Left

It's over, you don't need to tell me. I hope you're with someone who makes you feel safe when you're sleeping tonight. I won't kill myself trying to stay in your life - I've got no distance left to run. When you see me, turn your back and walk away. I don't want to see you, 'cos I know the dreams that you keep - it's where we meet ... I hope you're with someone who makes you feel that this life is a life.

No Distance Left To Run- Blur

It had been their song. Bloody ironic really, a break-up song to remember their love by, as if the relationship had been doomed from the start. Now drinking himself to oblivion, Draco kept it on his stereo day and night. It wasn't as if there was anyone around to object to it. Occasionally, to really screw himself up he would put some Radiohead on and sob while Thom Yorke's unearthly voice warbled nonsensically over the driving guitars and bass. Harry had loved their songs; of course, it had been Draco who had introduced him to the dark sounds - would you think the Boy Who Lived knew how to find angsty music for himself? Even now, in his pathetic dishevelled dumped-on-his-ass state, Draco could smile bitterly at the idea of Harry's music taste had he not intervened. It would probably have involved Katrina and the Waves. Shuddering, he poured himself another shot of vodka and downed it. His sixth in a row. Not that bad really...it was one of his better days. He hadn't even started on the cigarettes yet this morning, though their stale smell permeated the room through days of abuse since Harry had left.

It had been listening to this song, their song, that Draco finally realised he was in love with Harry Potter. His enemy, his family's enemy. The downfall of the man he would one day call Master. He had known true love hearing the lyrics, absorbing the emotions that went into the words - he found himself understanding the singer's pain; he, Draco Malfoy, who was well known for possibly not having sympathy, let alone empathy. Yet he had listened to this muggle song, he realised the depth of love that allowed someone to walk away from the love of their life for their own good. Knowing that the life he led couldn't offer his love everything they needed. Giving them up to someone else despite the pain.

And Draco thought that he would, if required, do the same for Harry; because that was how much he loved him.

But he cursed the song now, cursed it for having enchanted him so that he only heard the call of his heart and not hearing that the same man he loved would also be his downfall. For he hadn't done all that he had been destined to do - he hadn't turned to the dark side, he hadn't left Harry to protect him, he hadn't helped his Father help Lord Voldemort in his quest for power. And so, he had watched his family perish - some in battle, some in the scourge of evil ones after their defeat. And he had watched as Harry was hailed the hero of the day, once again, for his bravery in leading the Wizarding world against the Dark Lord himself. And it had been worth it, hadn't it?

But it was all nothing; for one night he had watched, oh he watched with his heart breaking, Harry cheating on him with his beloved Weasley, after another round of raucous celebration with his drinking buddies. Those who had never accepted him, who had always been angry and jealous that Malfoy had dared to love their precious Harry. But they weren't so high-and-mighty that they would steal Harry from him. In the bed that Harry and Draco shared. In the flat they had bought to be together.

At that moment, Draco's heart shattered into too many pieces for him to comprehend; the pain something so terrible that for a moment he thought he would die there, hand over his chest, on the balcony sliding to the floor, over the fluttering night lights of the city below. Too many pieces, too many thoughts. But love had bound it all together again - love, that went too deep in Draco, that encompassed Harry so entirely that even this infidelity could be tolerated. Draco hurt, but he would hurt more without Harry, so he said nothing. Rented a room at a nearby hotel and pretended that a red-haired lanky man wasn't sleeping in his bed murmuring warmly at his loved one. It would all be all right, in the morning.

But then the bastard had left him. Took practically nothing, so that he left traces of himself all over the flat, things to taunt and torture Draco. Did the boy have no shame? And Draco hadn't heard from him once, not even to properly break up, in the intervening six weeks. Each day a drudge passed only by too many drinks, some in pretty colours and even prettier bottles; with music that tore his heart out and mended it every time, but in a different shape and with bits missing; by sobbing and crying and generally making much noise so that he could smell Harry's scent in discarded clothes that he used to muffle his mouth.

He had tried almost everything to block out the pain. But the song kept bringing it back. Wasn't he meant to be the one dealing out the pain? Wasn't he meant to be the one who left Harry for the boy's own good? Wasn't his love good enough?

But the answers were ones he didn't want to hear.