Remember when I loved you-drarry story

Chapter 8

Are you alright?"

Malfoy barked out a bitter laugh, wet and strangled. His eyes were red, puffy and miserable, and his bony shoulders trembled lightly. Little pearly beads of teardrops glinted on his long, dark eyelashes, like dewdrops on fine gossamer, as he gazed emptily into the fluttering red flames in the hearth. He was sitting quietly, without saying a single word, his shaky knees pulled tightly to his chest, as if he were trying to curl into himself and disappear. With a shaking hand, he took a silent swig from his bottle of firewhiskey. His long, pale throat bobbed as he downed the residue in a single, desperate gulp.

Harry remained wholly silent, secretly afraid of breaking this fragile, brittle moment, fraught with something he could neither describe nor define. His yearning eyes simply watched Malfoy unblinkingly as Malfoy wiped his tear-smudged eyes furiously, sniffing and hiccuping and drowning in his misery.

Harry swallowed harshly and forced himself to look away, feeling oddly as though his stomach was doing cartwheels inside his abdomen.

Perhaps, it was the after effect of drinking too much alcohol.

The Room of Requirement was warm, cosy and extremely comfortable. It was probably close to midnight, and they were sitting side by side in the pleasant darkness, their backs resting against the bed frame, with empty, abandoned glasses and unopened bottles of firewhiskey littering the carpeted stone floor around them. The quiet pops and hisses as the wood burned in the fireplace, and Malfoy's suppressed sniffles, were the only sounds in the room.

Harry's mind felt dizzy, his limbs all sluggish, his movements tinged with lethargy, as he sat silently. His hands shook, and his heart was unstable as he poured himself another glass of firewhiskey, promptly knocking it back without hesitation. His shoulders soon relaxed as the alcohol burned down his throat, the tingling fire making his mouth go numb.

Tense moments slipped by in complete and utter silence, and the contents of the bottle steadily decreased as Harry and Malfoy took gulp after gulp, until only imperceptible vestiges were left at the bottom. Not a single word was exchanged, but somehow, Harry preferred it that way. He was extremely tipsy by the end of it, and so was Malfoy.

After what felt like an eternity of unsettling silence, Malfoy asked in a quiet, trembling voice, "Aren't you going to ask me?"

Harry didn't look at him. "Ask you what?"

"Why I was crying like a bloody idiot — in the girls' bathroom, of all places," he whispered bitterly, staring at the floor in anger. His voice was soft and vulnerable, and somehow, when Harry looked at him, he appeared to be oddly delicate and lonely. His platinum blond hair — usually so neatly slicked back — fell in loose, messy ringlets over his pale face, hiding his tear-blotched cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. His gaze was dull, and his lips — red and swollen from biting down too hard — trembled very lightly.

Harry hastily averted his gaze, trying to swallow the fiery, hot taste of firewhiskey still lingering persistently on his tongue. "No."

Although Harry had been stubbornly trying to find out what Malfoy was up to, he was too drunk to care at the moment.

Initially, he'd even stalked and followed Malfoy, and he'd been spending most of his leisure time these past few days sitting inertly in the Room of Requirement and glaring at Malfoy for hours on end.

Just a mere few hours ago, he'd found Malfoy alone in the girls' bathroom, sobbing miserably like a child.

A while ago, he'd been dying to ask about it, to demand why, but as the firewhiskey quietly swirled in his belly, and he watched the endless tears slowly sliding down Malfoy's cheeks, it suddenly didn't feel as important any more. Perhaps, he'd been wrong. Perhaps, Malfoy wasn't so bad, after all — no, that was a dangerous thought, and he was too drunk to think rationally.