Draco bends at the waist, looking at his father sideways. His blonde eyebrow is quirked oddly, the corner of his lip curling. He's staring into the eyes of Lucius Malfoy, so unlike his own, now cold and grey instead of alive and silver.

He looks back up at Pansy, who is leaning against the liquor cabinet. "He's dead." He announces this as if she wasn't the one who killed him.

"It amazes me that you consider yourself the brains in this relationship," Pansy informs him dryly.

Draco looks deliriously happy as he turns back to the body of his father, gesturing at it grandly. "He's dead!"

Pansy somehow manages to inch away even though her back is flush against the cabinet. "You're not going to do a jig, are you? I don't think I can sleep with a man who jigs."

Draco does hop up and down a little, and she turns away, reaching for the alcohol. "I'm going to be ill."

"Oh, sod off," he snaps, still sounding as though he is on top of the world. "The old bastard is dead and now we can have everything we've ever wanted! His estate, his other estate, his money--"

"Yes," Pansy says in a very strange way as she pours him a drink. "We."

"And all because we killed him!" Draco rejoices again. "Killed him dead. Got him good, didn't we? I bet he's sitting in hell right now, shaking that damn pimp stick at us and cursing our names. Well, take that you bloody--"

"I get it, you're happy." Pansy rolls her eyes as she pulls out a small vial from in between her chest and pours it into Draco's brandy. She spins, smiling.

"Have a drink, love?"