When You Loved Me (Druna Fanfiction)

Prologue

Draco savoured the pleasant burn of the amber liquid as it passed through his throat.

He sighed softly, leaning back against his chair as he welcomed the sweet chemical drowning his senses into his system. He could feel himself succumbing into alcohol-induced intoxication ever so slowly, satisfyingly.

He eyed the empty bottle of firewhiskey with a shade of amusement. The temptation provided by that stuff had never worked on Draco enough to make him a constant drinker, let alone crave its imminent effect. He had always had control over the state of his emotive tendencies and had always been able to lock it away from the very surface of his mind if need be.

Drinking to get, well, drunk had never appealed greatly on Draco. He never liked the dazed disorientation that alcohol brings to his body especially to his mind. It made him feel even more lost and the situation more complicated.

And yet, here he was; sitting in his studies with an empty bottle of firewhiskey, wanting nothing but to cloud the complex swirl of emotions with alcohol. Draco berated himself for acting so irrationally, so immaturely. There  was absolutely no point in being so utterly affected to the extent that he had to trust his gnawing thoughts to be flushed away by mere chemicals. Hadn't it been already two years? Hadn't he coped well ever since?

After all, this wasn't how he should act-- this wasn't how a Malfoy should behave.

Ironic, Draco thought. He wouldn't be in this situation if he hadn't put the family name first, if he hadn't put such a great value on the bloodline. What would it have been if he didn't make those decisions? What would it be like if things had been a bit different?

Draco almost scowled at the thought. That chapter of his life had come to pass, buried deep in his memories but not entirely forgotten. Memories. That was what became of that brief period of his life from two years ago-- memories that had the tendency to resurface from the depths whenever they pleased. Memories that haunted him almost everynight when he lay awake in his bed; instilling guilt, casting internal torment.

What should had been forgotten two years ago had latched itself onto him-- a burden he had ignored for so long and yet he could still feel its weight.

Acting like it never happened was more than a great help and Draco would be totally honest to say that he wished it never did. It was so much more easier to deceive yourself than to face the reality, for the reality had been proven to be painfully unbearable.

Draco was doing a pretty good job of it too-- that was until he overheard Ministry witches talking in the lift that he knew that the reality wouldn't be too evasive for his liking.

"Haven't you heard? The empty post in the Department of Experimental Charms is going to be filled in this week."

"Really? By who?"

The glass he was holding had suddenly been thrown against the bookshelf with such force that debris flew everywhere. Next thing, the empty bottle of firewhiskey joined the shattered glass on the floor in a heap of glistening shards. He could have stopped it if he tried but somehow the effect of alcohol mingled with cold self hatred made him want to do something-- anything that would mean he still had control.

"Well, I've only heard rumours-"

His hand snatched his wand from his desk in a flash and performed a non-verbal summoning charm. A new bottle of firewhiskey whizzed fro m the shelf and into his shaking hands.

Draco fumbled with the cap with difficulty. He raised the bottle to his lips once the lid was off. Apparantly, he wasn't drunk enough to shut everything down.  Apparently, one bottle of firewhiskey wasn't enough. He wanted out, completely.

"They say she's been in Ireland for two years. Nobody knows why she decided to come back suddenly."

He took a long swig from the bottle, making him wince due to the potent burn but managed to down half the bottle through splutters of his attempted defiance.

"She's friends with Harry Potter; a close friend at that. You have probably seen her on the Prophet before. You know that publication that endorsed Potter on the war? Quibbler, I think its name was. She's the daughter of the editor."

His throat felt raw and his vision had gone dangerously blurred. The coversation he kept replaying on his head had reduced into an indistinct buzz, which was what he was trying to achieve initially. Absently, he raised the bottle once again to his mouth just for good measures; just to make sure he wouldn't remember any of this in the morning.

Draco was about to finish his second bottle when the creaking of the door somehow managed to penetrate through his dazed senses. He looked back over his shoulder, bottle still poised toward his mouth.

"Draco?"

Astoria stood there in her burgundy bath robes, her eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight of broken glass on the floor. She didn't say anything for a moment as her pale blue eyes move from Draco to the bottle he was holding.

"Draco?" She repeated, now walking cautiously around the remnants of the broken glass toward him. "What are you- Is everything alright, dear?"

He lowered the bottle but kept his grip on it, as if his very sanity depended on it. Who know? Maybe it did.

"Everything's fine, Astoria." Draco was surprised by the nonchalance on his voice. "You needn't be worried."

Astoria stood beside his chair, looking down at him, eyeing the weariness in his facial features. "Can you tell me about it?"

"There's nothing to tell."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes." He said shortly, a sense of finality in his tone.

He tilted his head slowly to face her. She was staring down at him with her back straight and her stance composed, looking naturally sophistcated even in her bathrobe. She was the definition of an aristocratic woman, born to prestige and the world of silver and gold. She was everything a pureblood lady should be.

His eyes travelled down to her left hand. A brilliant silver and emerald ring was resting on her finger, glimmering almost iredescently when it caught rays of light. The sight of it alone was a testament in itself; a kind of wake-up call that sealed the decision he made two years ago.

He, Draco Malfoy, would be marrying Astoria Greengrass in a few weeks time. It would do him no good to hold on to what happened in the past. It would do him abosolutely no good if he continued to live with his other foot off the ground; if he continued to wake up everyday surreptuosly hoping that it had all been a bad dream, that he would turn to his side and see a tangle of dirty blonde hair instead of black.

The gleam of the ring on Astoria's finger brought him back to reality. This was what he decided. She was who he chose. It wouldn't be long until Astoria became a Malfoy-- his bride, his other half.

And then maybe, just maybe, he would learn to move on from the ghost of everything that happened two years ago.