Tempus Fugit DRARRY

Chapter 10: Of The Melancholy

Still a little bit of your ghost, your witness
Still a little bit of your face I haven't kissed
You step a little closer each day
Still I can't say what's going on

Stones taught me to fly
Love taught me to lie
Life taught me to die

Cannonball - Damien Rice

I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often convincing - Oscar Wilde

Draco didn't know where to go. The city was just waking up and only the earliest of workers were sitting in cafés or exiting their chic apartments ready for the day. They were like bees, swarming through the streets, hailing taxis or greeting friends.

Draco felt suddenly very alone.

He began to walk in a random direction, only narrowly missing being run over as he crossed a road in the path of a black cab. The driver sounded his horn and broke Draco rudely out of his reverie just in time to jump backwards onto the pavement and avoid certain death. He turned into a side alley and vanished into the darkness.

He didn't know where he was walking, just that he couldn't stop. Emotions of a thousand bitter kinds were sweeping through him malevolently, making him nauseous and dizzy. So much had been revealed to him that morning that he didn't know quite what to do, or where to go, and his limited knowledge of the city meant that before half an hour was up, Draco was quite lost.

He didn't care, though, he didn't care about anything any more. A single piece of knowledge was permeating his mind. His mother was dead, and Harry had killed her. Draco didn't know if he could hate someone so much, but he hated Harry more than anyone else in the world at that moment.

He hated him but a part of him was soaring. Harry had said that he loved him. Harry Potter of all people. Draco had never thought he would see the day and a strange elation had followed Harry speaking those words before it was quashed by the recollection that Harry was the reason his mother was dead.

Harry loved him? That thought was too bizarre to even contemplate and the twisted confusion that was Draco's mind was preventing him from remembering what he had said in answer to that. He had cast Harry's emotions aside as if they meant nothing and he had told Harry he hated him. He had told Harry that he made him sick, he had treated Harry more cruelly than anyone else in the world, the one person that actually loved him.

The image of Harry's face as Draco had slammed the door rose up again in his mind, more pitiful and desolate than Draco remembered. Harry had looked utterly distraught, not only by Draco's cruelty, but by the knowledge that he had done something to hurt Draco so deeply. It had been guilt on Harry's face. Even as Draco had been yelling insults at him, Harry had been feeling guilty for hurting him.

"Stupid, fucking Gryffindor." Draco kicked a wall, hard, and regretted it soon after as a throbbing pain revealed itself in his foot. A cat meowed loudly and sprang out of Draco's way as he stormed down the alley, he was so angry with himself and with Harry that he could barely think straight and he realised once more that he was getting himself very, very lost.

A couple of men skulking at the end of the alleyway fixed Draco with a malicious look and leered unpleasantly. They were heavily built and of the stinking brand of man that morning doesn't seem to touch and dens of iniquity seem to be full of.

"Can I 'elp you, sir?" one of them asked. Draco felt a slight pang of fear, all three of these men were much bigger and heavier than he was.

"Uh. No," he said quickly and made to walk past them. One of them put on hand on Draco's shoulder to stop him. Draco shuddered in disgust as the man began to slide his hand up Draco's neck to touch his face.