Can you imagine what murder must feel like? Knowing you are absolutely helpless against the person who wishes your life away like throwing a penny down a well. Would you be too scared for it to hurt? Would you be thinking of those you loved? Would you be screaming for the sake of it, knowing as that knife goes through your stomach you're powerless to everything and anything that comes between you and your life.

Funny to think about isn't it? Well, this is what I think about everyday as I sit here wondering about my late boyfriend of nine years, who was declared missing then found murdered many miles from the home we shared. If I am being honest then yeah, I was scared out of my brains at first, thinking that somehow a new breed of death eaters had taken revenge on the work we had fought so hard to accomplish, but there was silence after he was killed. It's almost laughable to say that; silence, but it was like I couldn't listen anymore. I wanted to listen to those comforting words, I really did, but all they sounded like was the unending deafness.

I reported the news of Draco's absence four days after he had left our home on the fifteenth of November, 2002. We had had fights before, some of which ended up with one of us bloodied up, we hated each other that much in the past that it was sometimes hard to admit we loved each other. He left after one of those fights, where he had punched me so hard in the stomach I fought to gain my breath, not quite able to apologise before he stormed out the door declaring he was going to stay at a friends. Normally he would go stay with Pansy, so after contacting her to request he speak to me and she telling me he wasn't there…

I didn't believe her at first, but further persistence showed signs of truth within what Pansy had said. Then it was a case of not wanting to believe her, because undeniably I didn't want to even contemplate him staying with someone else for other reasons than to get away from the argument. Everybody we knew, he knew then I knew, I got in contact with, all of them declaring the same thing, whilst my mind went over and over again with 'He's not here, he's not here'.

Sleepless nights began to tuck themselves into restless days, my work failing and my life falling in little gaps around me. The weirdest scenarios went through my head, some even playing out an image of Draco changing his image, moving to America and living life a new. Anything would be better than the truth, I knew and I couldn't come to admittance that he might not have the capacity within him to come back anymore. Even if he was with someone else, with a better relationship than we had, then I would accept that notion rather than figuring he was just gone…

Draco and I had a few rules about us living together and privacy was always one of them. It had been so long since he had gone and still silence, but the privacy issue still stayed. On either side of our bed was a small dresser, which we were allowed to keep things in that the other couldn't see, it was fair play really considering we shared almost everything else. I had still respected his wishes, turning down every persuasive technique my friends gave me to open it, and see what was inside. I kept his wish for so long, never daring to lay my fingers on the silver handle and pull the drawer from its enclosure, however as the things we used to share like showers, breakfast, dinner, films, our bed became lonely without his body next to mine, without his rare laughter bouncing off the walls I became more desperate to share the one thing I was forbidden too. It felt cruel as I opened the drawer, taking the first look inside of it for the very first time and somewhere my hopes of finding him again quelled at my disobedience. The trust we shared was until death, that was for sure and I had broken it and in turn died in my doing so.

What I found? Trinkets, notes, his journal I had never read and his wand. Many things shocked me in that drawer, but let's start at the less horrifying:

His journal. He didn't write in it much, usually when something spectacular had happened in his life, like being abstained from charges for death eater activity. I laid the journal on his side of the bed, and slept next to it for a few nights feeling raw energy peeling from the pages of the tatty leather bound book. I didn't want to read it at first, because I knew I would cry and I hadn't done that yet, out of sure hope for him to return from whatever little vacation he had taken.

The day I quit my job I came home to find once again he wasn't there, unsurprising but devastating none-the-less. I was angry at him in that moment, that I had to face up to the reality that I wasn't living as I used to and it was because of his stupidity. I had become sick too, throwing up daily whilst convincing myself that was what love did to you, and in truth it was. After thrashing about the house in a blind rage, my feet had led me to our bedroom. There was the last piece of Draco yet to be discovered on his pillow, and I almost devoured the book feeling no security in what it said; only my emotions spinning from utter adoration, contempt, bitter-sweet longing and loss.

The page that gripped me the most, which I still read once daily, was the last thing he ever wrote:

Even if the pregnancy doesn't work, as I am sure it won't, it has been long enough that we should marry. I don't want to live my life as his partner; I want to be his husband. It would mean the world to Harry and I hope it doesn't hurt enough to let on that it means even more to me.

There it is, but a mere extract from a text so short but breakable. It took me so long not to cry but those words just brought down my defences and all the animosity towards him was but a forgotten dream for the time I read the page towards the time I read it again.

And still, on my hand today is the ring he never gave to me, but was left in that drawer along with other trinkets. None of which were as shiny or as beautiful as the ring I hold today and nothing ever will be.

Then there was the wand. His wand, the one he had held in his beautiful hands since he was eleven, the wand that thrust so many hexes towards me, the one that lit the candles around the bed the first time we made love and the wand he hadn't taken with him the night he disappeared. I stopped the hope of he possibly having another wand, somewhere, but knowing Draco the ebony handled masterpiece which was still in that drawer would be the only wand ever useful to him, as it was a part of him I could never hope to be. What scared me most about the wand being held in that drawer was if he had gone out without it, he would be defenceless against anything that came his way and those thoughts did nothing to help the dam about to break of fears, truths and reality.

And so soon reality came too, when the knock on my door was received by me in the form of Remus Lupin. He downcast his gaze, to afraid to meet my eyes and if I knew better at that moment I wouldn't have screamed a wordless cry of distress at him for being the one to bring the news of my lovers death.

Suddenly the bed was no longer ours, the shower no longer shared and the light of my life still shining. It sounds silly, but I wanted to cut off my arms in protest against the utter lies Remus was telling, however when he pinned me down to the floor after I threatened to slice my throat open if he didn't tell the truth, I knew no lies were being uttered.

They had found Draco's body, two towns over from ours. A fatal stab wound through the head and stomach littered his beautiful body with life taken so abruptly short. I had to identify him, of course I did, and there it was; unbidden truth I would have died for not to be real.

And like every story there is an introduction, problem and solution. Can there ever be a solution to love taken away like that? Can the wound I suffered from ever be sown up, because it keeps opening every time you look at the things you used to share and laugh at together. For a while, up until the remedy to my problems came into my life, I blacked out the photos of Draco just as a bandage for my gaping wound. The thing is you see, that the wound was way too great for such a small thing to cover, but it helped such a great deal.

Remus later confessed to me he knew that I was pregnant, but refused to say anything in case I harmed the life inside of me; a sweet little thing I hadn't even known was there but was a product of all my love and Draco's combined. The rest of my pregnancy was spent in utter bliss, even through the reoccurring silence that waves its glassy hands over my receptiveness to anything but the empty I felt since he left.

Nowadays I cannot be angry towards him leaving that night, because with my gorgeous son by my side and the photos, the showered memories, the journal and the wand my son now uses it seems like he never really left. No, he never really left me at all.

Excerpt from the last chapter of 'The true story of the Boy-Who-Lived'. Written after Harry Potter's death at the age grand age of eighty, where he had grown to see his son grow up, get married and have bouncing babies of his own. Dorian Potter-Malfoy compiled from journals of Harry's and the memory of others, this book as an ode to his fathers life, and with great respects to the memory of Harry we say thank you to him and hope he is happy with his soul mate, where ever that may be.

Iwrote a self review for this little one shot. Its quite good, so come on argue with me at http/under-the-ashes. all those that review, I love you. To all those that dont review but read it none the less, I love you slightly less. To everyone that wants to cry at this, I welcome you to join me. Let us be honest, for one little moment about the way love really is and work against that, eh?

No. Im not drunk.