the girl who lost it all [d.m]

twenty three: solus

solus: alone, lone, lonely

———

DRACO was trying to get drunk.

It wasn't a rare occurrence—but it was rare that he ever got drunk and showed his face to anybody else. Usually, it was a quiet affair. He'd settle into the armchair in his study at the Manor, grab a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey and go at it until he passed out.

And while the first part of the plan had gone accordingly and he was seated in the leather armchair, slumped low in it, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, he hadn't anticipated the knock on the door of his study, followed by a soft voice.

"Draco?"

He blinked twice, trying to get his vision to clear. He knew that voice. Who did it belong to? He frowned, staring at the wall opposite him. Not Elara. He'd know if it was Elara. And if it wasn't Elara, he didn't want to hear it.

"Fuck off," he mumbled, taking another swig and shutting his eyes. Every inch of him buzzed but his mind had gone quiet and numb. It was a welcome relief. He wasn't drunk yet—but he was desperately trying.

The door pushed open and he cracked open one eye to see Astoria peer around the edge of it. Her eyes looked him up and down, studying him like a book.

"You didn't come to bed," she said, curtly, stepping into the study and shutting the door quietly behind her. She was dressed in a sage green nightgown, her hair twisted into a knot at the base of her neck.

"And that's a surprise because..." Draco took another long gulp of Firewhiskey, eyes closed as he tipped his head back.

"Because I haven't seen you in a week," she responded, sounding faintly annoyed. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Where have you been?"

"Busy," he replied, wincing as the ache behind his eyes throbbed a little harder. His Occlumency kept most of the headache away—but he'd been eager to get back to Elara and help ease hers. She was probably in more pain than he was. "Why are you here?"

"Why are you drinking?"

When he opened his eyes, she was standing in front of him, the moonlight streaking in through the window illuminating her. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her expression firm.

"Since when do you care?" He smirked up at her, raising an eyebrow as he tipped the bottle into his mouth again.

"Since this became a coping mechanism." She sniffed, crinkling her nose at the pungent odor of Firewhiskey. "It smells foul."

"Don't be rude," he chided. "And this is not a coping mechanism."

"Both your mother and I beg to differ," Astoria said, coldly, still inspecting him with something close to distaste on her face.