CURSED: FROM THE BEGINNING [D.M]

-(78) stain on your soul

DRACO walks into his apartment, expecting only a look of disapproval from his mother or a possible quarrel between the pair of them, for his absence without providing reason for the past three days. So he is pretty confused and shocked as to why there is a very drunk Pansy on his kitchen floor, staring at the ceiling like she can barely process anything. He even doubts if his presence had registered within her mind from the way she lies there like a mere log of wood, the very life drained out of her.

He scans the room and spots the bottles of wine and firewhiskey laying huddled by the trashcan. And Narcissa doesn't drink. Nor is she there, he confirms from the quietness of the place. And if she was indeed there, Pansy wouldn't be lying on the floor like a corpse, drunk and senseless. His mother always had a soft spot for her.

"Pans?", Draco calls out softly, taking careful steps so as to not startle her. He repeatedly calls out to her on his way but she doesn't seem to hear him. He sighs and sinks to his knees, towering above her in her line of vision. Even with that, it takes a solid ten seconds for her to realise he's there, right in front of her.

Her lips quiver as she shrinks back towards the floor, putting a hand between their faces. "Draco, you.. you scared me!", she hisses, her words slurry and mushed up against one another, evidently from all the alcohol she drowned herself in.

He sighs and sits crossed-legged on the floor, pulling her head onto his lap carefully. "What happened, Pans?"

She lets out a giggle as an attempt at diversion. "Whatever do you mean?", she mumbles, trying to cover up what's hurting her with a pleasant tone.

But her eyes. Her eyes don't lie. They never lie as she was always quite unable to mask the pure emotions that poured out of them since the day he has known her. And she definitely can't hide behind a facade when she's in such a vulnerable state.

"Your tricks don't work on me, Pansy. I know you", he tells her, pushing back the hair on her face. "Besides, you're a terrible actor anyway."

"Heyyy ", she mutters out, scrunching up her nose and creasing her eyebrows, taking full offense. It makes him laugh despite the situation and at that, she pulls her face into a full-on scowl and attempts to get up. But the alcohol reigning within every corner of her system allows her no proper mobility. So she crashes right back down onto the floor, her head returning to his lap. "You're totally hammered, gems", he mumbles out to her softly, knowing she needs patience from his side. And the only other woman he can seem to tolerate other than Zilliah is Pansy, so he gives it to her.

"Gems?", she asks, confused. But it passes as she seems to remember why he called her that. "You don't think it's cheesy anymore, Draco?", she chuckles a little, her eyes straining badly to focus on him.

The corner of his lips tug up in return as he thinks back to that summer when they were both twelve-year-olds, playing in the garden in front of the Parkinson manor, very far away from all the pain and troubles that seem to have coiled its hand around their throats now.

Upon finding a pink-colored stone, young Pansy held it up in the air with a wide smile on her face as if she found the most precious treasure on Earth. Soon, she found another one and it was orange in color. She held the latter out to Draco in an instant and declared that to be his. "Look, we have our very own gems now, Draco!", she had beamed, her eyes glistening with joy.

But young Draco shook his head and spoke realistically, "They're not gems, Pansy. They're ordinary rocks, just colored differently." She had looked so crestfallen then, her shoulders slumping and her eyes dropping to the ground, and Draco's heart ached at it. "Okay fine, we can keep them and pretend they are indeed our gems."