(no subject)
Who? Draco Malfoy w/Pansy Parkinson
What? Bitter and Sweet
When? Post-War II
Where? London
Why? Because apparently there's not a decent therapist in all the wizarding world? So when 17 year old Draco puts in an appearance at Sirius' party it explains why he's pretty sure he's just hallucinating the whole thing.
After the war the funerals and memorials and wakes stretched on for days, weeks, months. It seemed as if there were more people being buried than were left to dig the graves.
Draco hadn't planned to attend any of them. Maudlin reminders of a past that wasn't long enough ago.
Besides, he had better things to do.
At the ripe age of 17, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy all discovered the incredible healing powers of Absinthe and LSD. Two months after the war and the three of them were usually found in Draco's grandfather's townhouse--quietly drinking themselves into a dreamless sleep that no wizard made draught could ever come close to.
Draco was quite pleased with their ingenious plan to stay drunk. After all the townhouse was cool and quiet, completely undisturbed since Abraxas' death. And unlike the manor, he didn't think of Charity Burbage being tortured and killed over the dining table.
He did however hand it to his parents for moving forward. His mother in particular seemed determined to remove all traces of the occupation of their home. Draco made an effort but he never slept there and doubted that he would again. Anyway, sleep was elusive no matter where he finally collapsed. There were reminders everywhere. Littered in the newspapers, scattered throughout the countryside. All of Great Britian was in effect an endless graveyard.
Pansy comes to the townhouse often. Her nose wrinkles at the smell and the sight of the three of them slumped around the living room staring off into their own private worlds. She prods them with the tip of her boot, casts cleansing charms, sometimes joins them in demolishing Blaise's mother's reserve of Absinthe one jewel toned anise flavored sip at a time. She doesn't always accept the sugar cubes that come from Theodore's stash, just sometimes.
Draco comes closest to sleeping when Pansy is there. He puts his head in her lap and drifts in something like peace while she strokes his hair. They don't talk. Not about the war, the deaths, the school, the classmates, their families, their friends families - they don't talk. Slytherins are not allowed to grieve in the open--after all they left-...as if they would.
No, Slytherins retreat into their nests. They twine around one another and keep what's left dear.
Pansy comes to them in the middle of the week. She has hangover potion, sobering potion, fresh clothes for each of them.
"Get up. Drink up. Let's go." Her words are nearly as sharp as the angles and planes of her face.
Surprisingly enough, Draco obeys and they are apparated to a small graveyard. When they arrive one look tells Draco exactly where they are and what they're doing there. Blaise and Theodore walk forward to take seats, but Draco - far more sober than he's been in weeks shakes his head almost violently.
"No."
For such a frail looking thing, Pansy's grip on Draco's arm is unbreakable and she yanks him forward. "He helped you."
"He shouldn't have. He-" Draco closed his eyes.
Pansy's free hand shot up and clamped around Draco's jaw, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "Don't you dare say that. He was ours. Ours Draco and by Salaazar you are going to sit here and you are going to give him the respect he deserves. I am not above putting you in a body bind." Her voice is a quiet hiss. "We're here to honor him. We're the only ones who can. He was ours." Her hand unclamped from his face and smoothed over Draco's tie. "Come now Mr Malfoy, are you really going to let him be represented by Gryffindors?" Pansy's droll intonation was a perfect match.
He forced himself to swallow back a sob and wraps his fingers around Pansy's. "Bee in your bonnet Miss Parkinson?"
He holds her hand throughout the simple grave side service and in return she holds what's left of Draco afterwards.
What? Bitter and Sweet
When? Post-War II
Where? London
Why? Because apparently there's not a decent therapist in all the wizarding world? So when 17 year old Draco puts in an appearance at Sirius' party it explains why he's pretty sure he's just hallucinating the whole thing.
After the war the funerals and memorials and wakes stretched on for days, weeks, months. It seemed as if there were more people being buried than were left to dig the graves.
Draco hadn't planned to attend any of them. Maudlin reminders of a past that wasn't long enough ago.
Besides, he had better things to do.
At the ripe age of 17, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy all discovered the incredible healing powers of Absinthe and LSD. Two months after the war and the three of them were usually found in Draco's grandfather's townhouse--quietly drinking themselves into a dreamless sleep that no wizard made draught could ever come close to.
Draco was quite pleased with their ingenious plan to stay drunk. After all the townhouse was cool and quiet, completely undisturbed since Abraxas' death. And unlike the manor, he didn't think of Charity Burbage being tortured and killed over the dining table.
He did however hand it to his parents for moving forward. His mother in particular seemed determined to remove all traces of the occupation of their home. Draco made an effort but he never slept there and doubted that he would again. Anyway, sleep was elusive no matter where he finally collapsed. There were reminders everywhere. Littered in the newspapers, scattered throughout the countryside. All of Great Britian was in effect an endless graveyard.
Pansy comes to the townhouse often. Her nose wrinkles at the smell and the sight of the three of them slumped around the living room staring off into their own private worlds. She prods them with the tip of her boot, casts cleansing charms, sometimes joins them in demolishing Blaise's mother's reserve of Absinthe one jewel toned anise flavored sip at a time. She doesn't always accept the sugar cubes that come from Theodore's stash, just sometimes.
Draco comes closest to sleeping when Pansy is there. He puts his head in her lap and drifts in something like peace while she strokes his hair. They don't talk. Not about the war, the deaths, the school, the classmates, their families, their friends families - they don't talk. Slytherins are not allowed to grieve in the open--after all they left-...as if they would.
No, Slytherins retreat into their nests. They twine around one another and keep what's left dear.
Pansy comes to them in the middle of the week. She has hangover potion, sobering potion, fresh clothes for each of them.
"Get up. Drink up. Let's go." Her words are nearly as sharp as the angles and planes of her face.
Surprisingly enough, Draco obeys and they are apparated to a small graveyard. When they arrive one look tells Draco exactly where they are and what they're doing there. Blaise and Theodore walk forward to take seats, but Draco - far more sober than he's been in weeks shakes his head almost violently.
"No."
For such a frail looking thing, Pansy's grip on Draco's arm is unbreakable and she yanks him forward. "He helped you."
"He shouldn't have. He-" Draco closed his eyes.
Pansy's free hand shot up and clamped around Draco's jaw, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "Don't you dare say that. He was ours. Ours Draco and by Salaazar you are going to sit here and you are going to give him the respect he deserves. I am not above putting you in a body bind." Her voice is a quiet hiss. "We're here to honor him. We're the only ones who can. He was ours." Her hand unclamped from his face and smoothed over Draco's tie. "Come now Mr Malfoy, are you really going to let him be represented by Gryffindors?" Pansy's droll intonation was a perfect match.
He forced himself to swallow back a sob and wraps his fingers around Pansy's. "Bee in your bonnet Miss Parkinson?"
He holds her hand throughout the simple grave side service and in return she holds what's left of Draco afterwards.