iv: You can be addicted to a certain kind of sadness Like resignation to the end, always the end.

He seems to be consistently stuck sitting behind his desk. It's his life, and he has no qualms in admitting that, but it doesn't take away the harshness of that truth. He hasn't begun to fully comprehend the shambolic state of his life yet, but he feels that he's edging on the verge of that realisation. He dreads it.

Draco's life is now surrounded by figures, facts, meetings, connections – and none of these are the social or fun kind. His life is dominated by work and seriousness (unless Blaise is with him) while everyone around him seems to have a good thing going. Part of him hates feeling sorry for himself, but another part can't help but think he deserves it. It seems, however, the no one else quite has the same opinion. There's still that tint of resentment, that flash of anger and tilt of the eyebrows that he receives upon mentioning his second name. Sure, he has come a long way from his days of smuggling people through wardrobes, but Draco can't help other people along, too. He can't make others forget his wrongdoings, and hey, maybe he doesn't deserve a clean sheet. Maybe he deserves to be stigmatised – and more than he is now.

After the war, he had spent a year travelling. It had been a good idea in his mind; to escape the Wizarding world and allow it to built itself again without him. He wanted to see the world, to explore other societies, languages and even food. It turned out that it was a good idea, because he 'found' himself of sorts on those travels. He grew into a person that could function in their society, who could provide something besides trouble. There wasn't much to tell truly, he returned home and shortly after met Astoria. He attempted to become an Auror, but was rejected because of his shady past. His reconnection with Blaise provided their new company. It wasn't long before he married Astoria – after that is a bit hazy. Everything meshed into one year in his mind, as it felt not a day had passed since they married.

(And yet.. somehow, it feels like they were never together.)

Draco's drawn from his thoughts as his secretary – who may be the most annoying being on the planet – sticks his head in, "Sir, there's a woman here to see you." The way he says 'woman' causes Draco's eyebrows to raise in question, and he puts his pen down.

It also annoys him that the man at his door thinks he has some sort of authority to judge him. Silly man. The thought of who this woman is hits him then which causes his thoughts to whirl. He prays to whoever that it's not Astoria, but reasons that Bobby (most annoying name he could give to the secretary) would have said that.

The mystery is ended when she walks in – he can't help but be surprised. He leans back in his chair, surveying her with questioning eyes. He doesn't know why she's here, and furthermore, he can't fathom why that stupid man admitted her into the office. He decides promptly that he doesn't want to deal with her today, and that she is wrong in coming here. Draco isn't a charitable person, and isn't going to hand her money, so he is about to tell her to beat it when she speaks.

"My name is Belle, okay? I'm a 37 year old woman from London. Now, can I please ask you some questions?"

Who the hell is this woman? His mind recognises her as the one he saved from the bar a few weeks ago. Yet, he wonders who the hell she thinks he is to demand answers from him. Moreover, why she thinks he has any answers for her. He barely knows her. Anger and irritation flare in him, as the former so rarely does these days (there are few things that he's passionate about) but this encounter is so unbelievably ridiculous – she's so unbelievably ridiculous – that he has to let the anger course. "Excuse me?" He tone is that cool, sharp quality that he is so familiar with.

Her resolve falters a bit here, and she stamps her foot rather pathetically, "You have my bag. Where is it? I've told you what you wanted to know, now—now give me my bag!"

"You're out of your mind. Leave before I have someone escort you, Elle."

"Belle." She corrects feebly, her expression defeated. The brazen, bold attitude she adopted when entering the room has fizzled out completely now. He looks at her properly; she's nothing like she was that night. The beauty and confidence is gone, the allure and magic disappeared. Her hair hangs limp in a ponytail, swaying an inch with every word she pushes out. Her eyes mostly remain on the floor, but that doesn't change the haggard appearance of her skin and the bags under her eyes. She's had a hard time since he saw her last. She's wearing a pair of shorts that leave little to be desired – literally, they're not attractive at all for a woman her age – while her top is tight, and a light blue that he would ordinarily associate with seven-year old girls. She finally speaks again. Her voice is hoarse and has a desperation to it that grasps his attention (desperation is no stranger to him). "I need that bag."

Draco resigns himself to the fact that no matter how much he may not want to, he has to help this woman. For some reason, it has fallen upon him to be a guardian saviour here. He doesn't know this woman; he doesn't know anything about her. Still, he's drawn to her in a way he can't describe. He's partly curious of the two personalities she seems to possess – the magical, gorgeous woman from the bar, and the insecure, frail wreck standing before him. He shrugs, standing from his seat, "I don't have your bag."

She rushes forward to his desk, barely touching it as she exclaims hastily, "I retraced my steps, asked around and I know – I know that I left it at your house! I was only half-conscious, it must have been where I dropped it. Please go back and check?" Belle leans forward slightly, exposing him to the soft curve of her breasts and the dulcet, smooth skin that lies there, "I'll do anything."

Draco jumps back, shaking his head, "I don't want that from you." He snorts derisively, "I certainly don't want that from you – or anything else. Besides, you must be mistaken, for we never went to my house."

"I know I was drunk, but I thought…" she trails off, appearing confused, "I thought I saw a large, two story house. Breathtakingly beautiful with huge balconies." Belle is lost in this memory as she recalls the house, while she absently touches the ring on her left finger. He fails to notice this as Draco falls back into his chair.

His heart starts to beat faster, as it sinks at the same time. It suddenly feels as if he's sweating profusely – when in reality, there's not a bead of sweat to be found – and he wipes his hands off of each other. The only thought in his head, however, is repeated quite loudly and echoes in the large room.

"Oh shit." It's in his fucking ex-wife's house. "Oh shit."

So, a little bit quicker this time, but not great. I have the next chapter nearly finished, as it was part of this one, but I just felt this was too good a place to not leave off. Sorry it's so short, I seem to have a problem in that regard lately. Thank you so much for your reviews, I really appreciate it! Disclaimer: HP and "Somebody that I Used To Know" by Gotye are not mine.

CN