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I love the color green. It's still my favorite color, it always has been. It always will be. And no, it's not because his eyes are green. Pfft.
A Iot of people tell me that it wasn't my fault. That I really shouldn't blame myself, that some people try to use others to fill some void in themselves.
His void must be as deep and fucking endless as space, then.
It wasn't my fault that Harry couldn't be faithful, not my fault he lies as much as breathes, he lies to everyone, about everything. He's so good at it, he's even fooled himself.
Blaise says that Harry should never have dated me, that after the war he should have saddled up with a Mind Healer, not a Malfoy. That he should have known better, he needed to sort himself out first. He should have been the person everyone thought he was.
They say it's not my fault.
Pansy tries to bloody beat it into my brain, but, I can't help but feel like I could have been more, I could have been better. Maybe, if I tried harder, he never would have wanted to leave.
I really would say that I wish him the best, no hard feelings. But I'm the best.
So I can't. He doesn't deserve it anymore.
"Drake, did you hear?"
I groan internally.
"What, Pansy, what now?" I ask, sighing and swirling the scotch around in my glass.
I was already regretting asking her.
She frowns.
"The She-Weasel left him. I hate to say it, but she's at least got some sense in her little pretty head." she says dryly.
I take a long swig of my scotch, rolling it around my tongue, trying to forget the way his mouth tasted. The way he used to ensnare my entire existence, with just his mouth.
At least Pansy's mouth doesn't taste like Azkaban.
"That's...nice." I say, looking down at her face.
"Nice? No, it's brilliant darling, it's marvelous!" Pansy shrieks, throwing a triumphant fist into the air, jostling her emerald earrings, making them swing wildly.
I close my eyes and try not to ask more questions.
"Why is that, Panse?"
I fail.
She smirks most devilishly, laughs, and smiling, takes my glass from me and throws down the last of the scotch.
"We're going to rub some salt in that sick son of a bitch's wounds, that's why."
Oh.