Disclaimer: I suffer from stupidity. In other words, I'm not smart enough to make something like "Harry Potter" up, nor figure out a way to earn money off it. This is all just for silly pleasure.

A/N: I was going to write a sixth/seventh year fic, but seeing as the new book is coming out soonish, I decided to postpone that until I can incorporate the new details it will introduce, and create this fic that is deliberately vague in timing. It is, however, definitely post-war and post-Hogwarts. It will also be (eventually) Harry/Draco. The rating is to encompass all that I am likely to include, with (strong) possibilities of (consensual) sex and violence (yes, you read that right), offensive language, and cringe-worthy writing.

It is also, for those of you who have read my other Harry/Draco, a chance to portray the Slytherins in a better light (namely Blaise, who I gave a bad reputation). It is also weirder and more angsty than my other Harry/Draco. For those of you who haven't read my other fic...what on earth are you waiting for:D.

Note: The war was fought, the Side of the Light won, and Draco wasn't on it. Oh, and I'm not a (complete) idiot: the title of this story is meant to be that way.

xXxXxXx

Draco pulls the woolen gloves over his fingers meticulously, examining his shaking hands once more, before making his way down the stairs of his shabby apartment, down through the empty bar and out into the day. It is crisp and cool, just the type of day to give a rosy pink tinge to a person's cheeks, one that Draco feels is entirely too innocent-looking for him to deserve.

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out, watching the mist escape his mouth. He frowns, and furtively looks around. Draco hates days like this. Well, he loves them, really, but he hates the fact that people can see him breathing. When he's breathing. How often he breathes. How dare they know? Once, someone laughed at Draco when he told them this. 'No one cares about your breathing, Draco.' they said, mockingly. But Draco cares. Draco cares that they know. Breathing is one of those things that should not be seen, and should not be heard. Draco holds his breath as he walks past strangers in the street, and the dawdlers watch him curiously as his face turns to crimson.

Draco strides quickly, drumming his fingers against his thighs. He has never strolled, taken a leisurely walk in the park. Walking is a form of transportation, why waste precious time? Besides, no one gets in the way of someone who is striding. They have a purpose, somewhere to be; a life. Never mind that it's usually a lie, it makes Draco feel important.

Because once upon a time, he was.

Draco snorts, and muses. Funny how the mind supplies memories, which aren't actually memories, more like wishing, hopeful thinking. Sometimes the mind will give you a memory, just gloss over it a little bit. Fill in a few blanks, never mind how it goes. Change a few details.

Draco, are you alright? Draco, are you sure you're ok? Draco, can I help you?

Never mind that it never was "Draco". Never mind that those green eyes never looked at him with concern, or compassion. Or maybe they did? Days, weeks, hours, years, seconds...they all ran together, back then.

Back then.

In the war.

Which is over now. Draco shivers. Scary thought, that. It shouldn't be. It should be...enlightening. Envigourating. Exciting. Empowering.

But Draco is just scared. Where has his life gone? What does he have to show for it? Who has he got to share it with? Cold and alone?

And then he remembers. Ah, yes.

He doesn't want to share it with anyone. He always was a spoilt child. Draco looks around carefully, before letting out a shallow breath. If he could smile, he would.

He comes to the park, small and rather sad. The trees are glorious; huge giants of fluttering leaves and creaking branches, but there are only a few. Old swings, a little slide, tubes and bars. A little bench, which he promptly sits down at, and looks around vaguely. A few of the children look a little frightened of him, and one small girl clings closer to her mother's leg as Draco's gaze falls upon her.

When Draco was younger, he'd always hoped he'd turn out like this. Terrifying people with merely a glance. But now it just makes him feel tired. Not powerful, not alone, not upset, not formidable, just...tired.

Draco doesn't know how long he sits in the park for, staring around, holding his breath as much as he can. After a while, he starts to feel light-headed, and a shiver goes through him.

Someone once told Draco that when you shiver, it's because a dead person is walking through you. Draco hates that, because thinking about it makes him want to shiver again.

Someone sits down next to Draco, and he looks out of the corner of his eye to see a young woman, seeming to be about his age. A cigarette hanging out of her fingertips. A coat that would have been the envy of everyone in town had it not possessed a large hole in the side. Cropped, black hair.

Draco drums his fingers on his legs, humming softly, and the woman sighs.

'How long have you been sitting here, Draco?' she asks, and Draco swallows.

'I don't know.' he says, softly. Truthfully.

'You know you're welcome in my house. You don't have to sit outside.'

'I'm not sitting outside your house. I'm sitting in the park.'

The woman nods, and takes a long drag of her cigarette. Draco thinks this suits her, because she looks like she once was full and whole and wonderful, and then something came along and took a long drag out of her, burning her out.

'Pansy?' he asks, softly.

'Yes, Draco?'

'How did you know I was out here?' he questions, watching her carefully.

Pansy Parkinson sighs, and Draco watches the steam flow out of her mouth, and hastily checks to make sure his own mouth isn't doing the same. 'You always sit out here, Draco.' she says in a pained voice.

Draco nods, satisfied with the answer.

'It's warm inside, Draco. There's food, and Blaise is round.' Pansy says, purposely looking away, so Draco can breathe. She knows he hates it when people watch, and Draco is grateful. He lets out a long breath, and tenses all his body muscles to stop himself from shivering. He doesn't know what to say, so he stays silent.

'Come on, love.' Pansy says, grasping Draco's arm and pulling him up.

'Please don't touch me.' Draco whispers.

Pansy nods. 'Sorry, Draco. Come on.' she says. 'Or I'll leave without you.'

Draco knows that Pansy knows it is a nasty trick. Well, she was a Slytherin. Draco nods, and follows her to her little apartment, just across the road. The window is directly in front of Draco's little bench.

xXxXxXx

Pansy's living room is warm, and little bits of sunshine dust float down from the window. Blaise is sitting on the couch, his right arm up on the side. Pansy closes the door roughly behind her, and throws her keys down on the little table in front of the couch.

'He was sitting on the bench again.' she says to Blaise, and then turns to Draco. 'Sit down, Drakie. Would you like tea, or coffee?'

Draco nods. Pansy rolls her eyes.

'Which one?'

Draco bites his lip. 'I don't drink coffee.'

Pansy frowns. 'You always used to.'

Draco shrugs. 'And I like my tea a special way.'

Pansy and Blaise exchange a look. 'A special way, hmm?'

'Spices and things.' Draco says, vaguely. There is a pause as Draco looks around the room. Pansy takes a deep breath, and lets it out.

'Qu'est-ce que vous désirez, alors, monsieur?' she says, almost sarcastically.

Draco shrugs. 'I suppose a normal tea will be fine.'

'Wonderful.' says Pansy, and before moving to the kitchen, she gestures for Draco to take a seat next to Blaise. Draco nods, and sits down on the couch. Blaise grins.

'How are things, mate?' Blaise asks.

Draco nods. 'Fine.' he says, surveying his hands. His fingertips have gone numb, and the veins in his hands are clearly visible. His hands shake, and he thrusts them into his pockets and looks back to Blaise.

'You were great last night, mate. Really great.' Blaise says.

Draco nods. 'Ok.' he says, looking down at Blaise's shoes. Italian leather. Almost like the ones he used to have.

Blaise rolls his eyes. 'You're supposed to say thank you!'

Draco nods again. 'Ok.' he says. He looks up at Blaise. 'Thank you, Blaise.'

'There were a few nice ladies there that were looking pretty interested in you, you know. You were tugging on those heart strings with those tears, mate.'

'Are you saying I should stop?'

'No, no, no.' Blaise says, hastily. 'I'm just saying you certainly have a large crowd of admirers.'

Draco shifts. 'I don't...put on the tears, you know. I can't help them.'

Blaise nods, and there is an uncomfortable silence. Draco remembers how things used to be with them, back in the day. Back at school. There never used to be uncomfortable silences. It was all talking and laughing and chatting and joking, and it always seemed very natural.

Draco wonders when it was that Blaise changed.

'Tea's ready!' Pansy calls from the kitchen, which seems silly, as in the small apartment, the kitchen is only a few metres away.

'I hope you made some for me, you little wench. You didn't even ask!' Blaise calls out.

'Lazy bastard, you can make it yourself.' Pansy says, walking into the room with two cups of steaming tea. She hands one to Draco, and Blaise scowls. 'Fuck, look at you pout. I was just having you on.' Pansy says, grinning, and Blaise's face lights up as she hands him the cup.

'Thanks, love.' he says, and takes a large sip of his tea. 'Ah, hot hot!' he splutters.

'Of course it is, you twat.' Pansy says, rolling her eyes. She looks over at Draco to share a "what an idiot" glance that they always used to, but found he was elsewhere, looking out the window silently. 'Draco? Are you with us?' she asks.

Draco blinks a couple of times, and looks back. 'What?'

Pansy walks to the kitchen, and comes back with her own cup of tea, setting it down gingerly on the table before flopping down on the adjacent couch.

'You seem a bit distracted.' she notes, and Blaise makes a face behind Draco's back. Pansy glares at him, and he purses his lips.

'I thought I just saw...' Draco says, but catching his friends' faces he falls quiet.

'Saw what, Draco?' Pansy prompts.

'If you say Harry Potter, I swear I'll kill you.' Blaise warns, frowning.

'Blaise!' Pansy scolds, looking warily at him.

'What?' Blaise demands. 'I'm sick of hearing about fucking Harry Potter. We fought a war against him, Draco, and we lost. Your father is dead, my father is dead, Pansy's father is dead...hell, nearly all of our families are dead. Our Lord is dead...and you know who else is dead, Draco?'

'Blaise...' Pansy says, with a long suffering sigh, like she's heard this a million times.

'Harry-fucking-Potter. Yes, that's right, Draco! He's dead. He's not a ghost, there are no particles of his body left to make a polyjuice...he's dead. Ok? Have you got that?'

Draco sips his tea. 'I know that, Blaise. Don't you think I know that?'

Blaise sits there, watching Draco, his mouth set hard, his eyes fiery. There is a long pause as Pansy stares at Blaise, Blaise stares at Draco, and Draco stares down at his shaking hands, holding his cup of unsweetened, unspiced tea.

'How can you stay so fucking calm all the time, Draco?' Blaise asks, finally.

'Blaise.' Pansy says, sharply. 'I do not want to have this conversation now.' But everyone ignores Pansy, much like they did when she suggested perhaps muggleborns weren't as bad as everyone seemed to think they were.

'What do I have to be uncalm about?' Draco asks, softly. 'Like you say...everyone's dead.'

'But doesn't that make you angry? Doesn't that make you just want to live?' Blaise demands.

'Yes.' Draco says, simply.

Whatever Blaise is expecting, that isn't it.

'Then why aren't you?' he asks, finally, brokenly.

'I am.' Draco says, quietly. 'Of course I am. How am I not?'

No one knows what to say to this, so they keep quiet, and Draco continues.

'I'm living. I have a business, which I founded, own and run. You were there just the other night, Blaise. There is a bar, and a dance floor, and I sing there. I live in the apartment above. How is that not living?' Draco asks, but the inhabitants of the room feel it is rhetorical, and stay quiet, so Draco continues. 'I get angry. Of course I get angry. But you know what happens when I get angry?'

They other two shake their heads.

'Nothing.' Draco says. 'Nothing at all. Except...hurt, sometimes. I hurt myself, and others, and things. Destruction. And since that's what's made me angry in the first place, it seems more than slightly ridiculous to...to...'

The others wait for Draco to finish his sentence, but it seems he is having trouble.

'We understand, Draco.' Pansy interrupts, softly.

Draco nods, and looks down at his cooling cup of tea, not really wanting to drink the disgusting liquid. Draco has been forced to acquire many a taste in his life, but unadorned tea has always been just out of reach.

'I guess what I'm trying to say is,' Blaise starts, and Pansy shoots him a warning glare, but he just swallows and continues, '...is...what are...I mean, why can't...why aren't you happy?' he says, looking at Draco with a frown.

Draco blinks. 'Happy?' he asks, bemused.

Blaise nods. 'Yeah. You don't...you don't seem very happy.'

Draco considers this. Happy. 'Oh.' he says. He looks over at Pansy, who is watching him carefully.

'I mean...are you?' asks Blaise.

There is a long silence, as Draco chews his lip, before finally answering, 'Well...yes.'

Blaise gets the distinct impression that Draco's agreement is rather like an adult's when a child asks them, 'Is it fun to be an adult?'. Like he doesn't want to say "no", because that's not entirely true, but "yes" seems like it's a lie too. Like the person asking the question couldn't possibly comprehend a different answer. Or the truth.

'Well...something's wrong, Draco. And we need to know.' Blaise says, quietly.

'Wrong?' asks Draco, placing his cup on the table. 'Oh, I don't think so.'

'No?' Blaise asks, bitterly. 'When was the last time you laughed, Draco?'

When was the last time you said something funny? Draco wants to say, but instead, he sighs. 'I don't know.'

'Yeah? And when was the last time you smiled?'

A pause. 'I don't know.'

'And when was the last time you had meaningful sex with someone?'

'Blaise!' Pansy gasps.

'Or even meaningless sex?' Blaise presses on.

'Is this what this is all about? The fact that I happen to not be in a relationship at the present time?' Draco asks.

'Of course it's fucking not!' Blaise snaps, and Pansy worries her bottom lip. 'It's about the fact that I feel like they actually did catch you, and did administer the Dementor's Kiss, and I'm wondering what the fuck I'm supposed to do with this empty vessel, and where the fuck I can find Draco again!'

Pansy's bottom lip is starting to turn red, and her eyes are misting over. She tries to give Draco a smile, but it is grim, and he isn't looking anyway.

Pansy's Grandfather clock, the one thing that was left amidst the burning rubble of her estate, ticks loudly from the corner of the room, counting away the seconds as they all sit there.

Draco swallows, and appreciates the fact that this is something Blaise has been needing to get out for a long time. Pansy doesn't look very happy. A tear slides down her cheek, and Draco wonders vaguely where the Slytherin inside her is hiding.

'I'm sorry you feel that way, Blaise.' Draco says, neutrally.

Blaise stares at Draco's impassive face for a long time. 'Where are you, Draco?' he whispers, after what feels like an age has passed.

Draco grinds his teeth slightly, before standing up. 'Going home.'

'Yeah?' Blaise whispers. 'Call me when you get there.'

Draco realises its a metaphor, but nods anyway.

'If I make it.' he adds, perhaps to antagonize the man sitting in front of him, the Slytherin part of him sneaking out to subconsciously defend himself.

Pansy sniffles, and Blaise grips her hand.

Draco closes the door behind him, and makes his way out into the world again.

xXxXxXx

Reviews are appreciated. Very very muchly. More up soon if it's wanted, and maybe sometime in the future for my own pleasure if not.