Muggles ✧ Drarry

᥊𝓲

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5ᴋ
ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ: ᴊᴀɴᴜᴀʀʏ 6ᴛʜ, 2021
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"Draco, when was the last time you talked to your mother?"

Draco ignored the comment directed towards him and stirred his tea — spiced chai imported directly from India with two sugars, a dash of milk, and a few drops of vanilla — while pointedly staring away. He looked out the window and into Pansy's windowsill garden. They were at Pansy's flat now, which she had resumed renting after a little while of her staying with Greg Goyle and not telling Draco about it—she had been living there for roughly a year before the dramatic dénouement of Voldemort's reign, since her family was not keen on the idea that she preferred women. Pansy's redecoration had been her reason for inviting Draco over to the bland-walled dungeon in the first place, and once he had finished helping her decide how to right the outdated design, they had sat down for some tea.

"Draco," she called upon him again. "When was the last time you talked to your mother? Draco?" When he didn't so much as look in her direction, she let out a frustrated huff and turned her attention elsewhere, unto the reorganisation of her various teas that she brought out for friends. The same teas that were already organised. Draco watched out of the corner of his eye as she purposefully put the newest teas on top, where they didn't belong. He strained, trying not to say anything as she put oolong after peach hibiscus in the supposed alphabetical order. Peach hibiscus was either supposed to go under 'hibiscus, peach' or it was supposed to go under the letter 'P'. In no way, shape, or form did 'p' come before 'o' in the alphabet, and it never would.

His final straw, however, was when she closed the lid and didn't allow the second catch to close properly, leaving the fancy box open just a bit in and a considerate amount of air to get in. Draco couldn't keep his eyes off of the small opening, and he felt as though he was going to suffocate if she didn't close it soon.

Pansy stood, making to put the box away, and Draco let out a loud sound of discontentment. He snatched the box out of her arms and immediately set to fixing the way she had messed with her previously perfectly organised box. "You heathen," he scolded her while fixing everything. "The old teas go on the top so that they're used first, and you've fucked with the alphabet." He sighed when he finished it up, feeling an immense perfectionist's weight lifted off of his shoulders. He closed the box slowly, making sure to let the catch catch, before handing the box back to Pansy. She only smirked, setting the box back on the table and sitting back in her seat. Her legs crossed one over the other, and she raised an eyebrow.

"How many times do I have to fuck up the alphabet to get you to answer me?" she asked, patting his arm gently. Though she could be manipulative and bothersome, Pansy was still careful when it came to addressing personal matters. She was kind to Draco, a warm smile that met her eyes forming on her face when Draco's gaze finally met hers.

"My mother's been dead for years, Pans," he frowned, taking an unsteady sip of his tea, which should have cooled to the optimal temperature now. It was slightly sweet, just as he liked it, and he smiled with satisfaction, before remembering the topic of conversation.

"Your mother that's in St. Mungo's?" she asked, a slight chuckled escaping her. "The same mother that I saw just a few days ago when I went to talk to Jean about scones for my business?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "That awful thing isn't my mother, it's the shell of her. The fake version."

"The fake version?" Pansy repeated.