She was still imprinted on his soul. He had been miserable since the night she left, one evening much like this one. They had been content, or so he thought. He had planned for a cozy night in, when he could sweep her up on the couch and seat her delicately in his lap, holding her copy of Romeo and Juliet, which Draco had been enjoying more than he cared to admit. They had spent countless nights that way, limbs entangled and simultaneously reading a book of her choice, pausing only for chaste kisses on the cheek, forehead, jaw, neck, lips. Just thinking of their little habits, their comfortable life together, made Draco's eyes sting and his chest constrict painfully. He could almost feel her pillowy lips on his own if he closed his eyes... But when he opened them once again, he was still alone in a shadowy booth of a grimy pub. He finally took hold of the bottle of firewhisky perched on the table, twisting the cap off hastily and took a rather undignified swill of the drink. The cinnamon burned his throat as it went down, and he welcomed the discomfort with ease, as it seemed to be the only way to distract himself from the dull ache of her absence.