your face?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed. There was a slight touchiness about his eyes and a scar imprinted across his chubby face. For a moment Draco considered that he'd acquired it from the battle, but he couldn't recognize the man, and didn't desire to anyways. However, for the benefit of feeling slightly sorry and maybe even responsible for his damaged visage, Draco swallowed what was left of his pride, allowed himself to be sloppily supported, and dropped his own hostile grimace.

"That," he said, nodding with complete honesty, "would be he idea, mate."

But then again, it could have only been the drink that was making him so sensible. For a near man leaned in, stepping down from his barstool, and pressed his face so close to Draco's that he could not ignore the intense smell of liquor on his breath. "How much have you had tonight, Malfoy?" he asked, a bit concerned. And his worry was a slight refreshment from the exceedingly amused drunks surrounding him. His face seemed to swell with every passing moment. Draco could swear that the man before him had four eyes, a lopsided frown, and a forehead that was impossibly never ending.

And now they could see him for... for what? For what he was? A sad pathetic drunkard who'd spent five years, if not more, of his life wallowing in self pity and self loathing. While Malfoy should have been embarrassed, he took most of his time worrying about whose shoes he might get sick on. How much had he had to drink over the course of the night? Part of him wanted to lean in, respond to the questioning man with, "that, sir, is quite a good question," but only found the ability to slur something random out uselessly. A third uproar of laughter boomed out around him and everyone seemed rather amused.

Malfoy thought spastically, "was this it?" Was this his night's worth? Spent drunk in a bar with a lot of blokes he had no desire to accompany himself with? And it wasn't even out of superiority. He realistically didn't want to be around them because, in all aspects, he felt inferior, if anything a bit unworthy. He could hear Goyle saying in the background of his head, "what a successful revelation!" and perhaps he would truly be congratulating him if he weren't so mad.

Then the room spun. Wobbling and uneasy, he yanked his slender arms around, once again rather unsuccessfully. But then again, none of them could say he didn't warn them. He arched forward, felt the bile rise up in the back of his throat, and just barely missed the man in front of him by half an inch. A loud, "ooohhh!" rang through his ears and he sank a bit lower, a newfound rush of pallor flooding his entire face. "Marvelous, Malfoy!" a loud voice in the crowd cheered, "I think you've mastered the self-loathing to a--"

"Oh."

As a brand new shadow push its way through the crowd, the outrageous fit of laughter died. The figure was looming and a bit daunting, even with most of its glory whacked out of it years ago. There, standing straight and stiff and furious, was Lucius Malfoy, his fingers tight above his walking stick, his face distorted in a mixture of horror and anger. In all his blurry vision, Draco could barely make out the shape of his father, but once the tightness loosened around his arms, he was sure that he'd had a pretty good idea of his father's overwhelming presence.

What he wanted to do and what he could manage to do came out as two totally different things. While his desire was to stand up, excuse the mess for a flu, and walk out with his father alone, he pulled off accomplishing the very opposite. He fell slightly more loose underneath the supporting men, and coughed a bit more, trying to pull himself to his feet at if he'd never taken a stroll anywhere before.

"Get up," Lucius instructed his only son. In the surrounding crowd, he waited for Malfoy to oblige. But a mere pin could have been heard drop in all the silence. And when his son didn't move, Lucius drove himself forward, grabbed tightly ahold of his collar, and yanked him to his feet with one hefty lift. He turned a tight turn towards the bar tender, who looked absolutely stunned behind the counter top. It had been, of course, quite a while since the Wizarding World had seen Lucius Malfoy and, even in their superiority to him nowadays, his presence was still daunting. "What's he owe you?" he asked stiffly, holding Malfoy up by his shoulders now, only just slightly more gentle.

"Err---" the man stammered, slightly uneasy on his own. He scanned the bar top, realizing that he could, if he so wanted, just throw out a high number without being detected, but decided on saying timidly, "I lost count..." With that, Lucius shoved his hand into the pocket of his cloak, pulled out a hefty about of bills, and tossed them on the counter without a second thought. Then, he took hold of his son, pushed him out the door with boiling fury, and the two exited the bar to the sound of absolute nothingness.

Once outside, Lucius Malfoy strayed down the nearest alley, ignoring the inconsistent moans that emulated from Draco's throat, and shoved him up against the brick wall. Against it, Draco could only slightly hear the bustle of the bar indoors pick up again. Outside, the streets were devilishly bare. "Tell me," Lucius' said through Draco's ears, "what the hell is going on!" His eyes were burning, but slightly remorseful at the same time. It was as if something had broken, a sense of pride perhaps or, even, a bitter realization about his son. "Now!"

However, Malfoy's stance was weak at best. He pressed his throbbing head backwards, blinked the haziness from his eyes, and shook his head innocently, "what's going on?"

He stood, positive that his father was going to scold him about his night out, about how he'd never expected to see him in such an awful state. There swaying in front of his father, even against the brick wall, Malfoy could have prepared himself for such an argument, even planned on telling his father how he just lost track of time.

"Pansy just stopped by the house several hours ago--- in hysterics. She's informed your mother and I that you have broken off the engagement!" Oh. So Draco didn't have to consider how to inform his family then, did he? No, now he'd only had the minimal time to think up a proper excuse for his actions. He was, of course, not given much of a time period to do so. The raging flames behind his father's gray eyes, the very same eyes that Draco Malfoy himself had inherited from him since birth, seemed intense and extended. Lucius Malfoy's face was so red that he looked almost unlike himself in every way. And the redness in his father's eyes was obvious, even despite the drinking. And Lucius' hands on Draco's shoulders weren't as strong as he knew they could be.

When Draco said nothing to defend himself with, Lucius started again, heated, "Draco, when I asked you if you truly wanted to marry Pansy, you told me that he did. You looked me straight in the eye and told me that you wanted to start a life with this woman!" The silvery blond hair that had become a trademark of the Malfoy's fell limply over Lucius' face. "You looked me in the eye."

Perhaps it was due to the fact that his son wasn't answering, but Lucius took it as a hint to keep talking. He shook his head, fiercely with stern apprehension, and backed away, only slightly. His visage was so intensely outraged, that he looked as if he were about to burst. "I knew it! I knew that when you told me such, that there was something wrong. But I thought that perhaps I'd been wrong. Turns out you we're just---"

"I had a good reason," Draco tried, slurring and pathetic.

"Bullshit!" Lucius hissed. Then, with a gust of anger, he released his son, watching him stumble forward on impact. And with that, he tore himself away, leaving Draco Malfoy against the brick wall.

Vonne: REVIEW! :)