Happy Pills

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/27697723.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: F/M, M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott/Pansy Parkinson,
Blaise Zabini/Daphne Greengrass, Harry Potter/Adrian Pucey
Character: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson,
Adrian Pucey, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, Kingsley Shacklebolt,
Harry Potter, Lucius Malfoy, Adrian Pucey's Father, Narcissa Black
Malfoy, Graham Montague
Additional Tags: Slow Burn, dramione - Freeform, Slytherin, PostWar, posthogwarts,
Drugs, Drug Addiction, Drug Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism,
Hermione is a baddie, Dark Mark, Suicide Attempt, Self-Harm, Trauma,
Death Eaters, the rents are out of Azkaban, all the Slytherins got dark
marks, drug overdose, Drug Overdose Attempt, Protective Draco,
Addiction, Violence, Death, Adrian is the light of my life, Tattoo Draco
Malfoy, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Collections: Escapism, Draco Malfoy Books, dramione wips i need to read, God Tier
Dramione, Draco Malfoy, The High Ground, Work in Progress Fics I
Religiously Read, Already read for molly, dramione for my mental
health, Fucking Masterpieces, faves dhr. <3, dramione fics to read that
may possibly ruin my life, HP fics, Dramione to Read, I Can’t Have 100+
Tabs Open., dramione i'll read soon, Goddess Tier Dramione,
Old_phone_tbr_2021Katie, GOATED DRAMIONE
✨ ⚡️ ,
Need_to_read_dramione, Dramione degne di nota, DM + HG <3,
Dramione Master Pieces, Ongoing fic, Alysoun's TBR Pile, Absolute
Favorites, *Chef's Kiss* Across HP by FieryRaven, the very best of
dramione, depressed_darlling_goodreads, fics that live rent free in my
brain ❤️ , top-shelf dramione,
Draco_Who_I_dont_not_yet, DrayDray x HermHerm, ToReadHD,
Dramione Obsessed, Dramione re-reads , fics that… transcend,
Dramione_Favs, Dramione’s Highest of Shelves, Dramione Fics that
Avada my Kedavra, slow-burn well written dramione
GEMS , Complete, dramione favs, dramione fics on
x-game mode, Blondi my beloved
Stats: Published: 2020-11-24 Completed: 2022-07-31 Chapters: 41/41 Words:
285527

Happy Pills
by malf0y101

Summary

A few years after the Second Wizarding War, a group of Slytherins is drafted into a
 rehabilitation program created by the Ministry of Magic and one of its determined interns--
one of their former classmates and the familiar Golden Girl of Gryffindor. As their marks
continue to cause physical and mental pain, the Slytherins undergo intense treatment in
order to relearn everything about the Wizarding World and tackle the trauma of their Dark
Marks.

And although they are apprehensive, they are also desperate for someone to simply care
about them.

Notes

your wellbeing and safety are far more important than this fanfiction. if any of the
following tags are triggers, or even just potentially triggering, please do not read this
fanfiction/please exercise extreme caution if you do: addiction, drug addiction, drug
overdose. this is a graphic fanfiction, so please please please--I beg of you--read
responsibly. I will not be offended if you choose not to read. your safety is the MOST
important thing to me. thank you <3
 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes

tw // self harm, suicide

Graham Montague glares at the shadowy, black serpent and skull etched into his left forearm. The
mammoth design is impossible to ignore. Even though it has faded slightly overtime, it still stings
like a bitch—feels like his whole limb is submerged in scalding, hot water. No amounts of drugs or
alcohol can numb the overwhelming pain bursting from his arm to the rest of his body. It coils
around his veins, infiltrates his muscles, and melts his bones with ease.

And he can't fucking take it anymore.

The mark has been tormenting him for days and keeping him awake at night. When he does find
time to sleep, his dreams are corrupted by the evil remnants of the mark still floating around in his
body, mixed with tainted oxygen that filters through his system. No matter how morally good he
tries to be, he cannot escape his past. Voldemort lives with him—upon him—forever.

He’s a prisoner to the mark.

And even though Voldemort was killed two years ago, Graham can still feel the consequences of
the mark in every little thing he does—when he talks to people, when he eats, when he listens to
his vinyl, when he practices petty magic, when he sleeps, when he makes love. It plagues every
facet of his life.

Demons. His fucking demons. They slice through his intestines, hang like monkeys upon his veins,
and fold his spirit into itself, suctioned like dust in front of a vacuum down into the dark abyss in
the pit of his stomach. They swallow his eyes from the inside, seize and confiscate his ability to
smell and taste, and utterly destroy every inch of his being. Those demons—they stem from the
mark, which constantly vibrates and ebbs upon his pale arm. He sees it through his blurry vision.
He can feel it dance with pleasure. It is relentless.

He grips the sides of the porcelain sink in his bathroom, lowering his head into the basin and
screaming into the rusted drain.

Tired.

That's what he is.

Fucking exhausted by this tattoo. Unquestionably haunted by his past actions—actions that do not
characterize who he is now, or rather, who he is trying to be. His piercing cry echoes throughout
the small room, bouncing off of the evergreen tiled walls and continuously ringing in his ears.

He is alone, except for a small, external presence which looms in the atmosphere around him. It’s
like a fire that surrounds him, smothers his vision, and steams the contents of his body. A burning,
blazing force which, like the mark, is inescapable. So long as the mark remains stitched into his
body, the fire will persist.

And there is also a voice that will not stop pestering his brain. It speaks to him, unremorsefully.
He doesn’t know who’s voice it is—it sounds nothing like his, yet it’s familiar.

Do it.

Graham pants heavily, his eyes widening and burning. Sweat pours from his temples, fusing with
the tears flowing from his inflamed eyes. He blinks and shifts his groggy eyesight to the line of
white powder atop the left side of the bathroom counter.

Go on. It'll feel fucking fantastic.

Obeying the voice as if he has no other option, Graham wastes no time bending over and forcing
his left nostril shut with his quivering index finger. He lines the powder below his right nostril,
takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and inhales the substance, shifting his head several inches
forward to subsume as many grains as possible, mind the poor and rushed form of the snort.

It shoots up his nose and sends its tantalizing message straight to Graham's system.

He rises abruptly, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut as he attempts to
tolerate the harsh upshoot of the substance. It rushes to his brain, into his blood stream—every
inch of his fragile, traumatized body feels the cocaine crawl throughout it, like frantic ants rushing
to a delectable food source. He emits a sullen groan, allowing his body to surrender itself to the
drug. It too holds him captive. He loosens the tension in his shoulders as the sweet sensation of
cocaine colonizes him.

Situated in the left corner of the sink is an almost empty bottle of fire whiskey; its spout glistens,
tempting Graham to demolish the contents of the bottle with his throbbing tongue and eager throat.
He grabs it and chugs the remnants, the cool snow and the cinnamon liquor infusing within his
system. The elements work together, breeding an unsteady heart rate and a pulsating head rush.

In mere seconds, the bottle is empty. Graham grips the 12 oz. jug in his shaking hand, staring at it
with red eyes, wishing there could be more. He could use his magic to conjure up an additional
bottle, but what good would it do? It would be a waste of perfectly good fire whiskey. And he
would no doubt feel just as fucking terrible after consuming another bottle as he did now. So, there
is simply no point.

No point to anything.

The forces within him collide, battling over which one holds the most control over him. He’s lost
autonomy. The cocaine, the alcohol, and the Dark Mark dance in a tango upon his organs,
stamping their powers on every inch of his insides. A pressure unlike any other builds up within
him; the substances are the constructors, and the effects of the substances are the buildings. And
the constructors are erecting edifices at triple the speed, vying for power and control within his
body.

He's lost authority.

He doesn't care.

In an instant, Graham hurls the empty bottle against the wall to his right. It shatters on impact, the
glass combusting and dispersing into the empty white tub that is lodged into the bottom of the
wall. Panting heavily, he stares at the shards of glass in the tub, wondering what it would be like to
soak in those fragmented pieces and liberate his blood.

No more wondering. He wants to feel it.

His heart racing and his veins pumping with adrenaline, Graham turns back and punches the mirror
above the sink with full force. He pounds his fist into the glass once, twice, three times, until the
skin on his hand is covered in his crimson blood. Shards of the mirror lodge themselves into his
knuckles, and others fall into the sink. One large, sharp piece has wedges itself in the drain.

Graham stares at it, a sense of intrigue and urgency taking over.

It would be so easy to do it with that piece.

The voice in his head is strong. Stronger than he is.

Go on. You know you want to.

Graham wants to. He wants it to be over.

He yanks the fragment out of its spot in the drain and hovers it above the mark on his arm. It's like
the mark wants this to happen. It wants Graham to drive himself over the edge, do whatever
necessary in order to unshackle himself from it. The alcohol and the drugs are secondary. The
mark is leading him to do this.

Slowly, and in order to savor the pain, he presses the corner of the glass into his arm, sweeping the
glass horizontally over the mouth of the skull. He cries out at the sharp pain, inspecting his scarlet
blood as it seeps out of his skin and drips down his arm towards his wrist, tinged with his
throbbing blue and purple veins. The discomfort only lasts for a moment. When the stinging
decreases, Graham has the urge to feel more.

"Fucking hell," he murmurs, lifting the discolored glass and shaving it again into his forearm, this
time right in the center of the snake's body. He relishes in the split second of pain, but as quickly as
it comes, it vanishes.

He craves more.

His eyes wander to the bathtub.

Go on, Graham. It's so simple.

He’s resolute. He marches to the tub, his arm dripping with blood, leaving small droplets of
himself on the tiled floor, forever staining the bathroom as the place he once lived. This was his
bathroom now, forever. No amount of scrubbing, bleach, or even magic would remove him from
this spot. His ghost would live here and haunt anyone who stepped foot in this place, reminding
them to always make the right choice.

To not end up like him—hopeless and lost, without any purpose.

His slender fingers trail the metal knob of the tub, leaving his trace on another part of the
bathroom. With a twist of the handle, he turns the water on, letting it dispense into the basin. The
water collects the shards of the bottle and slowly lifts them onto its surface. They float like
feathers, and Graham suddenly feels like he too is floating. Like the world he will be lifted into is
one of peace and quiet. Free of the mark.

Still in his pajamas, Graham steps into the bath and submerges himself in the water. He grips the
same piece of glass in his hand, sinking it into his palm to draw even more blood. But there is no
pain anymore. There is simply numbness, nothingness.

He lowers himself into the ice-cold water, his heartbeat reaching a dangerously high pace. The
glacial water and the circulating cocaine draw his eyes to shoot open with alertness; he moans
ecstatically.

Graham does what he needs to do. He sees no other way to flee the constant pain, the constant
reminder of his choices.

Drip, drip, drip. Slowly but surely, his blood seeps into the water and, at first, colors it a rusty
orange. In time, as more blood trickles out of him, the water becomes darker and redder.

And as he sits in the tub, resting his shaking back on the edge, he cries out. Loud and guttural and
real.

But no one hears him. No one ever hears him.

No one ever hears the others, either.

But they cry out too, the same agony as Graham harbored in their own lungs and minds.

And with his last agonizingly painful breath, Graham curses Voldemort's name.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

tw // drug use

The thing about Amortentia is that it is not just a potion one learns how to brew in their sixth year
at Hogwarts. It is an experience. A visceral, tangible, physically stimulating experience.

It is located on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, past all the quaint and ordinary shops where families,
adults, and elderly witches and wizards roam on Saturday afternoons. Shoved into a secluded,
forbidden, unspeakable corner of town, Amortentia is privy to copious amounts of illicit activities,
which lends the club its unholy label.

What appears to be an ordinary pub from a quick glance on the street is actually home to a lustful
secret. Beneath the grey, wooden floors of the standard British tavern rests a hotbed for pleasure,
indulgence, and anesthesiologically induced episodes of hedonism and carnal interplay.

Amortentia. The name of the nightclub. And the clandestine goal of the environment—to stir lust
and temptation within those who are brave enough to set foot in it.

The walls are adorned with neon signs, golden mirrors, and the bodies of ravenous couples. Strobe
lights burst their radiant waves into the pool of patrons below, shining aqua, emerald, and crimson
lights on them. It reeks of corporeal fluids, but the smell is intoxicating, driving those who inhale it
to dance, sweat, and liberate themselves.

Hot, sweaty figures crowding and knocking into one another, beads of sweat painting the sticky,
black floors, remnants of drinks spilling and flying in the air, and muffled yet obvious moans of
pleasure and euphoria coming from the restrooms all control the atmosphere of the club. It is hot,
murky, and deeply erotic—a breeding ground for those who seek to escape whatever problems
they will eventually have to confront. Those tribulations are for tomorrow, or the next day, or the
day after that; Amortentia is tonight's escape.

It's where the infamous group of Slytherin-turned-Death-Eaters spends their evenings, indulging in
drugs, booze, sex—anything to get their minds off of the cruel world that they live in. The world
that wants nothing to do with them. The world that considers them weak, pathetic, and repulsive.
Amoral. A waste of life and magic.

Adrenaline pumps through Draco Malfoy's body as he carefully lines a bag of thrilling, crisp-white
cocaine on the dark, granite bathroom counter, cautiously avoiding the splotches of water around
the sink. He precisely rations out the portions with his Wizard identification card, licking his lips
and salivating at the notion of feeling the powder hit the top of his nostrils and soak into his
system, followed by the inevitable rush of both numbness yet absolute intoxication.

His friends hover over his broad shoulders, pestering him to speed up the process before someone
walks in and bears witness to their unsavory deed.

"Fuck's sake, Blaise, just go lock the door if you're so worried about someone wandering in!"
Draco shouts, twisting his shoulder to face his friend and gesturing his intolerant arm towards the
bathroom door.

Rolling his eyes at Draco's condescending outburst, Blaise Zabini marches towards the door and
quickly grasps the metal lock with his slender fingers. He twists, and the small click of the lock
resounds against the muffled music outside the bathroom.

Vibrations pulse through the ground like the club's own heartbeat—or even a tremoring earthquake
—electrifying every one of their bodies in tandem with the club's own breathing.

As Blaise returns, he wraps his buff arms around Daphne Greengrass' petite waist, pulling her into
his chest and sucking on her neck with mischievous and playful bites. She lets out a giggle, craning
her head to the side so that Blaise can continue to press his lips against her tender and inviting skin.

In a state of euphoria brought on by Blaise's sensual touches, Daphne playfully lifts and rotates her
leg at the knee, knocking the bottom of her red pumps against Theodore Nott's shoulder, who
kneels just below her.

"Damn, Daph, watch it!" Theo rasps through a cigarette lodged between his lips. Smoke trickles
from his lips, and the crisp fire at the butt of the cigarette shines just a little bit brighter than
before, its orange embers glowing luminously in the dim bathroom.

"Oh, relax, Theo,” Pansy Parkinson drawls, throwing her arms around Theo's neck and lunging
herself into his lap. Her jet-black hair, usually straight and rigid but tonight frizzy and damp with
her glowing sweat, spreads across Theo's legs, and she chuckles in a fit of hysteria brought on by
an infusion of alcohol and horniness within her gut. "Let the two have their fun," she continues to
slur, sticking her tongue up at Theo and attempting to catch the floating smoke in her mouth. It
dissipates in the air like a ghost, and Pansy pouts.

"Fucking hell, Parkinson," Theo chuckles. "You are absolutely wasted, completely off your rocker,
and so fucking beautiful it hurts.”

With a pang of confidence, Pansy lifts her hand and secures Theo's cigarette between her index and
middle finger; she tugs it from his mouth and settles it between her lips, dragging the chemicals
deep into her system. Theo moans a sensual profanity at the sight of Pansy pulling the nicotine out
of his smoke, and the sight of her bloodshot eyes rolling in the back of her head makes Theo's heart
pump with adrenaline and desire.

Pansy inhales another whiff of the cigarette, then raises her head just inches away from Theo's
face. Removing the cigarette from her mouth and gripping it in her hovering hand, she blows
smoke into his mouth. He gladly accepts the gesture, and before the mist subsides between their
mouths, he smacks his lips against hers with intense libido.

"Look who's talking, Nott," Blaise snickers from above, still gripping Daphne's waist and swaying
her in his arms.

Draco rolls his eyes at the commotion to his right—Theo and Pansy, Blaise and Daphne, engulfed
in one another's arms, glued together by the sheer force of lust and desire.

To his left, Adrian Pucey kneels beside him, carefully inspecting the strategic separation of the
bleached dust. Draco and Adrian's eyes meet for a split second as they silently judge the horny
outbursts of the two pairs.

"Don't get any ideas, Malfoy," Adrian says jokingly, jabbing the inside of his cheek with his
sweltering tongue and cockily raising his bushy eyebrows.
Draco pops his middle finger up at Adrian, who subsequently gives him a fraternal pat on the
shoulder.

"Seriously though, hurry up. I'm dying to get this shit inside of me.”

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Pucey," Draco snaps, finally separating the cocaine into six
different piles, lined up horizontally at the edge of the counter. Quickly swiping his finger along
the edge of the card and dotting the remaining cocaine against his gums, Draco shoves his card
into his pocket. Instructs everyone to “stop fucking snogging and get up here.”

Theo pulls away from Pansy, whose lips are swollen and beet red from his incessant sucking. He
lifts Pansy to her knees and props her up against the counter next to Draco.

Pansy groans at the abrupt removal of Theo's lips, but once her eyes connect with the snow in front
of her, she immediately feels a rush of excitement swarm her senses—senses she knows will be
overly-heightened in the next few minutes. With the prospect of Theo's hands all over her
sensitized body, Pansy's lips curve in a sanguine smile.

Theo kneels next to her, Blaise and Daphne flagging to his right side to complete the line.

Blaise shoves his hand into the pocket of his slacks, removing a wad of muggle banknotes, the
image of the queen inked upon the blue and white background. He chaotically distributes it down
the line, desperate for the process to begin as soon as possible. Once everyone has their banknotes,
they begin to roll them up tightly, preparing to absorb the substance.

There is a brief pause. An indescribable pause. They each feel it, lodged in their throat. It's the
anticipation of the glorious feeling of being high and hyper, yet it's also the communal gut feeling
that what they are about to do will only temporarily stop the pain.

The beat of the music pulses throughout the floor, and the former Slytherins all stare at the drug
before them. Waiting. Watching. Preparing themselves. The feeling of euphoria is not foreign to
them, especially at this point. Drugs and alcohol have been a steady part of their lives for the past
few years.

It's to cope with the pain and the loneliness.

But there is a pause nonetheless, everyone staring at their portions of snow with blurry and
distorted eyes, living and breathing off of their already heavily inebriated bodies.

Draco breaks the silence. "What are you all waiting for? Fucking Bellatrix to resurrect herself and
shove it up your noses for you? Do it."

And with that sharp command, the former Slytherins inhale the powder up through the banknotes
and into their nostrils, allowing the substance to occupy their bodies and fill them with a rush of
energy.

Daphne coughs for several seconds, desperately trying to withstand the immense pressure building
in her head, and Blaise attempts to comfort her with soft strokes to her back while he
simultaneously deals with the sudden influx of the external, thrilling powder in his own body.

Pansy tolerates the drug with ease, and her already bloodshot eyes become even redder. Her blood
vessels are like spider webs sprouting from her black pupils. She laughs with pleasure, sucking in
the damp air of the bathroom through her teeth and completely relinquishing herself to the
atmosphere.
Beside her, Theo pinches the bridge of his nose tightly and shakes his head violently, letting out a
brief cheer of delight; his left hand reaches out and wraps around Pansy's small bicep for support.

Desperate to continue their previous episode and soothe Theo's discomfort, Pansy places her lips
against Theo's neck, sucking and biting his skin, earning his moans and gasps. Their carnal
instincts take over; revitalized by her kisses, Theo grips Pansy's waist and lifts her effortlessly, and
as she straddles his waist in midair, he stumbles towards the stalls and barges into the large one in
the corner. They close the door, and the lock clicks.

Adrian falls back on his behind, lifting his head to the ceiling and relishing in the electric feeling.
His fingers curl against the cold floor, and his nails press firmly into the ground as he feels the
drugs disperse through his system.

And Draco, even more tolerant of the drug than the others, rolls his eyes into the back of his head
and emits a heavenly sigh. He feels the rushing influence of the drug course through his body,
sailing upon his bloodstream like an explorer on treacherous oceans. A storm brews within him.
He feels powerful, in control, and above all, dazed. His other senses fade away.

Only one remains in his mind: the feeling of lust.

The grunts and moans of Theo and Pansy in the stall echo throughout the bathroom, and the group
of four stands to exit. Daphne tumbles into Blaise's arms, limp and loose under the weight of the
cocaine within her petite body. No doubt would it hit her the hardest—it usually did. But Blaise
was always there to catch her, guide her steadily around the dance floor, and set her safely in her
bed at the end of the night. The next morning, when they are lucid, they will ravenously fuck until
they can’t breathe properly—until it inorganically feels like they are under the influence of the
drug yet again.

The groans from the stall become louder and louder.

"Merlin, fuck me!" Adrian shouts in exasperation. "Wait until we leave, would you?"

"Well fuck off, then! Nobody is asking you to stay!" Theo shouts from the stall, followed by
Pansy's disgruntled laughter, then more popping and sucking sounds. The four rush to the exit,
unlocking the door and piling out back into the heart of the club.

The sudden shift in light is what Draco notices first. The bathroom was dimly lit but still exhibited
a warm tint of light. Now, walking through the epicenter of the club, Draco feels the heat of the
multi-colored strobe lights touch and singe his skin. He feels exposed to every radioactive wave of
sound and light, able to experience each sensation individually as his senses amplify under the
pressure of the drug. The exhilaration of it all drives him to push through the crowded dance floor
with Adrian, Blaise, and Daphne right behind him.

Draco's eyesight begins to sully. It simultaneously slows down and speeds up, like his eyes are
working faster than his brain. He collects the images of grinding bodies and flashing lights in his
mind, letting them seep into his brain so that he can replay them over and over again.

Like the sudden detonation of a bomb, the four friends suddenly feel the drugs take over their
bodies. It is abrupt but not unfamiliar. Their senses intensify, and they’re able to feel and
experience every bit of the waves of sounds and light blasting around them. Every atom of matter
is tangible to them.

They dance, sweat, and scream with pleasure, their voices synthesizing with the anarchic cries of
the other clubgoers. Adrian throws his arms around Draco's shoulder, who returns the gesture, and
they jump up and down, lively sweat pouring from their temples. Daphne and Blaise, completely
enamored with one another, dance and laugh with immeasurable bliss in one another's arms.

The lights begin to merge together, morphing into a rainbow of flashes which dart across Draco's
eyes. His body feels electrified, like he's been stung by bees infused with dopamine. There is
heavenly bliss for those moments as he dances with his friends.

A tap on Draco's shoulder temporarily draws him out of his high. As he turns around, his distorted
eyes fall upon a girl, whose tight brown curls and beautiful dark skin reflect gloriously in the
indigo lights. Glitter wreathes the shape of her almond eyes, drawing Draco to her enticing face.

Out of nowhere, the girl pulls him in and presses her wet lips against his. He gives in immediately,
his frivolous hands running up and down her waist and legs, past the short hem of her burgundy
dress. They tongue frenetically and recklessly, bumping into the rambunctious bodies around them.

Draco gets lost in her lips. It is a distraction, another method of getting his mind off his sorry
fucking life. He does drugs, he drinks wildly, he kisses random women, and he tattoos other parts
of his body, a strategy for ignoring the one tattoo that constantly plagues his eyesight. He copes in
whatever way possible.

After what feels like hours of deep, chaotic kissing, Draco feels another tug at his arm. His lips part
from the girl's, who bites her lower lip and waves goodbye with her slim fingers. Draco chuckles
ecstatically, waving back with his free hand and twisting his head to see who is holding him. It’s
Pansy, who also grips Theo's black t-shirt in front of her.

"Come on, lover boy, let's fucking dance," Pansy slurs, smirking cheekily.

Draco flicks his wet tongue against the roof of his mouth, rolling his eyes and head as if to help
guide and circulate the drugs within his system.

"Fucking hell, Parkinson! I was busy!" he shouts over the music.

Pansy whips her head around again, sticking her tongue out playfully and lifting her hand to grip
the sides of his chin. His lips scrunch up between her fingers; he emits a naughty growl at her.

"Dance with your friends, Malfoy!" she cries out, throwing her arms in the damp air and throwing
her head back in ecstasy.

Draco laughs, the drugs dragging out the positive emotions which he has repressed for so long. He
feels free, unrestricted, and numb of all other pain. All that courses through his mind is the
splendid sensation of elation.

They dance for the rest of the night as a group, relishing in their escape from the cruelty and
vindictiveness of the outside world. They belong to Amortentia—their hearts, souls, bodies, and
minds course through the club like its very own organs, pulsing and vibrating with pleasure.

This is where they belong. Surrounded by people like them. Wild, enthusiastic, desiring to feel
something—anything. And it's where they will continue to go until something else comes along,
should anything or anyone ever do so.

Dawn sheathes the streets outside of Amortentia as Draco and his friends pile out of the club,
stumbling and grumbling with the aftereffects of the drugs and alcohol stirring in their systems.

There is dried blood staining the bottom of Adrian's nose, right between his nostrils and lips. He
slowly lifts his finger and swipes his nostrils compulsively, sniffing intensely. Blaise bears
Daphne's petite body against his, helping her walk in the barren streets of Hogsmeade. Theo and
Pansy do the same, leaning against one another and letting their hands trace each other's bodies.

Draco's eyes are on fire.

His tongue is dry, desperate for water, alcohol—something to revitalize his exhausted body. Most
of all, he craves more drugs. The withdrawal is strong, harassing his body relentlessly for the same
feeling again. Because now that the effects have worn off, Draco can only feel two things: the
emptiness in his soul and the pain of his mark.

His mark, which should be dead, ineffective, and void, terrorizes his body, pressing him to take in
more drugs in whatever form possible. Just the sheer sight of it is enough to send him into a frenzy.

The group stumbles across the desolate road towards their shared loft just outside of Hogsmeade,
only a few paces from the club. They had no luck finding a place to live in the quaint town, or
anywhere else for that matter—no one wanted former Death-Eaters living near them. Only the
owner of Amortentia, Titus Cromwell, who owns several other buildings on the outskirts of
Hogsmeade, graciously allowed the group to live in one of his buildings.

The six of them live in a cramped, three-bedroom apartment, surviving off of Titus' generosity and
understanding of their predicament. A former Slytherin himself, Titus does everything he can to
accommodate the struggling young adults, including bypassing their rent.

He's more of a mentor figure and friend to them than any other adult at Hogwarts ever was.

Pansy groans, stumbling onto the ground on her hands and knees.

"Fuck," Theo mutters, he himself completely dazed, bending over and latching his arms around her
waist. He drags her back to her feet, wrapping her limp arm around his shoulder and gripping her
waist with his other arm. "You okay?"

Pansy nods and incoherently mumbles a plethora of profanities.

"Pansy, we're almost home. Get ahold of yourself," Blaise mumbles over his shoulder,
simultaneously struggling to keep Daphne on her feet. He holds onto her for dear life, determined
to protect her from anything and everything.

Blaise has always been that way with Daphne—he'd do anything for her.

"Fuck... off... Blaise," Pansy snarls.

Theo is quick to defend Pansy, his words hot like fire. "Worry about your girl, Blaise."

Blaise shoots them a dirty look, his coarse eye stabbing the two with anger.

"Would you all just shut the fuck up?" Draco grumbles, rubbing the front of his head with his
sweaty fingers. His body is shaking, still recovering from the aftermath of the drugs leaving his
system.

He wants them back, more than anything. He'll take whatever he can to feel nothing and everything
again.

The next thing happens all too quickly.

One second, Draco and his friends are stumbling along the sidewalk, as is routine. But in the next
second, there are sudden bursts of white lights appearing and flagging the sides of each friend. And
then, the lights morph into figures dressed in navy robes.

Unable to comprehend exactly what is happening due to the delayed relay of information from his
eyes to his brain, which is still stained with the aftereffects of the cocaine, Draco slowly opens his
mouth and begins to whisper, "What the fuck is—"

Buff arms wrap around Draco's back and clasp onto his stomach. He hears the confounded screams
of Pansy and Daphne up ahead, followed by the chaotic spurts of profanities from Theo, Blaise,
and Adrian. The sounds blend in his mind, making distinguishing the voices incredibly difficult; he
is just able to make out the low tones from the higher ones.

His eyes begin to process what is happening. A dozen or so men surround him and his friends,
yanking them apart and grabbing their arms tightly.

"Who the fuck are you?" he hears Theo shout, watching him violently struggle beneath their grips.

The men do not answer. In the blink of Draco's eye, Theo is gone, then Pansy, then Blaise,
Daphne, and Adrian. All sucked up into the air with the mysterious guests.

"Wait... what the fuck—"

But before Draco can finish the sentence or fully comprehend the situation, he too is swallowed by
the air in a burst of white light, the hands of the men still glued to his arms. His body twists and
contorts under the immense pressure of the sky. He is apparating—he can tell that much for sure.
The weight of the air against his body causes his brain to wildly slosh around his skull, and he feels
the urge to gag and retch everything that still remains in his heavy stomach.

Before he does just that, he crashes onto the floor. A cold, dark floor lined with navy, square tiles.

Groaning in pain, he slowly flutters his eyes open. His vision is still hazy, mixed with the
aftereffects of the drugs, the alcohol, and the traumatizing, forced apparition. He scans the large
room, attempting to understand his current situation.

There is a golden desk in front of him, its antique legs curling at the bottom in a coil of plants and
flowers. A large chair rests behind the desk. It is wooden, and draped on back is a long, thin,
Persian runner. The chair horizons over the desk's surface. Behind the setup of the office are long,
horizontal windows that overlook a floor of perfectly lined desks.

Newspapers are stacked across the desk, along with randomly sprawled papers, quills, and books.
There is a golden lamp, the bulb blaring from its nook; it emits a warm tone in Draco's direction,
and he can't help but squirm under the heat and brightness of the lamplight. Everything around him
is cool-toned except for the lamp. He cringes, feeling a load of rocks force his stomach down onto
the floor.

Through his ringing ears, he can just barely make out the moans and whimpers of his friends
around him, who squirm under the contrasting colors of the room as well.

Moments ago, they were treading the streets of Hogsmeade; now, they lie prone on an office floor,
their visions hazy and their bodies writhing.

Draco uses every ounce of strength he has to lift himself up. His torso hovers just above the
ground, supported by his wobbly arms. He hears someone next to him gag and retch, followed by a
splatter of liquids against the floor.
There is a groan from a few feet away. Draco twists his head to see a group of men, reduced in size
but still just like the ones from before, watching the Slytherins squirm on the floor. He grits his
teeth at them, fully prepared to curse them out with whatever words he can think of in the moment.

"You stupid, bloody, motherfucking, cock-sucking asswipes—"

"Language please, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco's head shoots to the right, his eyes searching for the source of the new voice.

He sees a familiar, tall, dark man standing near the windows in regal blue and purple robes,
overlooking the aligned desks below. When the man turns around, Draco emits a low groan.

"Merlin's ball sack," he moans, dropping his face and smacking it against the floor again.

Kingsley Shacklebolt chuckles pleasantly, and Draco can faintly perceive the Minister of Magic’s
footsteps making their way over towards him, the light clanks of his dress shoes echoing under the
floor and into his ear through a wave of vibrations. Kingsley leans his back against the front of his
desk, his legs right in front of Malfoy's line of vision.

"What the fuck are we doing here?" Theo mumbles.

"You all look like you've had quite the night," Kingsley says with an honest tang of concern.

"Would you just fucking tell us what is going on?" Draco jeers with impatience.

Kingsley sighs, clasping his hands together in front of his body. "Of course. You all deserve an
explanation for why you were suddenly dragged here."

Draco hears Pansy's unmistakably intolerant scoff—an oddly comforting sound for him. It reminds
him that even though the six of them have become ghosts of who they were in the past, some
elements still remain embedded within them. Pansy's sharp yet entertaining attitude is one of those
things. It keeps Draco sane.

“Go on, then," Theo remarks. "Spit it out, your highness."

Theo's sarcasm. Also music to Draco's ears.

"Yes, I suppose I will," Kingsley sighs. "I'm afraid the situation which has garnered your
attendance here is rather disturbing. It has to do with a former classmate of yours. Graham
Montague."

Draco can't help the groans that escape his dry mouth with ease, signifying his desperation for
more drugs. Just... something. Anything to help with the spins, the pain, the constant pounding in
his head.

Kingsley clears his throat.

Nothing prepared them for the words that spilled out of Kingsley’s trembling mouth:

"A few weeks ago, Mr. Montague committed suicide."

 Chapter 3

Hermione Granger paces the bustling hallways of the Ministry of Magic, clutching loose pieces of
parchment to her chest and gripping the cotton webbing handle of her tan, leather satchel close to
her right side. The time on her watch reads three minutes before eight in the morning. She groans,
disappointed in her lack of promptness for her meeting.

The Former Death-Eater Rehabilitation Effort. That is the name they decided on for the initiative.
It didn't harbor a whimsical or intriguing title, but it characterized the program in the most obvious
way possible. And Hermione was proud of her initiative. It had only taken a few weeks to contrive,
and it came right after the news of Graham's suicide.

She remembers the moment that Kingsley told her about his suicide, particularly the conditions in
which he was found. They were graphic, staining her memory like his presence stained that
bathroom. Self-inflicted incisions: that's what she remembers most about Kingsley's description.
The thought made her tremble in sadness. She felt her compassionate heart constrict and compress
in sadness. She held back tears—tears for a boy she hardly knew. For a boy who tormented her and
her friends for years. Who made her feel unworthy and less than human.

Yes. Graham was cruel.

But he was human.

And so her heart ached for him. She shed a tear for his pain.

And she vowed to not let it happen to anyone of the others.

Perhaps all Graham needed was a friend. Someone to support him.

Perhaps that what they all needed.

Hermione approaches the entrance of Kingsley's office, her heart pounding with both dread and
eagerness. She imagined that the group of Slytherins detained behind this golden door would be
unwilling to work with her or Quincy Aberfield, the creator of the program and her immediate
superior at the Ministry. She also feared that they would resent her or brand her as some holier-
than-thou savior—she'd never hear the end of such Gryffindor jokes. The last thing she wished to
be was condescending towards the students she shared her life with at Hogwarts. People her age.
Her peers, equals.

She also knew the imperativeness of the situation. A former Death Eater committed suicide. He
ended his life. The situation is dire and requires the collaboration and innovation of any available
and willing Ministry worker.

Not many were willing to head the task force—to be associated with former Death Eaters was a
recipe for misfortune and disaster. True to her kind heart, however, Hermione felt compelled to
craft and set forth the F.D.E.R.E.

To make sure that her former classmates did not end up like Graham Montague.

Hermione had read up on the Dark Mark both in preparation for the preliminary meeting and in
genuine concern and fascination, hoping to learn more about the ways in which the mark works in
the body. She assumed the pain he felt might have something to do with the lasting effects of that
choice. Like a disease infecting the host, the mark submerges beneath the skin of its host,
manipulating and corrupting every bone, muscle, and cell to do its dirty work. It's like a fire
constantly surrounding the victim, both on their exterior and interior.

She recoils at the thought of being slave to that intense heat.

But now that Voldemort is dead, the mark should be inactive. It shouldn't emit any sort of burning
sensation.

Maybe Graham felt there was no other way to escape his past. The mark is permanent; it simply
faded when Voldemort died, leaving only a scar and a memory of the past. So, the memory itself
must have been too much for Graham to cope with. It was impossible for the mark to act in the
same way as it did when Voldemort was alive and thriving.

She shudders at the thought of emptiness, considering just how difficult it must have been to deal
with the constant state of isolation and depression brought on by that fateful choice he made.

She tried to reason with his decision in her mind, but it was all too abstract and distanced from her
own life. Hermione did not want to characterize Graham in a poor light after his death. She didn't
want to try to understand nor judge his reasons for doing what he did. She barely wanted to think
about it. In her mind, the most important thing was making sure that it never happened again.

"Deep in thought, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione's over-analytical contemplations are interrupted by Quincy Aberfield himself, who flags
to her side in front of Kingsley's office door. Mr. Aberfield is tall and lean, with tight, brunette,
curly hair and fair skin that contrasts pleasantly with his navy suit. He carries a binder in one hand
and a messenger bag over his shoulder, appearing as a quintessential businessman. He also exudes
a wonderful sense of comfort through an all-too-perfect smile. The curve of his lips creates lovely
dimples on his cheeks, as well as wrinkles near his eyes which were no doubt due to his incessant
smiling. Hermione was in awe of his optimism.

"When am I not, Quincy?" Hermione responds with a smile.

Aberfield chuckles and shrugs. "Fair enough."

They stare at the door, Hermione's breath confined to her throat. She finds it incredibly difficult to
lift her hand to the knob. A plethora of forces hold her back from crossing the threshold. It is
unchartered territory, and no matter how brave she is, Hermione still harbors a sense of fear and
dread about the impending task. She doesn't want to fail. She doesn't want to come off better than
them. She just wants to help.

Aberfield notices Hermione's hesitation, and he tilts his head to the side and clicks his tongue
against the roof of his mouth.

"You just push the handle down to open the door, Hermione," he leans over and mutters, a cheeky
smile encroaching on his face.

The breath escapes Hermione's mouth in a brief chuckle. She loves Aberfield's humor and his
seamless ability to diffuse any tense situation. But the feeling of seeing her schoolmates again
keeps her from reaching out to touch the handle. Even though she has done immense amount of
preparation for this moment, she suddenly feels everything she learned seep out of her like a steady
waterfall, crashing on the ground before her in a pile of ineffectiveness.

She didn't have much to do with them after the war. They had run off, secluded themselves from
everyone else. That was their volition. She has no idea what has become of them.
But Hermione assumed that there were other factors in play—the arrest of their parents, for
example. Although their parents were released from Azkaban a year ago on the condition that they
positively re-embed themselves into the Wizarding World, Hermione assumed it was incredibly
difficult for her classmates to undergo such a traumatic series of events involving their families.

She knew the feeling, just in a different sense.

There was also the group's tainted identity as former Death Eaters. It could not have been easy to
walk around with the mark on their arms. Hermione wondered if they were ever truly accepted
again in the Wizarding World, or if every move they made was judged because of their past.

Then there was their shame, if they sheltered any. She didn't know what had become of them after
the war because none of them returned to Hogwarts. For all she knew, they could have boarded
themselves up somewhere private and completely withdrawn themselves from magic. It was all
uncertain.

Her mind returns to Graham. Alone, afraid, and hopeless.

"I'm just a little nervous about seeing them again, is all," Hermione whispers, still frozen in place.

Aberfield sighs and places a comforting hand on her left shoulder. With each pat, she feels a sense
of courage rush from her shoulder into her bloodstream.

"Everything will be alright," he reaffirms. "Now, there is no doubt they will be apprehensive about
the idea. They will likely resent you." Hermione inhales deeply. She wishes this wasn't so hard.
"But this is for the best. This is for them."

Hermione nods, already feeling a little more reassured than before.

Aberfield gestures his head towards the door. "Go on. You can do it."

With a deep breath, Hermione bunches her hand in a fist, knocks on the door, and lowers her hand
to turn the handle. She pushes open the door and steps beyond the threshold.

The sight she stumbles upon is shocking.

In the corner, she sees Daphne Greengrass hurling into a trash bin. Her blonde hair is held by
Blaise Zabini, who simultaneously strokes her back. Daphne cries, her face red and puffy and her
body convulsing.

She sees Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott leaning their backs against Kingsley's golden desk.
Their bodies are slumped against one another in a deep, trance-like daze. The bags under Pansy's
eyes are purple and swollen, and her mouth hangs open like her jaw has completely surrendered
itself to the effects of gravity. Theo's face is pale and discolored, and he sweats profusely from his
temples.

Adrian Pucey is where her eyes fall next. He is sitting against a bookshelf to the right, holding a
tissue to his nose. When he removes the tissue, Hermione notices blood dripping out of his left
nostril. He seems unfazed by the nosebleed, like it is a common occurrence. But Hermione doesn't
remember ever seeing Adrian suffer from compulsive nosebleeds. Then again, she never really
surrounded herself with him, so who is she to determine whether or not the nosebleeds were
normal. What was unsavory were his bloodshot eyes and incessant tremors. He practically shook
the bookcase against his back, like a light earthquake.

And finally, just peaking behind Kingsley's desk, Hermione's eyes fell on him.
The first thing she noticed was his blonde hair. It was the same as ever—just as bright and
illuminous as the first day she met him. Her eyes travel down towards his face, and she feels her
gut burst. He is pale—so pale—sweating, and convulsing lightly, his back against the wall just
below the windows of Kingsley's office. It's so foreign from his usual expressions, the ones she
remembers so clearly at Hogwarts when he'd pass her in the corridors, snarking and chuckling with
his friends in her direction, no doubt having to do with her clothes, looks, or dirty blood.

His white shirt has his own small blood stains on it, and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His
legs are pulled into his chest as he sits despondently, eyes closed and shut away from the reality of
the situation.

Hermione feels a strange tug towards him, like he's the first person she wants to see.

But with Daphne vomiting in the corner of the room, Hermione feels the urge to break off and step
towards her and Blaise. She kneels next to them, dropping her bag and papers and helping Blaise
collect some of Daphne's stray pieces of hair to hold behind her head.

Blaise looks up at Hermione and rolls his eyes. "Oh gods..."

Hermione inhales, trying to remain as patient and kind as possible and focusing her attention solely
on Daphne. She shushes her sweetly, placing her hand on Daphne's left arm in an attempt to calm
her down.

After a few more hurls, Daphne takes in a deep breath and hangs her head into the bin. She catches
her breath and gingerly mutters Blaise's names, which echoes through the hollow trash, and she
reaches her right arm behind her to feel for Blaise's presence.

"I'm here," Blaise says reassuringly, his tone dramatically changing as he takes her hand in his,
fingers intertwined.

"What can I do?" Hermione asks, her eyes darting to Blaise's. She notices that he too is trembling,
very slightly. He harbors all the pain in his body in his eyes, which are bulging out of his sockets.
Tears swell around them, and Hermione sees he is doing everything possible to take care of
Daphne—he suffers quietly for her.

Blaise takes in a deep breath, trying to hold in his anger. "We're fine, Granger."

His curt response is all Hermione needs to feel absolutely out of place. She knew this was a risky
idea. She knew she wouldn't be received well by them.

Not wanting to push them past their boundaries, she nods and stands, surveying the room and the
other Slytherins. Aberfield is already tending to Pansy and Theo, asking them questions to keep
them awake and alert. They mumble their answers, their eyes rolling up and down as they try to
stay conscious.

"Where is Kingsley?" Hermione asks. Aberfield turns and shrugs, his face plagued with a worried
expression.

"I'm afraid he must've stepped out." Aberfield's head gestures towards Adrian, a look of concern
spread across the facets of his face. "You should check on him."

She feels compelled to approach her sworn enemy first, but she obliges and walks towards Adrian's
trembling body on the opposite side of the room. She bends down in front of him, raising her hand
to his face to hold the blood-stained tissue against his nose. The moment he notices her, he releases
his hand and drops it to the floor, limp under the unrelenting pressure of gravity.
"Well, well, well," he mutters through a snarky smile. "Look what we have here."

Hermione lowers her eyebrows and tilts her head to the left. "Hold still, Adrian," she instructs
quietly, dabbing his nose with the limited amount of white tissue left. He snickers at her and rolls
his eyes.

"I can't," he remarks with a cheeky grimace.

"Why? What's going on with you all?" she asks, her voice a little quieter than before, as if the
whole scene is some sort of giant secret.

It isn;'t. Everyone in the room is conscious of what is happening. The only people shocked by the
situation are Hermione and Aberfield.

Adrian snorts, as if Hermione is missing something perfectly clear. "Merlin, you're as much of a
prude as I thought you were."

Ignoring that response, Hermione asks, "Is your nose broken?"

Adrian delves into a fit of laughter. "Guess street smarts also aren't your thing."

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong," she says, trying to stay as calm as possible.
"Perhaps I could use a spell to fix your nose, or—"

Adrian coughs suddenly, and Hermione uses her free hand to steady his lurching shoulders against
the bookcase. Once he catches his breath, he answers her. "Fuck's sake, Granger—it's part
withdrawal, part hangover, part us being apparated here against our will. Mix them together and
this is the scene you end up with."

Hermione's eyes widen, much to Adrian's enjoyment. He laughs and sighs, sinking deeper into the
shelf with satisfaction at the nerve he has struck within Hermione.

"Merlin, don't look so terrified of us," he comments. "We were just having a little bit of fun."

To her left, Hermione hears a soft groan. Her head darts in the direction of the noise, and she
watches as Draco struggles to keep his eyes open, swaying back and forth and rolling his eyes in
the back of his head.

She feels a pull, a connection—something drawing her to him. Like an elastic band, ready to snap
back any second.

Hermione turns back to Adrian, who observes her shifting expression.

"Go on," Adrian says, repossessing the tissue from Hermione's quivering hand. "I'm fine. That one
on the other hand—" he motions towards Draco— "that one could definitely use some of your
world-class comforting skills."

Hermione groans at his sarcasm and stands abruptly, listening to Adrian chuckle as she dashes
towards Draco. He rocks to the left and right in a steady, pendulum-like manner. Just before he
topples over too far to the right, Hermione stretches out her arms and grasps his shoulders,
steadying him upright against the wall behind him.

Now that Hermione is closer to him, she can see more clearly just how different he looks from a
few years ago. His bone structure is defined, but it's balanced out, however, by his hollowed
cheeks. He retains the pale disposition, but whereas his previous paleness was of a standard,
biological sort, intrinsic to the Malfoy family, this paleness was due to something external and
beyond his control. Like a presence of some sort has taken over his body and caused the immense
discoloration.

She fears the worst, thinking back to Adrian's word: withdrawal.

Then, her eyes fall on his tattoos. They're everywhere. She can see them poking out of his white
button-up, which has several of the top buttons undone. Coloring his chest magically, the black
tattoos are random, sprawled on almost every inch of his torso. His arms are full of them as well,
so much so that she can barely make out where his Dark Mark is.

But she looks closely and sees it. And she also sees...

Faded scars. Elevated skin lining the mark.

She can just barely make out the healed scars, but they are there. Hidden behind all the black ink
on his arm.

She lets out a shaky breath, and her eyes wander to meet his, which just narrowly hang
open. Beneath the bloodshot eyes and the purple bags, she can still make out the captivating silver
hue of those eyes that have haunted and enchanted her for years.

Then his eyes suddenly meet hers, and she goes still.

"Malfoy?" she asks, desperate to hear a response.

Lucidity creeps its way back into Draco's mind the longer he stares at Hermione. She watches him
slowly piece the scene together as his eyes travel from her hair, to her cheeks, to her lips. When he
lifts the corner of his lips into a snarl, Hermione's nerves take over.

"Draco, are you okay—"

"Don't ever call me by that name, Granger," Draco mutters. "And get your hands off of me. I'm
fine."

Hermione winces and inhales sharply. Nothing has changed. And why would it have? Did she
really expect Draco to be any different after the war?

"You'll topple over if I let you go, Malfoy," she responds, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

"Allow me to let you in on a little secret," he growls, lifting his face and aligning it inches away
from hers. She could smell the remnants of alcohol on his warm breath, as well as tinges of iron
from an unknown source of blood. "I really don't care if I fall over."

Hermione wonders what it would feel like to just let him hit the floor. Watch him squirm on the
ground in pain. Merlin knows he deserves it. It'd be funny. She'd laugh.

Bu then she looks deep into his eyes. Behind the fire and anger in that silver tint, she can sense a
person in deep, tumultuous pain. Someone who resents everything and everyone. Someone who
needs help.

So, she continues to hold onto his arms, ignoring his threats and crass comments.

"How long have you been here?" Hermione asks.

Draco ignores her, staring at the wall to his left and avoiding any sort of verbal contact with her.
She rolls her eyes and turns her head back to Adrian, asking him the same question.

"A few hours," Adrian answers, leaning his head against the bookcase, nooking it between two
books.

"And you've all just been sitting here like this? Where is Kingsley?"

He shrugs. "Said he'd be back in a few minutes."

Hermione turns back to Draco. The feeling returns—the one where she feels like her heart will
combust. She doesn't quite understand where it is coming from. It could be the same feeling of
remorse when she heard about Graham's suicide. But even then she did not harbor the same
amount or kind of feelings then as she does now, staring at Draco's tired and empty face.

She has the urge to hug him, but she quickly dispels that terrible idea. Draco would never want that
from her.

Instead, Hermione tries to think of a spell she can use—anything to help him recover faster. But she
does not know what to do, how to act, or what sort of spell could cure whatever hangover and
withdrawal he is going through.

Adrian was right. She is a total prude. Completely ignorant of the reality of the world around her,
sucked into her little bubble of perfection and order. She has no idea what it feels like to let loose
with such substances.

It doesn't look very tempting.

Beneath the terrifying blood vessels that swarm Draco's eyes, Hermione perceives the most
beautiful part of him. That silver augment is captivating beyond words. She wishes she could stop
thinking about them, but she's gone through a withdrawal of her own in the last few years—a
withdrawal of his eyes. No matter how rude he was to her, Hermione always seemed to get lost in
them.

Suddenly, he looks at her again.

She feels the tug again. Like a pang in her heart. It tries to rip the vital organ right out of her chest
so that it can be closer to him.

Maybe he could feel it too. Maybe she could hug him. Maybe—just this once—she could illustrate
her desire for reconciliation. Maybe she could—

Her thoughts are interrupted by the abrupt sound of the front door swinging open. She turns her
head to face the door, spotting Kingsley in the threshold holding a wooden tray filled with vials,
potions, and antidotes.

"Oh, that's just wonderful—the king has returned with our breakfast, ladies and gentlemen," Theo
groans. "What's on the menu, then? Poached eggs? Toast and jam?" Pansy gargles with euphoric
laughter, and the two orchestrate a seething giggle, slapping one another playfully with their hands.

Aberfield continues to tend to Theo, dabbing his sweaty face with his pink and yellow polka-dotted
handkerchief, trying to work around his rambunctious demeanor.

Kingsley enters the room, placing the tray upon his desk and observing the sullen expressions of
the Slytherins. His eyes fall upon Hermione, who holds Draco up by her trembling hands.
"I have some antidotes and potions to help with their conditions," Kingsley says, organizing the
vials on his desk. "Come Quincy, Hermione. Help me portion these out."

Quincy stands up and offers a hand to Kingsley, inspecting the various labels on the vials.
Hermione remains attached to Draco, seemingly unwilling to let go of his arms.

"I think I should stay here," she mutters, nudging her head towards Draco's limp body. Kingsley
nods.

She turns her eyes back to face Draco, searching for any sort of life left within him.

His lucidity has returned, but the brink of unconsciousness seems so intriguing to him. That is, until
his eyes reach hers, and he suddenly feels a burst of confidence shoot through his mind. He
addresses her with the same attitude and manner he always has:

"Fucking hell, Granger. Can't seem to keep your hands off of me, can you?"
 Chapter 4

Hermione's initial intuition was right. There is no clear wizarding remedy for curing the
aftereffects of muggle drugs, especially those as strong and dangerous as cocaine.

Cocaine.

Gods...

She supposes the languished Slytherins could conjure up some all-purpose healing spell or ingest a
universal antidote to counteract and reduce their overwhelming symptoms—and that is clearly
what Kingsley has brought with him—but no antidote could honestly and effectively target and
weaken the root cause of their internal suffering.

No. Tackling the source of the problem required something further. Something more substantial
and effective. Medicines and potions could not brighten the perpetual darkness surrounding the
Slytherins, just as the drugs could not. They needed something beyond a quick, temporary fix. This
was clear to Hermione before, and it is only further illuminated now as she lays her eyes upon the
scene of her groggy, sullen peers. This necessitates comprehensive, lifelong treatment, aimed at
rehabilitating and reaffirming the value and worth of the Slytherins.

Because no matter how poorly they may see themselves, Hermione sees them as harboring
immense amounts of worth. She clandestinely always has.

The six of them reluctantly consume the potions, administered by Kingsley and Aberfield; the
liquid works even quicker than the cocaine, flowing through their troubled bodies like soft honey.
Hermione's hands remain attached to Draco's shoulders, a small vial notched between her fingers.
She holds him up firmly against the wall, personally overseeing his ingestion of the potion.
Balancing his weight against her left hand, Hermione holds the vial in front of his haggard eyes.

"Open your mouth," she instructs quietly, lifting the small vial to his closed lips.

He smirks mischievously, and his fatigued eyes wander off to the dark blue ceiling, as if to both
tease and anger Hermione.

"Fuck off. This is the best part."

"The best part?" she asks, scrunching her eyebrows into a cinched and perplexed expression.
Because what could he possibly mean by that? How on earth is this the best part?

Draco looks back at Hermione and snickers at her befuddled expression. "Precisely. It's the
realization that tonight, I get to do this all over again," he slurs, flaring his nostrils and running his
tongue across the sharp, bottom edges of his teeth, as if to not only piss Hermione off but also scare
her—make her cringe and recoil in fear of him.

She clenches her jaw and takes a deep breath. She's not afraid. Just... bewildered.

Bewildered that someone who was once so poised, pretentious, and snobbish could so easily lose
himself. Could now look so different from everything she imagined he would become. She never
envisioned this image of Draco—sporting tattoos, swollen eyes, or dirty and stained clothes.

Divination and foreseeing the future were never her strengths, but Merlin, she thought she had
Draco completely down to a tee.
Evidently, she didn't.

"Just please take the antidote," she says again, pressing the mouth of the vial up against Draco's
swollen lips. "You need it." She waits for him to part his mouth, even for a split second, so that she
can properly administer the antidote.

He teases her for several more seconds, simply staring into her eyes as the vial rests against his
cherry lips. His eyes twinkle with pleasure; it's like watching her squirm and uncomfortably shift
the expression on her reddened face gives him life. Invigorates him. Reminds him just how much
he loves to see Hermione cringe and cower underneath his gaze.

It's a joke to him—Hermione can tell. Draco is purposely toying with her, crawling underneath her
skin in order to stir discomfort within her. It slowly begins to work. The longer that Draco stares at
her, unwilling to open his mouth, the more Hermione recognizes the hot feeling of ire rising in her
blood. It's as if he is shooting daggers, singed at their tips with a liquid fusion of rage and
annoyance, right through Hermione's skin, stabbing, poisoning, and bathing her blood with his own
wrath.

Before Hermione can scold his careless demeanor, Draco opens his mouth and notches the vial
right between his teeth. To Hermione's dismay, he knocks his head back and lets the liquid rush
down his throat. Once he feels the stinging fluid settle below his esophagus, he lowers his head
back down and relishes in Hermione's baffled expression—her wide-open mouth, her enlarged
eyes, and her rosy, stupefied cheeks.

"Satisfied?" he mumbles, the vial still lodged between his teeth, teetering up and down slightly as
his mouth moves to speak.

Irritated. That's how she feels. Bloody maddened by his mood swings, his preposterous attitude,
and his seemingly careless outlook on the situation. How could he be so callous? How could he sit
here and continue to tantalize her like this?

Hermione resolves that she will likely never escape his provocative nature. He would haunt her for
the rest of his life—or, at least for the duration of the program—with his malevolent and
combustible disposition.

He stares at her, flares his nostrils, and puffs the vial out of his mouth down into his lap. It lands on
his legs with a dull thud.

Hermione's hands are still glued to Draco's shoulders, but the antidote is fast working, and she can
slowly begin to see the color of life reappear upon his naturally pale disposition. In a matter of
seconds, a soft pink tint flushes his cheeks, and the enlarged blood vessels in his eyes reduce in
size, uncovering that perfect shade of grey. She purses her lips as Draco stares at her, mouth open,
tongue pressed against the inside of his lower lip.

"Hands off me, Granger," he growls, and the mischievous atmosphere shifts back to a cold and
volatile one. Hermione can't catch a break with him, can't pinpoint what it is he is feeling. She is
constrained in this constant and unnerving state of uncertainty with Draco, and even though it's a
place she has always found herself, she can't comprehend why he won't—for one bloody minute—
put aside his pride right now. In this moment. When he appears so vulnerable and weak.

"I'm fine," he snaps again, as if he is somehow reading her mind. As if her innermost thoughts lie
open in front of him like a book, and Hermione is foolishly pointing to the exact line which she is
thinking.
Hermione obliges to his former command, removing her hands and standing up. Draco sits up by
himself, wiggling his fingers and stretching his arms forward; he rolls his shoulders back and
cranes his neck, snapping it several times for good measure, just to piss Hermione off a little bit
more. The sound of his cracking bones leads her to shudder. She almost snaps, almost loses her
temper at him.

But it's not worth it. Not yet, at least.

She doesn't say anything to Draco, just turns around and storms off towards the others.

Aberfield is kneeling is front of Adrian, watching as his body reacts rather agreeably to the
soothing medicine coursing within him. His broad chest rises up and down in steady breaths.
Adrian twirls the empty vial in his broad hands and between his fingers with ease. He catches
Hermione's eyes upon his; he winks cheekily at her, opening his mouth and jabbing his tongue
against the inside of his cheek.

Merlin, don't any of them take this seriously?

"Well, someone please wake up Salazar from his deep, perpetual sleep—look who it is!" Theo
exclaims, pointing his finger at Hermione standing just a few feet away from him. She spins
abruptly, her eyes falling upon the scene of Theo and Pansy still lounging against Kingsley's desk.
No doubt they have already consumed the anecdote—Theo is no longer trembling and sweating,
and Pansy no longer looks half-dead. They hold hands between their touching legs and smirk at the
sight of Hermione. "If it isn't Gryffindor's Golden Girl."

"Fuck, Granger, three years later and you still can't seem to tame that bushy lion's mane on top of
your head, can you?" Pansy snarls, dropping her head on Theo's shoulder and giggling into his
neck. Theo joins her in a chorus of laughs. "True fucking Gryffindor you are—taking the whole
'lion' thing to the next level."

Hermione frowns. She knew this would be difficult. She knew.

"Oh, and don't tell me," Theo starts, still recovering from his own fit of merriment, "you and that
pathetic, ginger bozo still shagging?"

Hermione feels her chest tighten, visibly uneased by Theo's remark about Ron.

Ron. Ron. Ron.

She hadn't seen Ron in a few months. She had become so enamored and involved with her
internship at the Ministry—desperate to turn it into a full-time job—that she discovered it to be
rather difficult to remain connected with him—Harry as well. Ron worked full-time with George at
Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, rotating between morning and evening shifts; Harry was employed at
Hogwarts as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for a year now—he seemingly broke the
curse of constantly rotating professors. Hermione's job required the same gyration of shifts, some
during the morning and some during the evening, and thus it made connecting with them rather
difficult.

She and Ron tried. They truly tried. But their lives veered in two different directions, and the
courses they fell on never seemed to converge. Hermione belonged to her work, and Ron belonged
to his family. Nothing more.

And anyhow, her heart didn't truly feign that way. She thought it would after the war, but things
between them began to fizzle, and before she knew it, they were hardly speaking.
It is a touchy subject. And Hermione's sunken countenance clearly expresses it.

"Seems like I've hit quite the nerve," Theo mutters, tilting his head to the right and sassily raising
his eyebrows.

"She'll be fine," Pansy responds, glaring at Hermione's shaking face. "Strong, resilient Gryffindors
like her aren't phased by anything. Isn't that right?"

Theo places a kiss on her neck.

Before Hermione can offer a retort—one she knows would be inappropriate and against her better
judgement—she feels a steady hand latch onto her shoulder. She turns around and sees Aberfield
offering a pleasant and reaffirming smile, as if to say that everything will be alright.

Hermione reads his message through his eyes.

It's always been people's eyes that Hermione feels an attraction to—a magnetism towards. They are
more than windows to the soul. Eyes have the ability to say what words simply can't. Stare long
enough, and people start to reveal who they truly are—what their words or actions cannot even
begin to express.

Even as she looks into Aberfield's eyes, all she can really think about is his—Draco's. Grey, like a
storm, hurricaning inside of her stomach and making her intestines twist with ire. Her blood boils as
she pictures his coarse eyes glaring at her. He drives her crazy, makes her angry beyond words;
Merlin, if only he could look into her eyes right now—

"Are any of you going to tell us why you're keeping us here? Or maybe why you felt the need to
bloody kidnap us in the brink of morning?" Blaise asks, leaning against the wall just next to
Daphne, who slowly recovers on the floor below him. Even after taking the medicine, Daphne still
looks exhausted and traumatized.

If Draco and Adrian are telling the truth about this being a daily ritual, then Hermione cannot
comprehend how Daphne's body is able to endure it. How she can so willingly undergo such
immense trauma and distress. Hermione tries to locate the Dark Mark on Daphne's left arm,
wondering if the answer to that question lies there, like it did upon Draco's. Does she have internal
and external scars, too?

Her brain reels. Graham. She's back to thinking about Graham. The image of him, alone in his
bathroom, bleeding and crying in pain, enters her mind. She quickly dispels it, represses it, does
everything in her influence to subdue the gruesome scene that her brain conjures. She doesn't need
any more horrific thoughts staining her memories. She has enough of those to last a lifetime.

"Yes, well, you all deserve to know that much," Aberfield responds, clasping his hands together
and pacing back towards the front door of Kingsley's office, where Kingsley stands, to address the
group as a whole. Hermione steps to the side, feeling odd about joining Kingsley and Aberfield in
their position of power. These are still her peers.

She doesn't wish to distance herself from the program she has worked so hard on, but at the same
time she cannot shake the tense dynamic that has grown and fostered itself within this room. She
sees it in every one of their eyes, especially his.

Draco stares at her with intense disdain.

Aberfield interrupts her restless thoughts with an explanation of the program.

"First of all, let me just say how sorry I am about your friend, Graham. I cannot imagine what must
be going through your heads right now—"

Merlin, I'm hungry. Those fucking poached eggs don't sound like such a joke right now.

Bloody hell, this is humiliating. And my breath smells like shit. I could hurl all over again just
thinking about it. Oh Merlin, bless Blaise's heart for putting up with me.

Fucking hell, you know you're deprived of sex when Granger kind of turns you on. Fucking holding
the tissue up to my nose like that. Doesn't she know how that is exactly the kind of thing that turns
men on? Merlin's ball sack...

What I wouldn't give to shag Theo right here in this office. In front of everyone, just to fuck with
them. He could throw me over this desk, pound my head against its golden surface over and over
again, and fuck me into eternity, and I'd thank him a million bloody times for his service.

Merlin, I need to get Daphne in a bed. Somewhere she can rest. She doesn't look too good...

I want more cocaine, please. I want to feel that way again. I want to wrap my nostrils around it and
drown in it. Fuck all of you for making me take that stupid fucking antidote. And fuck Granger for
almost forcing it down my throat. Merlin, the way she squirmed when she saw me swallow it,
though. That was satisfying, rewarding, and completely worth it.

"—It is imperative, at a time like this, that we reach out to you all to check in and see how you are
coping. And, as Liaison of Wizard to Wizard Relations, my job is to help integrate disenfranchised
witches and wizards back into our communities so that they may be an effective member of our
society."

Draco obnoxiously yawns, but Hermione can sense that he isn't tired. Just plain bored.

"You see, after the end of the war, I noticed that there were alienated people—like yourselves—
who were shunned away from society, all because of a choice they made years before. Now, I truly
believe there is a possibility that you all can reintegrate yourselves into our new and improved
civilization—one where witches and wizards live peacefully, unphased by silly things like blood or
class status."

As Aberfield continues his speech, Hermione inspects the faces of her former classmates, dying to
uncover their sincerest reactions to the premise of the program. All of them are confused and
baffled by the proposition. Nervousness creeps its way into her already anxious system, reminding
her of a cold, hard fact: they are likely to be completely unwilling to go through with this.

Unfortunately for them, they don't necessarily have much of a choice in the matter.

"With Ms. Granger's help, we've developed a rehabilitation effort of sorts for you all. And there are
several goals and initiatives of the program."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Theo mumbles, just loud enough for everyone to hear. Pansy snickers and
bites her lower lip, attempting to hold back her already spilling fit of laughter.

"Yes, thank you very much, Mr. Nott," Aberfield responds with a colossal influx of patience. "It's
called the Former Death Eater Rehabilitation Program—"

"What the fuck kind of name is that?" Pansy mumbles.

"It's a year-long program—"

The group groans.

"Five days a week—"

"Fucking hell," Draco mutters, the back of his head colliding with the wall behind him.

Aberfield continues, despite the obvious dissent and discord: "And it will be centered around
unlearning everything you have been taught about dark magic, classism, and blood purity."

Pursing and popping his lips in the silence of the confounded room of Slytherins, Theo leans
forward. "Right, can I be honest with you?" he says, raising one of his bushy eyebrows.

Consenting to a comment that he would likely later regret, Aberfield motions his hand towards
Theo. Theo clears his throat, an act that Hermione knows can only presage trouble.

"Nothing you are saying is of any care to me unless, at this proper moment, you put a lit cigarette
between my fingers, or you fill my stomach with some bloody food. Those poached eggs from
before sound really fucking appetizing right about now."

Snickers and giggles resound in the office, like an orchestra of babbling hyenas.

Pansy raises her hand to speak. "I take quite a long time getting ready in the morning," she
interjects, brushing her hair behind her ears and leaning forward against her bended knees. "What
with the daydreaming right as I wake up, then subsequently fucking Theo till he can barely breathe,
then taking a shower with Theo and fucking him in there as well... and then there's the hassle of
doing my makeup, drying my hair, brushing my teeth, ingesting my morning rush of coc—"

"Do you have a point to all of this, Ms. Parkinson?" Kingsley asks impatiently, shaking his head at
the obscene images which Pansy describes.

"Well, I guess I'm just wondering... what's your policy if I show up to class a little late and, shall
we say, dazed?" Pansy remarks, curving her lip in a snide smirk. "Sorry—if Theo and I show up to
class a little late and a little dazed?"

"Yes, and as you all can clearly see," Daphne continues, lending her own addition to the game, "I
get poor headaches and hangovers the morning after, so it would seem that those two lovebirds
aren't the only ones who would be showing up a tad bit tardy to your lessons."

Blaise bites his lower lip and chuckles at the sudden burst of feistiness spilling out of Daphne's
mouth.

Aberfield clears his throat, surveying the room with raised eyebrows. His eyes glaze over to Blaise,
then Adrian, then Draco. Raising his hands in submission, Aberfield's right eyebrow rises. "Would
any of you like to chime in with your concerns?"

Adrian puckers his lips. "I'm actually quite punctual, so I think I'm alright." He winks.

More laughter. Hermione notices that even Draco is reveling in the charade, his cherry lips lifting
on the sides to form a cheeky grin. His eyes connect with hers again; iris upon iris, recognizing
Hermione's abject discomfort, Draco's eyebrows shoot up in another form of teasing her—another
way to get under her skin. She bites down on her tongue, hard, trying desperately to hold in her
displeasure.

Kingsley's right hand sprouts up, his index finger pointing at each of the culprits who undoubtedly
stole his patience. "If you all are quite finished now—"
"It's alright, Kingsley," Aberfield interrupts, taking Kingsley's raised wrist in his hand and gently
lowering it back to his side. Aberfield returns his attention to the unconvinced group; his tolerance
mimics that of a teacher addressing their disobedient students, yet instead of resorting to punitive
measures, he simply waits out the laughter and foolery.

"I know this must seem unfair, but I can assure you that this program is for your own good. Ms.
Granger and I have worked very hard to create a comprehensive curriculum, and I have no doubt
that she and I will not disappoint."

They stare back at him with blank expressions, completely unconvinced.

Aberfield takes the conversation a step further. "Don't you want to be accepted again? Aren't you
tired of doing the same exact thing every single day, with no one to console you or help you? Don't
you think, three years after a traumatizing war—a war you all fought in as children—that you all
deserve some help? Don't you think you deserve to have one bloody person care about you?"

The silence in the room is different now; the atmosphere has unquestionably shifted, and with it
went the bickering, the laughing, and the snide remarks. The Slytherins bite their tongues.

"Well," Aberfield continues, recognizing his current power over the room, "She is standing right
here. Ms. Granger is both willing and prepared to help you all. Should you truly want it in your
hearts. I recommend that you do. Or the Ministry will have to intervene in another way."

Aberfield has hit a nerve. He has flipped a switch in them, right in the pit of their stomach, in the
dark abysses where they have tried to repress every authentic feeling they have ever felt. Those
feelings rush out immediately, swirling among their insides like a typhoon, weaving in and out of
their organs, until finally the emotions reach their throats.

Blaise caves. Speaks first.

"I would," he declares. His friends glare at him. "For fuck's sake, you lot, maybe this can actually
do us some good. We could get jobs. We could get our own apartments, so we don't have to
subjugate our ears to these two—" he gestures to Theo and Pansy— "moaning and fucking
incessantly all the bloody time—"

"You're one to ta-alk," Theo sings, his voice stretching and creating a fluid melody with the final
word.

Blaise crosses his arms over his chest, digging his tongue into the bottom of his lip with a sense of
indignation. His eyes reach Daphne's, and something shifts in his expression.

Then out of his mouth pours something Hermione never expected to hear: "Alright. I'm in. And so
is everyone else."

There is an uproar of protests from the Slytherins. But the sounds are muffled within Hermione's
ears. She stares at Blaise, mouth open, dumbfounded that he is so willing to do this. Blaise looks at
her with his regal brown eyes and nods his head ever so slightly.

Progress. Somehow. Ten bloody minutes ago he was rejecting her help with something as trivial as
taking care of Daphne. Now, he is open to the idea.

As the Slytherins continue to bicker, Hermione's eyes voyage towards Draco. His back is still
glued to the wall, eyes fastened on her, and he wears a resentful and irate expression on his face.

I'm doing this for you, damnit, she thinks, wondering if Draco could truly read her mind.
His eyebrows creep up his temples. And with the muffled sounds of everyone quarreling around
her, Hermione clearly hears and sees Draco clap his hands three times in sloth-like speed.

He would torment her until her hair falls out if he could, and that's what worries Hermione about
this program. About being with him every day for the next several months. Because it's clear he
enjoys doing this—taunting her until she breaks.

But she can't break. She can't. She has to remain firm in her position.

Hermione watches Draco inhale deeply, fearing that he's adding her flustered face to his memories.
Perhaps, she considers, it's something that will keep him going.

Her flustered fucking face.

 Chapter 5

If the Slytherins were going to attend this rehabilitation program, they concluded that they needed
to be high out of their minds for the first meeting.

Or—at the very least—bring the drugs with them if the seminar got far too mind-numbingly
painful to endure... which it undoubtedly would.

The thought of sitting through a meeting and listening to Aberfield's monotonously painful voice
while simultaneously being chaperoned by none other than Hermione fucking Granger herself is
too agonizing for Draco to chew over in his mind. He stays up all night, lying recumbent in his bed
and gawking at the ceiling, his body craving the sweet extracts of alcohol to numb him or cause
him to stagger off into a hazy slumber.

Draco fusses in his bed under the thin, grey duvet, his cold body tossing back and forth as his brain
invents potential scenarios for tomorrow's meeting.

He pictures Aberfield standing at the front of a room, lecturing down at them as if he somehow
knows everything about what they have been through. As if he can comprehend the pain they had
to endure. He has no idea how far the extent of their trauma reaches. How the memories of those
years under Voldemort cut through their bodies every day and every night, draining them of blood
and life as time went on.

Aberfield has no fucking idea how hard it is. And he will never know. It didn't matter how much
time Aberfield dedicated to devising his program, or how many former Death Eaters he spoke to, or
how many books he read about the topic—he could never truly know their perpetual agony.

Most importantly, he doesn't have a mark on his arm, gnawing at the skin around it as if to
torturously and sluggishly tear their bodies apart from the inside out. It has a mind of its own—it
harbors feelings, intentions, and malevolent plans.

He could never fucking understand. Never.

And Draco pictures Granger taking notes, reading in the corner, passing out quizzes or surveys—
whatever the fuck it is she would be doing there at the meeting. He sees her dressed in a brown,
wool sweater with the collar of a white button-up poking out above the hem of the neckline, all
tucked into a pair of straight, forest green pants, with her curly brown locks subdued in a low
ponytail that rests upon the back of her neck.

He can see it now—her cheeks turning crimson as he toys with her by means of his callous glances,
making her wince and shudder in uneasiness. Draco could play that image over and over again in
his mind, and it would function the exact same way as any other upper.

That's the pill he wants to consume. If there was a capsule that could replay that image of Granger's
face in his head like a slideshow for the rest of his life, he would take it in an instant. He'd wash it
down with whiskey, mead, gin, forcing it down his throat if he had to.

The sight stimulates him, reminds him of his undeniable power over Granger.

Blood rushes to his—

Woah. What the fuck?

Draco feels a sharp pang bud beneath his lower stomach.

Oh, for fuck's sake. Go to sleep.

Adrian's soft breathing in the bed across the room echoes through Draco's acutely activated
eardrums, and he tries desperately to disregard the revolting thoughts of Granger swimming in his
mind. He represses them for as long as he can, begging his brain to disremember the stimulating
image that made him feel that... feeling.

Forget it. Forget it. Fucking forget it.

He uses Adrian's presence to inhibit the feeling, but the fucking image of Granger—the way she
kneeled in front of him and administered the potion, her brown eyes widening in astonishment as
he gripped the vial with his teeth—keeps reappearing in his line of imagination.

Granger. Kneeling in front of him.

Fucking hell, get a grip.

Draco yanks one of the plush pillows out from beneath his head and slams it over his face,
desperate to purge the nauseating feeling that buds in the pit of his stomach as it tries to descend
even lower in his body. He is desperate to stop thinking about her. He'll think or say anything at
this point to dispel her image.

She's a mudblood. A fucking mudblood.

Draco clears his throat, because thinking that felt... it felt... oh gods, wrong?

He's confused. He's fucking confused—

His thoughts are interrupted by a chorus of familiar grunts and moans behind the wall to his right,
coming from Theo's room.

You have got to be fucking kidding me. At this fucking hour?

Groaning in anger, Draco presses the pillow harder upon his head, crafting two mental reminders:
blow Theo's door off its hinges in the morning with an Exploding Charm and stash a bag of
cocaine in the pocket of his trousers for the impending seminar. Merlin knows he'll need it.

"They should be here any moment," Aberfield says, gazing down at his leather watch and
inspecting the time: one minute before ten in the morning.

Hermione sighs, recalling the obscene words and images that Pansy described for her yesterday in
Kingsley's office. About her... audacious morning routine. Promptness seemed like it was less than
a priority to the group of Slytherins.

Hermione fears that they won't even bother to show up. They had been so apprehensive and
disgusted by the idea of a rehabilitation program yesterday.

She braces herself for what she considers inevitable: they are just not coming.

Aberfield and Hermione had arrived a half hour ago to prepare for the first meeting of the
F.D.E.R.E. Located on the fifth floor of the Ministry of Magic headquarters, the room which
Aberfield procured for the meetings was several doors away from his own personal office.
Although the level was dedicated to the Department of International Magical Cooperation,
Aberfield used his ingenious and creative mind to create a subdivision of the department, which
centered around wizard relations spanning across all blood statuses.

His position was self-created, and the idea stemmed from his ingenious and creative intellect.
Hermione venerated his drive and vision to create a more inclusive wizarding world. It's what drew
her to his office one day as she explored the Ministry on her first day of her initial internship, and
ultimately drove her to switch departments and work for him. His mission spoke to her, having
been heavily exposed to unpleasant interactions with witches and wizards in her past.

Ironic that the ones who created such a hostile environment for her are now forced to undergo a
treatment program which she helped design.

The room was originally painted a dark blue, but Aberfield sensed that the dark color would
emanate an unpalatable ambiance. He fancied something brighter and happier in order to create a
more inviting environment. With the flick of his wand and the utterance of a few charms, the color
of the wall morphed into a lovely eggshell.

The room was rather empty, though, save a circle of eight chairs and a long desk towards the back
wall, stacked with papers and books which Aberfield intended to use for his upcoming lessons.
Hermione wished they could brighten the atmosphere even more with posters, paintings, or any
sort of additional design, to create a scene that was not so dull and monotone; all too distracted by
the content of the program, as well as being acutely aware of her lack of expertise in the sector of
interior design, she flung the nonessential project to the back of her brain, reminding herself to see
to it in the future if there was time.

"Maybe they're lost?" Aberfield suggests, a clear indication of sarcasm in his voice as he raises his
right eyebrow and grins.

Hermione unveils a smile and releases a brief chuckle. Aberfield's lighthearted humor undeniably
soothes her wavering nerves.

Of course they're not lost—they're just late. Possibly not even coming.

Another minute passes, then five, then ten, then fifteen. Aberfield and Hermione stand in silence,
pacing around the room and uttering small sentences here and there to pass the time. Hermione
checks her watch and the door compulsively. She notices every little sound outside the room, each
time wondering if it is them.

At eighteen past the hour, the door finally opens.

Hermione is mid-pacing the room, swiveling through the red chairs and deep in thought when she
hears the handle of the door click. Her head shoots up towards the entrance. The first person she
sees is Blaise, who politely yet discreetly bows his head in her direction. Daphne follows close
behind, her hand interlocked with Blaise's.

Following them is Adrian, who offers Hermione a cheeky wink, clicking his tongue against the
roof of his mouth in tandem.

"Ahh, here you all are!" Aberfield exclaims, approaching the Slytherins with outstretched arms and
a bright expression. "We were beginning to think you got lost."

"Believe me, we tried," Theo responds as he and Pansy walk through the door. "Lots of levels and
rooms in this fucking building. But this one—" Theo points at Blaise, who takes a seat in one of
the chairs— "insisted that he knew exactly where to go."
Aberfield laughs. "Let's be grateful for Mr. Zabini's keen eye, then."

The group settles into their seats, but Hermione is all too distracted by the figure standing
menacingly in the threshold of the door, teetering between the hallway and the room. Malfoy rests
there, leaning his arm against the frame of the door and crossing his right foot over his left. She
observes his tattoos, covering his arms like a chaotic mosaic, each random tattoo a piece of the
puzzle Hermione is determined to solve. His free hand is shoved into the pocket of his black
trousers, and Hermione can slightly make out very subtle movements ensuing within his pocket,
like his fingers are twirling something.

The intimidating contest between them begins as their eyes connect, dancing in an angry and
coldhearted tango. The pressing question arises: who shudders first?

"Don't leave us in anticipation, Mr. Malfoy," Aberfield says, gesturing his hand towards an open
chair. As Draco's eyes shift to focus on Aberfield, Hermione finally acquires her freedom from his
provocative gaze. Draco scoffs and enters the room, his black boots skidding against the carpet and
creating a harsh sound, like muffled yet still unnervingly tantalizing nails on a chalkboard.

Hermione isn't off the hook yet. She despises that sound, and she is positive that Draco can sense
her immense anxiousness in response to the mal-intended noises. Her back is turned to him as he
drags the last remaining empty chair out from the circle and drops into it. The agonizing sounds
make her shoulders shudder—makes Draco chuckle.

"Glad we are all settled in," Aberfield says, taking a seat in between Draco and Daphne and
leaning forward to rest his elbows against his knees. "Welcome, all of you, to the first day of your
new life."

"Fuck's sake," Draco whispers under his breath, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms
over his chest as if to reject Aberfield's greeting. A small creaking sound releases as a result of
bending the bones of the chair. Draco grimaces, briefly catching Hermione's uncomfortable and
uneasy expression the moment the chair squeaks.

Salazar, Merlin, fucking Voldemort from the grave, Draco thinks, whoever it was that made sitting
in this chair possible—bless you.

Their first lesson: the history of muggle-wizard relations.

"Muggle-wizard relations have always been quite complicated," Aberfield says, his eyes darting
between the Slytherins as a means of properly engaging them in the discourse, though each of them
harbor their own resentment to the lesson, feeling it to be incredibly simplistic and unnecessary.

They had their opinions about muggles implanted in them by their families, and uprooting those
sentiments would not take one measly lesson.

Pansy conspicuously plays with a hangnail on her middle finger, and Theo practically puts on a
cabaret performance as he rotates between cracking his knuckles, grinding his teeth, and sighing
loudly. Adrian taps his slender fingers against his knee in a steady rhythm—were his taps off beat,
Hermione would've lost her mind much earlier.

Daphne and Blaise seem to be the only ones paying any sort of attention, but there are occasional
snickers that escape their mouths.

But nothing compares to the harrowing, excruciating sound of Draco's noisy chair. Any chance he
gets to disturb Hermione, he seizes with pleasure. The chair squeaks at the slightest movements,
fostering an idyllic situation for tormenting her. Her face scrunches, eyebrows furrow, and lips
quiver every single time he shifts forward, backwards, to the side, crosses his legs, or simply
adjusts in the seat.

Heaven. Draco is in fucking heaven.

"While there has been substantial animosity between muggles and wizards in the past, it is our goal
now to salvage the relationship and forge a healthier, more cooperative association with them."
Aberfield takes a deep breath as he surveys the expressions of the group—their faces are plagued
with utter disinterest.

Not one of them tries to fake it anymore—not even Blaise or Daphne.

Hermione catches Aberfield's wandering eyes and smiles, offering the same reassurance and
optimism he has often presented to her. He continues: "Do you all have any thoughts of what I have
just presented?"

Silence. The room is as still as ice in below freezing weather. Nobody offers a response, a
comment, or a question.

Squeak.

Hermione cringes.

Draco grimaces.

Sighing in defeat, Aberfield concedes to the silence of the group. "Right, let's just take a short
break, then. We will reconvene in a few minutes."

Before Aberfield can even finish his sentence, Draco shoots out of his seat and barges out the door,
no doubt tired of listening to Aberfield drone on and on about the tumultuous history of muggles
and wizards. It is clearly of no interest to him, and Hermione expected nothing less.

The sound of the creaking chair underneath Draco's weight replays over and over again within her
mind. It echoes in her eardrums, distracting her from everything else.

He... he just... he's such a...

Hermione observes a smirk form on Pansy's face as she watches Draco leave the room. Pansy leans
over and whispers something in Theo's ear, subsequently earning a light chuckle from him.

Something within Hermione tells her to follow Draco. She knows she's an idiot for thinking it—
doesn't care, though.

She rises from her seat, gathering the attention of the others.

"I'll just be a minute," she tells Aberfield, whose head rests in his right hand perched atop his lap.
Aberfield smiles and waves as she turns around and exits the room, feeling the eyes of the other
Slytherins glued to her back.

She storms out of the room, her head turning left and right to scope out the sight of platinum blonde
hair. Down the hallway to her left, Hermione watches as Draco pushes open the door to the
bathroom.

She huffs, wondering if it is really in her best interest to follow him.

She goes against her better judgement and charges through the hallway, fully intent on confronting
him for his unprofessional and distasteful conduct. She'll curse him out if she has to. She'll take her
wand and shove it straight into the skin of his neck if it means he will stop fucking with her.

Hermione resolves that she will put a stop to this nonsense before it goes any further.

Approaching the bathroom door, Hermione takes a deep breath, summoning any sort of spare
confidence she harbors within her gut. She reaches her hand up to touch the door. Hesitates. Inhales
again. Wishes for strength and wit as she prepares to engage in a battle royale.

She thrusts the door wide open and steps inside.

 Chapter 6

Finally. Some peace and fucking quiet.

Draco has been dying to wrap his nostrils around some cocaine all day.

He can't take his mind off of it. Ever since the Slytherins apparated and landed in the atrium of the
Ministry for their first day of the program, it's all he can think about.

The group found themselves surrounded and suffocated by the bustling and overzealous employees
who scurried like ants to their assigned posts. The clamorous sounds of the Ministry were
deafening, the restless sights blinding. He felt disarranged and out of place—like a shark out of
water.

And the way the ministry workers looked at them. It was like they were sharks, like they would
unremorsefully attack the employees any second with their sharp and thrashing teeth.

No. The employees looked at them even worse than that. They glared at them like they were
fucking urchins. Predators corrupting the precious sea floor that was the Ministry of Magic.

All Draco wanted was an upper. An escape. Some fucking cocaine. Anything to drown out the
looks he received, the whispers he heard, and the snarls and tuts from those who thought they were
better than him.

Fuck all of them. And fuck their lavatory.

With his premeditated plans set in action in the privacy of the Ministry bathroom, Draco hastily
removes a small, clear, plastic bag from the pocket of his trousers, his voracious eyes gleaming at
the white powder inside of the pouch—taunting him, enticing him, causing his stomach to growl
with hunger. He licks his lips as he quickly tugs the seal open, willfully enslaved to the drug and
absolutely nothing else.

Brain swelling, pulse palpitating with anticipation of the cocaine conquering his bloodstream,
Draco tips the open baggie over and slowly dispenses some of the powder across the side of his
right index finger, wary not to spill it.

He’s had plenty of practice though, and he gracefully succeeds in drawing a perfectly straight line
of cocaine of about two inches long across the tip of his long index digit. Just enough cocaine to
make him feel a little less like everything around him is caving in, mercilessly dragging his body
down into the sweltering core of the earth. Just enough to get him through these fucking sessions.

If this is how these workshops are always going to be run, then fucking hell, he’s going to need to
force Adrian to contact his muggle supplier as soon as possible to restock their supply of drugs.

The image of the snow coating his equally pale skin is invigorating—finally, he can feel the sweet
release and high of his favorite vice.

Not thinking twice, Draco swipes the contents right off his finger and into his nostril, and the
powder shoots up his nose like a waterfall running in reverse. It hits the top of his head, and Draco
inhales deeply, wanting to subsume every fucking grain of it.

For extra measure, Draco removes his wand from his back pocket. Aiming his hawthorn next to his
head, the tip of the walnut tinted wood grazing his hair, Draco mutters an incantation to accelerate
the speed of the drugs within him: “Accelero momentum.”

Immediately, he undergoes a gripping head rush. The drugs combust within his system and
progress through his bloodstream, not sparing any part of his insides. Writhing through him,
colonizing his insides, reaffirming its eternal, inevitable hold over him.

“What on earth are you doing, Malfoy?”

Fucking hell.

Draco brusquely twists his head to the source of the shrill voice. Hermione stands between the
threshold of the door and the hallway, staring at him, her eyes highlighted with a look of utter
disbelief.

Draco scoffs. “Casting my fucking Patronus. What does it look like I’m doing?”

Hermione’s eyes widen, ignoring his comment and entirely focusing her eyes on the small bag that
Draco holds between his lean fingers. She stutters, her mind reeling over the sight. “Is that—"

“Relax, Granger,” he slurs with a roll of his eyes, cramming the bag and wand back into his pocket.
“Just a little something to take the edge off.”

Hermione fearlessly steps further into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her, much to Draco's
antipathy. He scoffs and turns away from her to face the sink.

“Who invited you in here?” he sneers, glaring at his reflection in the mirror, tugging the golden
knob of the sink marked with a carved ‘C,’ and plunging his hands under the rushing cold water.
As the brisk water makes contact with his skin, he inhales sharply through his nose, the titillating
sensations both below and upon his membrane merging in bliss and clouding his body in a state of
utter euphoria.

Hermione huffs. Not one day into the program and Draco is already tormenting her in every way
possible—with his attitude, his distasteful glances, and his relentless rocking in his squeaky chair
that made her hair stand erect all over her body.

And he knew it, too. He knew he was getting under her skin.

He fucking loved it. Relished in the knowledge of it.

Arsehole, Hermione thinks.

She takes a moment to compose herself. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” She takes a
cautious step forward, her small nude heels clanging lightly against the white marble floor. “You
ran out of the room rather abruptly.”

Draco spans his arms in the air like an eagle, droplets of water splattering across the counter to his
left and the floor to his right. He drops his arms to the sides of his waist with a forced,
unmistakably irritated thud. “I’m fucking fantastic. Can’t you tell? I’m having the time of my life
being held here against my will, learning about some lackluster, trivial, degrading bullshit.”

“Degrading?” Hermione repeats, feeling her forehead insistently force her eyebrows down into a
shocked slant.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

She takes a deep breath, demanding every cell in her body to remain calm. Demanding herself to
stay as unperturbed as possible.

“Honestly, it’s been one day. No—not even a day. It’s been just over an hour. How painful can this
really be?”

A part of her hopes that he will just back off. Acknowledge that he is being petty and cruel for no
apparent reason. But she casts that net into an empty sea, and his response is like a riptide that pulls
back any sort of hope she has for civility between them. The ship has sailed, the tides steering it
into open, unpredictable waters.

“Painful,” he growls in response.

Exasperation builds within Hermione like stepping blocks, but it’s not as strong as her level-
headedness. She huffs impatiently, squaring her shoulders and placing her hands on her hips. “I
really think if you just opened yourself up to this process—”

“Process,” Draco mimics. He rolls his eyes into the back of his head, and when they return to
Hermione’s sight, she notices the silver augment is tainted, completely obliterated. A crimson tint
begins to creep inwards from the edges of his eyes; like a hurricane, it swirls slowly in his pearls,
and she can visibly see his irises undergo the strenuous influence of the storm within him.

He continues. “Please. That word is such a fucking joke. This is just a way for you to feel better
about yourself and come out looking like some sort of postwar savior—”

“That… that’s not true—”

“Spare me.”

A beat.

They glare at one another in silence.

Draco’s words sting, tackle her soul with such force that her fists start to bunch in anger. She feels
her nails dig into her palm—breathe, Hermione.

Deep inside, she knows what’s true. She knows that her intentions are genuine. She knows that the
reason she crafted this program with Aberfield was to help them—was to help him. Draco.

And Aberfield—someone she looked up to with immense admiration—worked incredibly hard to

develop this initiative, constantly pleading with members of the Ministry to hear his plan, consider
granting clemency to the past Death Eaters, even going so far as to help free the former Death
Eaters from their cells in Azkaban under the guise that they learn, reflect, and become better
people. It was jarring at first, but Kingsley conceded to the idea in the hopes that it would dispel
the intense polarization within the Wizarding World. With the little experience he truly held in the
Ministry, Aberfield was able to do all of that with such ease.

And it magnetized Hermione. Aberfield’s work ethic inspired her. His ardent desire for change in
the Wizarding World stirred similar wishes within her.

And it all started with that group of Slytherins.

It drew her in because she is forever haunted by the sights of them at Hogwarts during their sixth
year. How they paced around the corridors, itching their arms, withdrawing themselves from any
sort of social setting.
She remembers Draco most of all. The image of him has been impossible to forget.

Slouching and sulking in his misery, wandering the corridors of the splendid castle like a ghost, his
eyes empty and dead, Draco’s once vivacious and competitive spirit had utterly subsided that year.
He no longer vied for the spot of top student against Hermione. He had backslid into a dense,
empty shell, and trivial matters such as the bestowment of chief student fell on his backburner.

And she even remembers entering the infirmary just a few days before Dumbledore’s death with
the intent of discussing an ancient healing charm she stumbled upon in one of her leisure books
with Madame Pomfrey, who was always willing to discuss such intriguing concepts with her. But
instead of focusing on the question at hand, Hermione’s attention was entirely shifted to the
desolate blonde lying in a cot at the back of the infirmary, his back turned to everyone, eyes glued
to the stone wall. He lay alone in his bed, suffering the wounds cast by her best friend.

He had not one friend or visitor of his own.

Others around him did. Hannah Abbott, with her broken arm wrapped in a sling, was surrounded by
countless Hufflepuffs, and they were giggling and chatting loudly. A younger boy, had to be a first
year, even had his friends crowding around his bed, pestering him about his unlucky encounter
with a rather frazzled and scared owl in the Owlery. He pointed to the cuts on his arms and cheeks,
delivered through the sharp talons of the bird, and his friends "ooh'd" and "ahh'd" at his battle
scars.

Yet Draco was alone.

Hermione considered approaching him that day in the infirmary. She didn’t know why. But
something pulled her in his direction, just like it did yesterday when she rushed towards his
practically lifeless body on the floor of Kingsley’s office.

A tug. A rubber band. A magnet. Just as powerful now as it was then. Electrodes surging between
their bodies, creating an enticing forcefield of energy between them.

And as Madame Pomfrey explained the intricacies of the healing charm to her that day, Hermione
found herself unable to remove her eyes from his cold, still body, wrapped under blankets like a
butterfly imprisoned in his cocoon.

And now she stands feet away from him, and he hasn’t changed. His body is stilled surrounded by
this tough shell, his heart the victim of a ravaging and unrelenting hurricane.

And he copes with drugs. He deals with the pain by triggering more pain.

A question pops in Hermione’s head, and before she can consider the repercussions of prodding
into Draco’s personal life, she blurts it out:

“Why do you do it?”

Draco is dumbfounded. His reply is snarky: “You’ve got to be a little more specific than that.”

“Why do you use… muggle drugs?”

Draco scoffs, stabbing the bottom of his lip with his dry tongue and shaking his head. His teeth
grasp his bottom lip, and he tugs it inside his mouth, slowly releasing the fold in several seconds of
tension-filled ambiguity. Staring at the ground, he willfully ignores her question.

Fearlessly, Hermione tries to recapture his sulking eyes with another query: “I just can't
comprehend why someone like you wouldn't just use their magic, like you've always done. Why do
you seek out these drugs in particular?"

Astounded by her incessant poking at his personal life, Draco swipes the sweaty palm of his hand
over his face and drags down, pulling his skin with him and scratching at his chin.

The cocaine pulses through him.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he says through his snarled lips, a curve so vicious and
rotten it’s like he’s spitting venom at her.

“I just think if you let us help you—”

“Granger, read my fucking lips.”

A tundra surrounds her, and she stiffens under the cold air. Frozen in spot, as if ice has sprouted
from the ground and encapsulated her feet in an array of crystals, planting her firmly to the marble
floor, her breath hitches as Draco starts to step towards her.

And as he menacingly approaches her and invades her space, she feels her heart fasten, clench, and
wound itself tightly within her chest, like a snake is coiling its way around her most precious organ.

He leans forward, his face only a foot away from her now. And he delivers a sour response: “None
of us want your fucking charity. Never fucking have, never fucking will.”

Hermione bites the inside of her cheek, words of insult gushing through her mind, fully intent on
spilling out of her quivering mouth in a colorful array of jabs and snubs.

Impossible. A lost cause. A waste of time.

That’s what he is.

Why do I waste my time?

Clearing her throat, the reason for all this trouble returns: they deserve to have someone care about
them.

She concedes. “I suppose it can’t be forced.”

Draco snarls, reveling in his apparent victory.

“But you should know this,” Hermione continues, leaning her face towards his and digging up a
source of confidence deep within her, bringing it to fruition in a moment of tense confrontation.
“You can stand here and numb your body with whatever substances you please. But I can assure
you that the pain you feel—and it’s obvious you feel it, otherwise you wouldn’t be subjecting
yourself to these drugs—will never subside unless you suck up your pride and ask for some bloody
support.”

They glare at one another. Draco’s look could cut steel, but Hermione’s could cut graphene. Could
slice right through the honeycomb lattice of the most powerful, stable atoms known to man.

And as Draco opens his mouth to offer a rebuttal, counterattack her unsolicited perceptions about
him, Hermione spins on her heels and storms out of the bathroom, the crystals of ice around her
feet melting away in the warmth of her colossal surge of confidence. The door crashes behind her,
and she exhales in relief in the hallway, acknowledging a few straggling Ministry workers with a
nod as she charges back to the room.

Draco stands fixed in the bathroom, his face hot with ire and his fingers tingling with a rush of
adrenaline.

She doesn’t know anything.

Fuck her.

Fuck her.

I don’t need anyone’s help.

I’m fucking fine.

He truly tries to convince himself of these things.

His body tenses and hardens, sickened by the recent encounter with Hermione, shaking with anger
at the way she reversed the playing field, crawling up into his skin and corrupting the cocaine’s
process. Wishing that the drugs would work double time to counteract this new feeling, Draco
inhales deeply and subjects himself even deeper to the powder, feeling a snowstorm brewing
beneath his skin and around his blood.

The high is undoubtedly exciting, but it appears that fighting with Hermione is heavily
intoxicating.

And he wishes for nothing more than to be inebriated for the rest of his life.

“Oh for fuck’s sake... try the door again, Maverick!”

Maverick’s wand flicks in the direction of the bathroom door, the embers glowing from the tip and
providing a small ounce of light to the dark, dim alcove of Amortentia. The violet sparks bounce
off of the metal handle, and he reaches another time for the knob. Upon touching the metal, a
spark of electricity shocks his skin; his hand jolts back, and he shakes it in midair, hoping
somehow to dispel the voltage from his body and mind.

“Fuck, Bernard! It won’t unlock!”

“Must be those bloody kids charming the door again,” Bernard groans. He impatiently approaches
the door and pounds his fist against the white plaster. “Oi! You crazy fuckers better wrap it up in
there!”

A voice comes from inside: “Fuck off, mate!”

Stunned, Bernard recoils and gasps at the curt response of the person inside the bathroom; the
reply is then followed by several over-exaggerated, sensual moans from another lighter, higher,
likely female voice.

“The nerve of those—”

“Titus! Titus, sir,” Maverick exclaims, spotting the beloved owner of Amortentia as he trudges
through the crowd of sweaty bodies dancing upon his floor, offering pleasant and wholesome
“hellos” to his treasured clients. Upon hearing his name called over the loud bass of the music,
Titus Cromwell apprehensively approaches the two guards with a raised eyebrow. “Titus,” he
continues, “we have a problem. Guests have been complaining that there are people hogging the
bathroom.”

“It’s those kids in there again having—”

“Please, no need to finish that sentence, Bernard," Titus responds. "I’ll take care of this. Thank you
gentlemen."

Bernard and Maverick look at one another questionably.

“You don’t want us to take care of this?” Bernard asks, reaching for his wand.

Titus shakes his head with a grin, the look on his face denoting the regularity of the situation.

The guards glance at one another again. Unwilling to deal with the situation further, they reenter
their posts surrounding and guarding the dark interior of Amortentia.

Titus sighs and rubs his eyebrows, preparing himself for the confrontation. He raises his hand and
knocks against the door, yelling half-heartedly into the small opening between the door and the
frame:

“Nott!”

A beat. Then, a voice, light and airy with a tang of pleasure. “Ti-tus!” it sings from within the
bathroom. “What can I do you for, my friend?”

“Theodore Nott! For fuck’s sake, you have three more minutes in there, you hear me? I’ve got
people complaining that they need to relieve themselves!”

“Oh, come on! I’m kind of in the middle of something here!” Theo’s cheeky voice calls out.

“Three minutes or I will blow the door down!” Titus counters.

Inside the bathroom, Theo has Pansy propped up on the granite platform of the sink. Pansy’s tight,
black, satin dress is bunched up at her waist, and her long legs are straddled around Theo's bare
waist, their hips are shoved against one another, joined together in a moment of sweet, euphoric,
sexual pleasure.

Hearing Titus’ command, Theo pauses his thrusting and drops his head into the nook between
Pansy’s neck and shoulder, taking in her regal scent, groaning into her soft skin, and biting down
lightly in the hopes that he generates a sweet squeal from her mouth. She yelps at the nip and
subsequently laughs, throwing her head back in pleasure. Theo laughs with her, their voices
merging in the hot, sweaty bubble of pleasure they’ve created.

“Alright, Titus, calm your tits! We’ll be out in one minute!” Theo calls back with a smile.

“One minute?” Pansy asks cheekily, throwing her head forward and smacking her lips against
Theo’s neck, sucking wildly, marking his throat with her red bitemarks, her tongue and teeth
working together to paint constellations on his olive skin. “Don’t you want to fuck me for a little
bit longer?”

“Fuck. You make it so hard to resist you,” Theo mutters, rolling his neck around so Pansy can trace
her wet tongue across his throbbing skin, right atop where his neck veins pulse with the beat of his
heart. The drag of her tongue across the vein sends signals straight down to his heart, and his chest
throbs with a burning desire for her, an earnest longing for this moment to never end.
“You know better than anyone else that that's not the only thing I know how to make hard,” she
slurs upon his neck.

Theo moans and shivers. Finding himself completely trapped under her spell, enchanted by her
seductive nature, he cranes his head towards the door to readjust his terms. “Two minutes, Titus!”

In a second, Pansy reaches out and yanks his chin back towards her, smacking her lips back against
his. They continue their dance, lips pulsing and bodies converging in a series of fluid, flawless
movements. Theo rocks in and out of her, and they both mutter profanities and see the white light
of a climax behind the darkness of their closed eyes, nestled on the horizon of their eyelids.

The rush of the cocaine in their system mixed with the oxytocin released from their brains sends
them straight to euphoria. Nothing around them exists, not even the pounding of Titus' fist against
the door as they simultaneously unravel for one another.

Outside the bathroom, in the epicenter of the club, the capital of lust and desire, the Slytherins
dance the night away as usual, crossed between bottomless shots of alcohol and vigorous amounts
of cocaine.

Daphne and Blaise are in a planet of their own, reveling in the closeness of their bodies and the
pounding of the bass below their feet. It electrifies them, pumping their love for one another up
their feet, through their bodies, and out their mouths as they press their lips together, kissing on the
dance floor for everyone to see. They share their energy, happiness, and love with one another, all
stemming from the heartbeat of the club as it pulses below their feet.

Blaise is in heaven with Daphne. He wishes he could remember this moment forever, but he knows
the drugs will likely cause his memory to fade tomorrow. But he considers a strategy for holding
onto this memory for just a little longer: maybe his brain will open up just enough for it to make
space for this image of Daphne, wrapped around him, her glorious smile shining in the emerald
lights of the club, and the glitter on the corner of her eyes twinkling with iridescent glows.

Remember this, he tells himself. Remember this when it hurts. Let this image seep into your mind.

His head obeys his conscience. The doors of his mind swing open to bait and ingest this picture.
This moment. This woman.

Across the club, as Draco feverishly engages in his usual unintentional rendezvous with a random
woman, his body pressed upon hers with her back against a wall, a similar yet distorted thought
runs through his mind. While his knee separates her legs, and the girl moans into his mouth as he
kneads his thigh against hers, Draco lets the thought enter his head and surround his conscience:

Remember this when it hurts.

He kisses the woman more, their lips swollen from the rough plucking and biting that occurred
over the last few minutes. She moans into his mouth, her warm breath tainted with cinnamon-
flavored liquor coating the inside of his mouth like a fog. And Draco bites her lip in return, reveling
in her moan and subsequent hiss of pleasure.

And then, another voice.

The pain you feel will never subside unless you suck up your pride and—

Suddenly, the breath of the woman is poisonous, befouled by the ring of Granger's words.

Draco chokes and pulls away abruptly, desperately trying to repress his thoughts, the sound of
Granger’s interventionist voice resounding in his ears.

“Why’d you stop?” the woman whines, gripping the folds of his white button-up and tugging him
back towards her, eager for him to continue. Draco grits his teeth, disgust inhabiting his body
without permission. He pushes himself off the girl and turns away without an explanation,
staggering into the center of the dance floor amidst the focal point of the bright lights.

His body shakes under the influence of the cocaine, writhing through him without mercy.

Fucking bitch. That’s the second god damn time she's slithered her way into my head—

Draco furiously huffs, attempting to dispel the fog, the thought of her, her words from his mind.

Trapped in those sessions, Granger owned his mornings, creeping into and disrupting his life in a
sudden and abrupt manner. But he’d be damned if she’d take over his fucking nights as well. The
only times he can release the pressure in his body, the overarching thoughts of desolation and
bleakness bruising his mind.

It had been a week. A week, and Draco can’t get those fucking words from the bathroom out of his
head.

No. Fuck this. Granger doesn’t own me.

With a few slaps to his red cheeks to revitalize himself, Draco shakes out his limbs and scours the
crowd for Adrian. He’s not difficult to find; even under the influence of the gushing cocaine,
sticking onto his veins and blood cells and meticulously working his body into a state of euphoria,
Draco is able to locate Adrian. Adrian is a giant in the crowd, his towering body only growing
larger as he jumps in the air, pumping his fist and reveling in his own high.

Draco rushes towards his friend and throws himself into his broad chest, and the two scream and
shout as if they haven’t seen in each other in years.

“Alright there, Malfoy?” Adrian yells, throwing his arm over Draco’s shoulder and jerking him
into his side for a hug. Draco’s arm wraps around Adrian’s back, his hand resting and gripping
down on his opposite shoulder. Fingers pressed deeply into his skin, curling around the sphere of
Adrian’s shoulder bone just atop his humerus, Draco shakes the side of his body in vivacious
enjoyment.

“Fan-fucking-tastic, Pucey!” Draco shouts, sticking his tongue in the air and wildly consuming the
aroma of the club, swallowing the atmosphere as if to absorb the energy of everyone else in
Amortentia.

“Good! Enjoy this! Enjoy our freedom!” Adrian shouts back, throwing his head into the air with
Malfoy and howling like a wild wolf.

And they dance and jump around, the cocaine driving their uninhabited spirits through the ether of
the club.

Draco resolves that he doesn’t need to change. He doesn’t need a rehabilitation program. This is it
for him. Here, with his friends, soaking in each pleasurable vice the world has to offer him.

And tomorrow, when he wakes up, begins his withdrawal, and makes his way to the ministry for
those pathetic fucking lessons, he’ll no doubt have those exact same thoughts.
 Chapter 7

Oh, fuck. Daphne is going to be sick. She's going to hurl any fucking second.

Draco can see it. Beneath Daphne's emaciated and bony figure there is vomit forming, coalescing,
preparing to eject itself straight out of her chapped, cherry lips. Daphne presses her chipped nails
into her palms, desperate to conceal the intense agitation festering in her gut. And her snowy, pale
skin loses its pink tint with each passing second, and Merlin those seconds pass with such sluggish
speed.

Draco is unsure whether time moves so slowly because of the hazy effects of his daily withdrawal
or because Aberfield is simply the most mind-numbingly insipid person he's ever had to listen to.

Regardless, he unquestionably knows one thing: Daphne's going to throw up.

Right here, in the middle of the carpet, during this stupid fucking seminar.

Draco chuckles to himself, imagining the ways in which the scene could unfold. He envisions
chaos, disorder, and the panicky look on Aberfield's face as his boring lecture is interrupted by the
wrench of Daphne's cataclysmic withdrawal—it's all quite compelling and entertaining to think
about.

Most compelling is Granger's inevitable squirming expression. He can see it now: her bended
eyebrows, her pursed lips, her hand shooting straight up to cover her mouth and nose to conceal the
stench. Maybe her fingers will wrap around the bottom of her seat as she braces herself, her digits
curling with anxiety at the untimely and unpleasant sight. Maybe she won't be able to handle it, and
she'll have to make her own beeline for the door.

And Draco could just sit back and watch it unfold, a smirk drawn across his face the entire time.

Inching closer and closer to the moment of fruition, Daphne rocks back and forth lightly in her
chair. Lucky for Granger, this seat does not make a sound, otherwise Draco would have been
reveling in two things.

Daphne's lips tremble, totally disposed to open at any moment, allowing whatever is inside her
body to be violently expelled.

As Aberfield continues to drone on and on about whatever fucking boring subject he decided to
torture the group of Slytherins with today, all Draco can focus on is Daphne, practically about to
combust.

Blaise's fingers rub circles around Daphne's back as an act of consolation. His fingers harbor a
special power, shooting sparks through Daphne's lower back to try to counter the uncompromising
withdrawal. The hands of a healer—his friends call it—caught up in a never-ending cycle of drug
abuse and dejection from society. Were he able to truly utilize his natural tendencies, Blaise could
be a truly effective healer in the Wizarding World.

But he sits in this room, subjected to this rehabilitation program, with only an idea of what his life
could be.

Who would want a healer with a faded Dark Mark, anyway?

As Blaise's worried eyes dart between the Slytherins, beckoning someone to say something, Draco
leans back deeper into his chair, his tongue flicking the roof of his mouth as he awaits the glorious
moment of chaos unfolding. He loves his position as a bearer of mayhem, deliverer of anarchy in
his otherwise dull world. It's almost as exhilarating as his other favorite highs—the drugs and, of
course, Granger's flustered face whenever he does something to make her nervous.

The Slytherins continue to exchange nervous glances, all conscious of what is about to happen,
wondering who will speak up—who will be the one to disclose to Aberfield that his lesson is so
painstakingly boring that Daphne is going to hurl.

Seated directly to his left, Hermione catches Blaise's eyes for a split second.

He locks their eye contact, pleading with a desperate glance, practically begging her with his eyes
to use her power to interrupt Aberfield.

Hermione can read his expression clearly. She shifts in her seat, opening her mouth to warn
Aberfield of Daphne's precarious condition. She urgently needs an antidote, water—anything to
help counter her withdrawal. But with Daphne sitting directly to his left, consequently masked in
his peripheral vision, Aberfield has no sense of what Daphne is going through.

To make matters worse, Aberfield is completely wrapped up in today's topic of discussion:

Voldemort's rise to power.

"You see, Voldemort's message attracted many kinds of people. It fascinated distinguished
wizarding families, who were content on keeping the magical world separate from muggles and
punishing anyone who mingled with muggles. Giants, werewolves, any sort of dark creatures who
felt disenfranchised and ignored by the ministry were also heavily influenced by his message. The
list goes on."

Holy fuck, Draco thinks, does he ever stop fucking talking?

Hermione opens her mouth again to say something, but Aberfield is so entrenched in hearing his
own voice that he relentlessly continues his lecturing:

"Witches and wizards became attached to Voldemort and his message, promoting their ideologies
all over Britain and even internationally. But—and this is the really compelling part that has kept
witches and wizards fascinated by this recent history—what's most striking about Voldemort's
support base is not just the kind of people who aligned themselves with him, but the way in which
he was able to control them, get them to see his way with such ease. He spoke to them without ever
having to physically speak to them. He was a demagogue, saying anything and everything to
compel magical folks to concur with him. And they did! People resonated with his message. It was
quite astounding how Voldemort was able to—"

"Aberfield," Theo finally interjects, leaning over his knees and pointing his clasped together fingers
towards Daphne, "I don't know how it is that you could be this unobservant, but Daph is literally
going to hurl any fucking second."

On cue, Daphne's stomach lurches; she gags, catching the acidic liquid in her mouth.

Without thinking, but with keen perception, Hermione quickly whips out her wand from the deep
pocket of her grey blazer, aiming it at a small wastebin nestled in the corner of the room.

"Accio!" she calls out.

The bin soars through the air and straight into Hermione's hands; in one fluid motion, she launches
herself towards Daphne and shoves the bin right below her engorged mouth. Daphne subsequently
fastens her shaking hands around the rim of the bin and lowers her head into the hole. She retches
into it.

Hermione's shoulders tense at her proximity to the victim of immense projectile vomiting, but she
remains glued to her side, supporting the bin between her own quivering hands. Blaise quickly
collects Daphne's sunkissed hair in his left hand, his right hand continuing to rub her back. He
whispers to her quietly, "It's okay, Daph. You're going to be alright."

With a front row view of the scene, Draco smirks at the way Hermione's shoulders tense, at the
way her body flinches as it impulsively reacts to Daphne's heaves.

But he smirks especially at the way he knows that he is about to inflict more havoc on the room.

He simply can't help himself.

"Fucking hell, Daph," Draco groans. "Couldn't have even muttered a quick Resigno to hold back
the vomit? Now it fucking wreaks in here."

"Oh shut up, Malfoy," Blaise hisses, his eyes red with irritation, his skin flaring with ire.

"Well, am I wrong?" Draco retorts, thriving on the chaos. "She's the only one of us that can't
control herself in the mornings."

As Draco snarls, he reaps a tense shoulder roll from Blaise, as well as a look that could do more
damage than an Unforgiveable.

"Blaise, it's alright. He doesn't mean it," Adrian says coolly, leaning forward on his knees and
holding one hand up towards Blaise, and the other in front of Draco, who sits just to his right,
attempting to diffuse the situation before it escalates.

"You know what? I'm sick of his attitude," Blaise says, turning back to face Draco, who sits
directly opposite of him in the circle. "You think any of us complain when you stumble around the
apartment fucked out of your mind, Malfoy? When you throw shit around the apartment during one
of your drug-induced temper tantrums? Huh? Have some fucking sympathy, you absolute
arsehole."

Draco's face turns beet red.

Hermione watches Draco's facade crumble right before her eyes, unfold in a nail-biting yet rapid
pace. His jaw is clenched, and his cheekbones are so sharp that they could practically cut stone.
Something about what Blaise said combusts in his mind, setting him off like a fiendfyre curse.

And as his name suggests, Draco opens his mouth and spits out ravenous, blazing flames:

"Fuck off, Zabini. This happens all the fucking time. And it's exhausting. Daph, get ahold of
yourself."

"Draco, relax," Pansy says, reaching her hand out to her right to touch Draco's arm, calm him
down, revert the anger building within his own gut.

Draco jerks his arm away immediately and scoffs at the sentiment.

"Alright—hang on—everybody just take a deep breath—" Aberfield stutters, slowly realizing that
he is losing control over what is slowly morphing into a group dynamic that resembles a pack of
mercurial, temperamental wolves.
"What's your problem, Draco?" Pansy scowls, shaking her head. "Why are you being such an
arsehole right now?"

Draco scoffs. "Shut the fuck up and leave me alone."

"What did you just say to her?" Theo asks, leaning over his knees and jerking his head to the left to
confront Draco, who sits two seats over just beside Pansy.

Draco folds his arms over his chest, and the way he scoffs sounds like a proper death wish. "I told
her to shut the fuck up—"

Immediately, Theo lunges himself out of his chair and at Draco.

"Hey—whoa! Theo!" Adrian shouts, leaping after him and wrapping his massive arms around
Theo's torso, pushing his back to his side of the circle. Pansy simultaneously jumps into action as
well, helping Adrian force Theo back towards the edge of the circle. Draco stands up, stretching
his hands forward and taunting him with his beckoning fingers.

"Come on, Nott! You want to punch me? You want to knock me out? Go for it!" Draco jeers.

"Fuck you! Don't ever talk to her like that again, you understand me?" Theo shouts.

"Oh fuck you!" Draco bellows, tossing his arms in the air.

"Alright, that's enough!" Aberfield shouts.

It's chaos. Utter pandemonium. Adrian and Pansy frantically struggle to constrain Theo from
beating Draco, Hermione and Blaise comfort Daphne's trembling body as she continues to hurl into
the wastebin, Draco unremittingly provokes every single person in the room with his taunts and
jeers, and Aberfield desperately attempts to regain authority in a room full of rageful wizards.

"Daphne, are you doing okay?" Hermione asks, the sounds of the commotion unfolding right
behind them.

Daphne nods, and Hermione observes her eyes swell with tears. Daphne squeezes them shut, her
eyelids shutting the scene she has caused out of sight. As Blaise continues to soothe her with his
words, an exhausted sigh escapes his mouth, confirming Hermione's suspicions—this must happen
often.

Honestly, Hermione has no idea where the turmoil came from. It's like the argument was pulled out
of a void—completely inorganic, seemingly artificial and synthetic.

Or maybe, Hermione considers, it is profoundly entrenched in their tumultuous relationships, so

embedded in them that when it does come to fruition, it explodes and generates a surge of anger
within each Slytherin that appears to have been repressed for far too long. Maybe this is completely
representative of how dysfunctional, broken, and tired this group of friends truly is. Or rather how
broken they've become because of their circumstances.

Sick of the unrestrained anarchy, Aberfield whips out his wand and yells a critical spell:
"Silencio!"

Suddenly, the room falls completely silent. Disrupting the unbridled chaos, everyone finds their
lips to be sealed shut, Hermione included. The physical altercations cease as the victims of
Aberfield's spell become bothered with inspecting and touching their sewed-together lips. Everyone
turns to face Aberfield; with restricted use of their mouths, the shock manifests in their eyes.
"Now, if you all don't mind—"

Unexpectedly, Daphne starts to make gargling sounds as the vomit coalesces in her throat with
nowhere to go. Her face turns red and then purple, and her cheeks and eyes bulge underneath the
steady buildup of pressure.

Hermione frantically points to Daphne, her eyes pleading with Aberfield what her mouth can only
muffle: She's going to choke on her own vomit! Let her go!

Realizing his blunder, Aberfield quickly releases the effects of the spell on Daphne, and she
immediately expels all the built-up bile straight into the wastebin. The sound of vomiting fills the
otherwise silent room; everyone cringes, even Aberfield.

"My sincerest apologies, Daphne." Aberfield faces the rest of the silenced witches and wizards.
"As for the rest of you, you cannot under any circumstances have outbursts like this! Control
yourselves, or I'll be forced to use other repressive measures!"

Simultaneously, Draco and Theo flip Aberfield off.

Aberfield sighs defeatedly. "Thank you for that. Glad to see you two can agree on something. Now,
if you'd like, I can keep you all silent for the rest of this meeting. Is that what you want?"

It takes only a second for them to reach a consensus; everyone shakes their heads.

"That's what I thought. Now, I'm going to release this spell. But—believe me—if one of you opens
your mouth in a disrespectful way again, there will be consequences. Is that understood?"

As everyone nods, Hermione makes sure to observe Draco's expression. With his mouth sewed
shut, access to his emotions through his eyes is the only possible method of deduction. She can see
that there is something mixed with anger beneath his raging beads—guilt, maybe? A sliver of
remorse for the turmoil he has caused?

No. She's wrong. There's no remorse. There's just ire. Unadulterated, pure ire.

Why she even bothers searching for anything other than anger in him is beyond reason. She'll
never understand her infinitesimal fascination with Draco—why she has always felt the need to
know exactly how he feels.

"Finite."

Upon being released from the spell, everyone exhales and catches their breath.

"Now, if you all will please take a seat—"

Draco doesn't wait around. With determined steps, he breaks through the threshold of the circle
and storms towards the door.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Aberfield calls out, impatience coinciding with the way he spews his words.

It's unlike anything Hermione has ever witnessed from Aberfield. He is usually collected and
unruffled, but Draco's scene has flipped a switch, triggered the breakdown of a section within
Aberfield that is filled with intolerance and exasperation.

Aberfield used magic against them.

Draco stops in the threshold of the door between the hallway and the room; he turns around and
pops his middle finger up again, staring Aberfield dead in the eyes when he illustrates his
unremitting anger.

In a moment, the door forcefully slams shut behind Draco.

Adrian sighs and steps forward, patting Aberfield's shoulder. "I can go check on him."

Aberfield nods with an exasperated sigh, and as Adrian trudges to the door, his eyes connect with
Hermione's. Adrian playfully rolls his eyes at her; it is that moment of light-heartedness after the
boisterous disturbance that causes the immeasurable tension within Hermione's body to slightly
subside.

Theo pants with anger, and Pansy has her arms wrapped around his waist, begging him to relax.

"I hate when he does that. I fucking hate it," Theo mutters, shifting positions around Pansy and
wrapping his arm around the front of her waist. She pats his heaving chest with sedative touches,
swaying his tense lungs to release oxygen, his tense shoulders to dispel their concealed pressure,
and his gritted teeth to slacken in his mouth.

Hermione clears her throat, feeling that tug once again compel her body to follow Draco, her desire
coupled with the mischievous look which Adrian offered her moments ago. "I... I think I should go
too," she says to Aberfield.

Conceding to the aftermath of the chaos by collapsing into his chair, Aberfield nods and gestures
his hand to the door.

Hermione turns back to Daphne and pats her knee. "Will you be alright?"

"Yeah. I'm alright." As Hermione rises to leave, she feels Daphne's frail hand wrap around hers.
"Thanks," Daphne whispers. As one of her hands clutches tightly onto Hermione's, the other
continues to grasp the wastebin with intense fervor, like she'll lose herself all over again in the
withdrawal the second she lets go of either anchor.

Hermione squeezes Daphne's hand, then releases and strides towards the door.

As Hermione steps out into the hallway, she feels a rush of anxiety breathe down her back. She
fears another confrontation, another pointless conversation, another empty attempt to console her
peer.

Her eyes dart left and right in search of Adrian and Draco. She doesn't have to look for long; with
Adrian's towering height and Draco's platinum blonde hair coupled with the sleeves of tattoos
running up his arms, Hermione easily spots the two boys nestled towards the end of the hallways
directly to her right, meeting at a junction with another perpendicular corridor. Behind them,
dozens of ministry workers bustle through the hallway, occasionally glancing at Adrian and Draco
with perplexed and muddled looks.

Sharks out of water.

Draco fumes as he stands across from Adrian. His face is red, and he furiously scratches his chin.
Adrian speaks to him earnestly with a hand on his shoulder, attempting to calm him down. When
Draco's itching becomes erratic, Adrian reaches forward, grabs his unsteady hand, and yanks it
down to his side.

In his peripheral, Draco notices Hermione lingering, watching, scrutinizing his movements. He
does a double take, groans, and throws his head back to the ceiling with his mouth wide open in a
guise of complete annoyance.

Hermione clenches her jaw, feels a towering sense of uneasiness rush over her body.

You're doing this for them. You're doing this for him.

"Fuck's sake, you just can't leave me alone for two bloody minutes, can you?" Draco calls out,
slamming his free hand against the wall of the hallway and leaning against the tiles.

Adrian turns around, releasing Draco's hand and staring at Hermione's frozen body.

Hermione reaches deep within her and retrieves her harbored confidence. She inches closer to
Adrian and Draco. "I just wanted to—"

"Make sure I'm okay," Draco interrupts. "Right. I've heard that before. Will this be a recurring
thing between us, then?"

"Only if you give me a reason for it to continue."

They stare at one another, the air between them boiling with the remnants of their repartee.

"Well, like I told you last time, I'm fine. I don't need someone like you to check on me," he says,
crossing his arms over his chest.

Hermione's eyes can't help but travel down to inspect the tattoos on his arm, painted across his pale
skin like an overpainted yet totally starved canvas, desperate for more and more ink to satiate its
hunger. The tattoos are unsystematic, as if the outside reflects the inside—complete disorder and
disarray. She tries to make out any sort of tattoo she can, but they all coalesce together in a jumbled
masterpiece on his arms, scaling up and across his chest, which pops out just behind his slightly
unbuttoned white Oxford.

"Draco, please. I just want to help—"

Before Hermione can finish speaking, Draco scoffs and rolls his eyes and walks back the way they
came, past the room where everyone else remains and into the bathroom several feet away.

She doesn't know which word it is she used that triggered him most: "help" or "Draco."

Adrian clears his throat and snorts. "Wonderful, Granger. You really have a knack at bringing out
an exorbitant amount sunshine within him."

Hermione turns to face Adrian, whose face is beaming with joy, as if the last five minutes have
somehow brought him incalcuable elation.

"He just..." she exhales, trying to calm the ire that rushes in her blood. "Look, I... I understand this
is probably awkward for you all, but—"

"Oh, nothing gets past you, darling."

Hermione's eyebrows furrow. "I'm really just trying to help here, Adrian."

Adrian exhales, stroking his lean fingers through his shiny, chocolate hair. "We know," he answers
sincerely. "Deep down, we know. It's just that some people want the help more than others."

"Like you?" Hermione asks with a hint of hope.

Adrian chuckles and crosses his arms over his broad chest. "More like Blaise. I think he's getting
tired of all of this—of seeing Daphne in that terrible state. Sick of watching her go through that."

"Is he also getting sick of your... nightly ritual?"

Adrian cocks one eyebrow and laughs at her comment. "Wow. You know, you're making us sound
like we're in some sort of cult."

She chuckles, realizing how ridiculous that word sounded. "Sorry... your... nightly endeavors?"

Adrian chuckles again, and the melodious sound lifts the lingering tension right out of the air and
into the atmosphere, as if it never existed in the first place. "Interesting word choice. Although I
suppose you've always been quite good at that."

"Good at what?"

Adrian shrugs and raises his eyebrows. "Constructing sentences with..." he pauses, a look of
discernment crossing over his face. "Immeasurably ostentatious terminology."

The smile that creeps on Hermione's face is compulsive; once again, her tension is alleviated by
Adrian's pleasant and playful attitude. "Right, of course."

There's a pause, and Hermione uses the time to study Adrian's features. She's never really taken
into account his intrinsic beauty. The dip of his cheeks and the cut of his jaw could have been
chiseled from the purest marble by the most elite sculptors of all time. He possesses eyes like
emerald glass, but they are nestled within rather hollow chambers; she assumes the wear and tear
his body undergoes every time he engages with the drugs is the reason for this. Yet even though
they are engulfed in the deep concave of his sockets, his eyes are completely breathtaking,
mesmerizing, capable of revealing a story she is dying to know—one she never truly engaged in
while they were at Hogwarts together.

In a split moment, she notices a sparkle flash across his eyes, and suddenly they appear whole
again.

And she wonders why he'd want to make them so hollow in the first place.

"So you... you don't want to stop, then?"

"Stop... what? Doing muggle drugs?"

Hermione nods, but she harbors an instinctive concern that Adrian will reproach her question the
same way that Draco did when she asked him a similar query in the bathroom just a few weeks
prior.

"Of course not. What's the fun in stopping?" he responds with a smirk. "It's all we have anyways."

She exhales a brief sigh of relief, elated that Adrian hasn't scolded her, but simultaneously
distracted by his vague response. "All you have?"

Adrian catches his tongue, pursing his lips to stop himself from sharing something he might regret.
"Ah... nevermind."

"You can talk to me. Truly. I mean... is that why you're holding so much resentment about this
program? Is it about how it's called a 'rehabilitation' effort?" Hermione pushes.
Adrian visibly tenses at the word.

Realizing the way that her intensity affects him, Hermione recoils and shakes her head, wishing
she had stopped her clearly over-stepping inquisition earlier. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry, but I
just—"

"It's alright." Adrian looks down at his shoes and clears his throat. "I think this program is just
hitting us all different. I mean, you've seen how Malfoy feels about it. We all just want to put these
marks behind us. Him the most, though. He just doesn't want to admit it."

Draco wants to put the mark behind him.

"If he does, then why won't he let us help him? Aberfield has some really wonderful ideas—"

"When has Malfoy ever been one to ask for help?" Adrian asks. "He'll never ask for it. Never."

"Well... will you? Will you ever ask for help?"

Adrian freezes, biting down on his lip. "I'm not sure."

Hermione clears her throat, cautious with the way she delivers the next sentence: "Well, I'm here
for you. Should you... you know... need anything."

Adrian produces a small smile, the curve of his plump lips a sign that puts Hermione in an eased
state. "I doubt I will. The only way to get through something like this is with the drugs."

There is a brief moment of silence as Hermione reflects on the severity of the statement.

They're all dependent on these substances. Hermione wonders if they'll ever escape their captivity
to the drugs. If they'll ever rely on other sources of pleasure and support.

"Have you ever engaged in... oh, what'd you just call it, nightly endeavors?" Adrian asks cheekily.

"What? Muggle drugs?" Hermione clarifies.

"Yes, Granger. 'Muggle drugs.' I mean—fuck's sake—you look like you could use something to
ease your tension."

She huffs and shakes her head. "No, I haven't."

He laughs. "Alright. How about this. The day you take me up on some drugs is the day that I take
you up on your... 'advice.' About my situation. How does that sound? Fair trade-off?"

Hermione bites the inside of her cheek. She doubts the moment will ever come about where she
participates in such illicit activities. But a pang in her lower gut tells her otherwise—tells her not to
be so naïve.

With conflicting emotions, she agrees: "That sounds great. I'll be sure to take you up on that
tempting offer."

His smile reveals the top layer of his teeth, flawless pearls that starkly contrast with his cherry lips.

Behind her, Hermione hears a door swing open. The remaining Slytherins stumble out of the room.
Daphne is quaking between Blaise and Aberfield, her shivering limbs holding tightly onto her own
body for dear life, like they'll crack off with any more pressure. Theo and Pansy follow closely
behind. Theo's hand is placed on Pansy's back as he guides her through the hallway towards Adrian
and Hermione, his eyes peeled wide open. Aberfield looks terrified.

The group approaches Adrian and Hermione, and Aberfield addresses them: "I've decided to send
everyone home early to... recuperate. We'll reconvene tomorrow." He turns to Daphne, releasing
her arm and patting her hand. "Get some rest, Daphne. And do consider what I've told you."

"Thanks," she whispers to Aberfield. "Sorry again for everything." Aberfield raises his hand to stop
her apology, offering a warm smile. Blaise guides her away, and she nods at Hermione.

As if he senses their presence, Draco finally emerges from the bathroom, wiping his nose with his
finger and revealing a despondent frown. As he trudges towards the group, Hermione recognizes
the shape and distortion in his eyes; no doubt he spent the past few minutes in the restroom playing
with his stash some more.

The bloodshot eyes glaring at her from a few feet away are all she needs to confirm her suspicion.

"Right, we should get going," Adrian says as Draco storms past him. "See you tomorrow.
Hopefully it's a little less..." he considers his next choice of words.

"Boisterous?" Hermione offers with a chuckle.

"I'd say... rumbustious. Clamorous. But, close enough."

He winks and departs, catching up with Draco and the others as they turn down the hallways and
disappear into the intricate hallways of the Ministry.

"I worry about them, Hermione," Aberfield comments when they are out of sight. "And I wonder if
extra measures need to be taken to help them."

"Extra measures?" Hermione clarifies, glancing at Aberfield's tired face.

Aberfield sighs. "I've been thinking of some new courses of action to keep them from engaging in
such illicit activities, but we'll need Kingsley's permission."

"I don't know..." Hermione responds. "I think they just need time. Time and company."

"Perhaps," Aberfield says. "But I worry whether that approach is too naïve."

Hermione's chest tightens. She knows it's naïve to think that the Slytherins can be rehabilitated
with promises of sunshine and rainbows. Empty promises of illusory realities cannot bring them
out of their slump. True happiness exists is in this reality—all she has to do is dig deep and guide
them there.

"You really have such a pure heart, Hermione. Promise me you'll stay that way forever? Even
when things seem to be impossible or difficult?" Aberfield asks.

Hermione smiles. She nods, clandestinely promising to do her best to bring even a sliver of
happiness to their lives.

All of their lives.

"I promise."

Hermione is curled up on her couch, a cup of tea settled in her lap as she flips through the tattered
pages of the Iliad, when she receives an unexpected visitor.
The dimmed lights in her apartment create a gloomy ambiance, one that can only be countered with
the warmth and cackling of a fire from her brick fireplace, a wool blanket spread across her lap, the
warm light of the desk lamp to her left, and the aroma of an oakwood candle lit on the same table
as the lamp just beside her velvety, indigo couch. Coupled with the quintessential London fall
weather spawning outside her window—the sounds of a light breeze crashing against her window
and the slow fall of orange leaves descending from their comfortable spot on tree branches—
Hermione allows the beauty of the anticipated evening to soothe her overwrought body.

Out of nowhere, a lovely, radiant stag apparates in front of her, its hooves hovering just above her
rectangular rug that runs across the dark, wooden floors of her home.

She almost spills the tea at the sudden burst of light that fills her otherwise dim apartment. But
when she regains her startled bearings and comes to understand the significance of her visitor, she
feels the sides of her lips curl in a wide smile.

Harry.

The stag relays a message so wonderful it almost brings her to tears:

Hermione. I just wanted to check in and see how you are doing. I hope all is well at the Ministry. I
hear that you're heading the new Former Death Eater Rehabilitation Program. Words cannot
describe how proud I am of you. Your resilient spirit is so inspiring; I cannot understand how you
hold such patience and kindness within your heart, although if anyone could do it, it'd certainly be
you. I am so in awe of you and the way you bear this initiative.

I do hope to connect further in the future. I know Ron and Ginny feels the same way. I'm sorry we
haven't kept in touch over the last few months, but I'd love to hear from you soon. Maybe you could
make your way to Hogsmeade one of these weekends so that we can all grab a butterbeer?

You're doing a wonderful thing, and you're more valiant and fearless than anyone I know. I hope
you stay that way forever.

Well, you know how these Patronuses are. Need to keep the message short and sweet. Stay well.

Much love. Harry.

Tears swell in Hermione's eyes as the exquisite stag revs his hooves and disappears into the air.
The echo of Harry's voice plays in her mind as a source of comfort and renaissance, a testament to
the way Harry has always made Hermione feel: constantly appreciated and desperately valued.

As she returns to her book, her eyes trailing the lines of poetry inked on the coarse parchment, her
mind wanders to the program, to the Slytherins, to what Aberfield said about having to take extra
measures to control them.

Control. That's not what this is about. It's about rehabilitation, regrowth, renaissance. A genesis of
new ideals and beliefs, ones that affirm the intrinsic good that every person harbors.

No one is born evil. Hermione unfalteringly believes that claim. This undoubtedly includes the
Slytherins.

Because no matter how poorly they may see themselves, she sees them as harboring immense
amounts of worth.

Harry's message is exactly what she needed to stabilize her restless heart. The affirmation from
someone like him speaks volumes in her mind. And as she skims the next line of the classical
masterpiece in her hands, she feels the message surge deeper within her body:

"You must endure and not be broken-hearted."

 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

tw // brief mention of suicide and self-harm

Pansy is the first one of the group to notice the headline plastered on today's cover of the Daily
Prophet.

The faction of wearisome and unenthusiastic Slytherins marches through the atrium of the
Ministry, fleeting past the Daily Prophet newsstand to their left without so much as glancing in that
direction. There isn't a sliver of interest in the news for them, anyway. However, being the one
nearest to the stand as they walk through the colossal atrium, Pansy's ears effortlessly succumb to
the bellowing shouts of the newsman as he pesters the ministry employees to purchase a paper.
Captivated by his grandiose voice, Pansy casts a brief look to her left, and her eyes fall upon the
eggshell poster displayed prominently on the front of the mahogany stand.

She scans the headline, her mouth agape at the presumptuous caption:

Former Death Eater Rehabilitation Program: Can These Miscreants Ever Truly Amend Their
Faults?

"What the fuck..." Pansy mutters, letting go of Theo's hand and breaking off from the group. She
charges towards the newsstand with fury in her eyes and heat surging from her fists.

"Anyone for a Daily Prophet?" the newsman calls out, holding up a copy of the newspaper for
ministry employees to peek at. "Minister Shacklebolt to meet with the President of M.A.C.U.S.A to
discuss new protocols for the Wizarding World's political configuration! Appleby Arrows to bring
on a fresh, stealthy seeker for the new season! Plus, an exclusive and thrilling opinion piece on the
Former Death Eater Rehabilitation Program—"

Pansy snatches a newspaper from the top of the pile resting on the stand, much to the shock of the
newsman. He scoffs as she turns her back to him and struts back to the group, her fingers clutching
the newspaper tightly. Her hand is searing so passionately that she swears she could scorch the
pages of the newspaper with ease. The words could be consumed by fire and fall in ashes onto the
floor, and she wouldn't even flinch. She'd step on the remnants of the paper and imprint them in the
tiles as a testament to their imprisonment to this program.

"Hey! Missy! You've got to pay for that paper, you know?" the newsman hollers after her.

Pansy spins around, and as she continues to pace backwards, she widens her eyes and flips her
middle finger up at him. "Here's my payment! Oh, and here's a monetary tip for a job well done!"

With her free hand, Pansy removes her wand from her the pocket of her pants and points it at the
towering stack of newspapers. With a simple flick, a gleam of ember sparks shoots forth from the
tip of her wand, and Pansy effectively transfigures the stack of newspaper into a swarm of black
ravens.

She cackles as the scene unfolds. The black birds peck at the newsman, fly around his head, and
drop unfortunate presents on the remaining newspapers. Their squawks echo through the enormous
atrium. Pansy laughs ferociously at the sight.

Suddenly, she feels an arm wrap around her waist and lift her from the ground. She turns her head
to the left to see who has spoiled her fun.

"You cheeky, cheeky girl," Theo coos, carrying her back to the group.

"He deserved it! That fucking prick," Pansy protests.

"I agree. But I know you too well—if I hadn't come to retrieve you, then you'd probably transfigure
him into something next." Theo chuckles at the thought. "Besides, I can't have you causing too
much trouble. I need you to save that energy for the bedroom, darling."

Pansy emits a small hmpfh but eventually yields a naughty smirk as Theo carries her through the
crowd of perplexed ministry workers. Shellshocked expressions cover the faces of their friends as
Theo places Pansy down in front of them.

"You are quite the badass, Pans," Daphne giggles pleasantly.

Pansy smirks and shrugs at the compliment, relishing in her rambunctious efforts.

"What do you have there, then?" Blaise asks, pointing to the paper.

"The Daily Prophet decided to report on the fucking program," she says, shoving the paper right in
their faces. The black, uppercase letters of the headline stand out boldly against the tan tabloid,
effortlessly drawing their curious eyes to the paper.

Draco trails behind the group, staring down at his shoes as they tap against the tiled floors of the
atrium. Adrian walks beside him, occasionally glancing over at Draco to see if there is any change
to his demeanor. At the mention of their involvement in the paper, Draco's countenance shifts. He
peers over Theo's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the newspaper in Pansy's hand.

Adrian too shifts his head a little closer, peering just over Pansy's shoulder. He squints his eyes to
get a better look at the moving image of the Slytherins walking through the Ministry on the first
day of the program, just over a month ago. Resting below and diagonal to their picture is a moving
headshot of Aberfield, smiling brightly in his suit and tie.

Draco sneers at his stupid fucking face, longing to punch the fucker's nose and hear the sweet
sound of Aberfield's bones crack underneath the pressure of his fist.

"I don't see the problem," Adrian says. "I look so damn good in that picture."

"Gods, Adrian," Pansy mutters with a snicker. "That's not that point!"

"What does the article say, then?" Theo presses.

Pansy reads from the page:

"A rehabilitation program for former Death Eaters has been underway for a month now under the
direction of Quincy Aberfield, the Liaison of Wizard to Wizard Relations. Mr. Aberfield was also a
part of the effort to release and rehabilitate the Death Eaters who were sentenced to Azkaban after
the trials following the Second Wizarding War and Voldemort's death; those who were not
sentenced to die were spared at his behest, and now are confined to their homes, pending approval
of their full rehabilitation.
"Following the suicide of Graham Montague, a former Death Eater who was released from
Azkaban under the duress of Mr. Aberfield and was a part of the first rehabilitation program, Mr.
Aberfield decided to extend the program to the next generation of Death Eaters in the hopes that
they could rehabilitate and immerse themselves in the Wizarding World once again as active
members of society. The group of six currently involved in Mr. Aberfield's program includes the
following: Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Adrian Pucey, Pansy Parkinson,
and Draco Malfoy. However, there seems to have been little progress made."

"What the fuck do they mean by little progress?" Theo questions.

"Where do these former Death Eaters find themselves every night? According to several witnesses,
they are frivolously engaging in illicit activities in the basement of a pub in the small town of
Hogsmeade. And what happens when they show up for their rehabilitation sessions? Screaming
matches in the hallways and more clandestine drug use. Seems like one illegal activity can lead to
many others when you associate yourself with dark magic. Let this be a..." Pansy slows down and
clears her throat, holding back from reading the next words. But she quickly musters up her
courage and continues after a few seconds. "Let this be a lesson... for everyone reading. Once a de
—"

Pansy pauses yet again, but this time does not continue. Instead, she crumples up the Daily Prophet
into a ball of creased paper.

"Aren't you going to finish reading it?" Blaise asks.

"No. It's fucking bullshit." Pansy holds the paper in her face-up palm, and it suddenly vanishes
with a pop in the air, a grey mist surrounding the spot which it once rested.

"Hey! I was going to frame that picture of us," Adrian jokes.

"What'd it say?" Daphne asks.

Pansy rolls her eyes. "The Wizarding World will never forget. Once a degenerate, always a
degenerate. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater."

Breaking the silence that follows Pansy's deliverance of the final sentence of the article, Adrian lets
out a huff. "Well fuck me," he remarks. "That's a little harsh, isn't it?"

"Merlin's beard, who the fuck came up with that awful title?" Theo sneers. "How does that person
have a job writing for the Daily Prophet?"

"Because it the Daily fucking Prophet. This newspaper is pure shit. Sputtering lies left and right so
that they can make money is what they're best at," Blaise mutters.

"Degenerates, huh?" Draco seethes. "Fuck them. They don't know a thing about us."

"And yet they read us like an open book everywhere we go," Pansy remarks, her eyes scouring the
crowd of ministry workers as they pace by them, newspapers in hand. She notices those reading the
paper look at them, then look away, then glance back at them to ensure that their eyes aren't
deceiving them. The glares are real, visceral, and highly judgmental.

Instinctively, the group shifts just a little closer to one another, desperate to remain attached to one
another's hips as each other's protective shields.

"Can't believe someone would write that about us," Daphne says, shaking her head. Blaise wraps
his arm around her waist and pulls her close to him. He glares back at every worker who catches
his eye, fully intent on protecting all of them—Daphne foremost—at all costs.

"I can believe it," Draco responds smugly. "Everyone fucking hates us. And I fucking hate them
too—"

"Fucking hell, here we go again," Blaise mutters, dropping his head into his free hand and shaking
it with an irritated ambiance.

"Oh, just let our lovely little emo king sulk in peace," Adrian responds, patting Draco's shoulder
playfully.

The group snorts. Irritated, Draco breaks free and steps a few feet in front of them. He turns around
sharply and stops the group in their tracks. Around them, ministry workers rush to their posts,
glancing and muttering comments in their direction. But Draco holds the group back, his lips
flattened with anger and his eyes cinched with frustration.

"You all know why I did what I did. Why I act the way I do. Don't fucking pretend you're any
different from me. We're all the same."

They cease their snickering and stare back at Draco. It's clear they've struck a coil of nerves, and
they know exactly which bundle it is. The nerves rest just below his mark, and immense pain
surges through them every moment of every day, sparing no inch of his being.

And they've thrashed that bundle with cosmic force, a blunt blow right to the epicenter of his pain.

Somehow able to subvert his anger, Draco responds, "Let's just get today over with."

"Do you have anything to help us with that, Malfoy?" Pansy questions, raising her left eyebrow.

Draco smirks and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small dime bag filled with stunningly pure,
white powder. He notches it between his index and middle finger and shakes the bag in the air for
everyone to bear witness to. "Of course I do, Parkinson."

Draco meets the eyes of several passersby, and he curls his lips in a nefarious smile.

"They want to call us degenerates. Fine. Fuck them. Let's show these fuckers just how debauched
we are."

Hermione feels like she's talking to a wall. A wall made of steel, fortified by layers of ignorance,
disregard, and condescension.

The indigo walls of Kingsley's office are suffocating enough, what with the packed bookshelves,
tightly structured furniture, and the unnerving memories from the day she saw the group of
Slytherins again for the first time in years. The day she saw him again.

And now she has to deal with Aberfield's relentless discontent and disapproval of her new ideas.
Ideas that she considers to be extremely conducive to helping the Slytherins.

Why Aberfield is so wrapped up in his initial plans about the program—so unwilling to alter the
approach that is clearly not functioning in the way they had hoped—is an enigma to Hermione.

She tries, anyway. She pleads with Aberfield and Kingsley to listen and consider the alternative
proposals she has to offer.

"Quincy, please. I really believe that we need to reconsider the approach of this program."
"No... we're on the right track. Believe me, Hermione," Aberfield insists, shaking his head as a
means of subverting Hermione's pleas.

Hermione has a difficult time believing that they are on the "right track" when all that has come out
of this program is turmoil and substantial levels of resentment.

"I can't help but feel like the original aim of the program is useless now. It doesn't matter. And
maybe it never did!" Hermione argues, wrapping her hands around the back of one of Kingsley's
seats in front of his desk and leaning forward to shift her weight against the chair.

"What are you saying, Ms. Granger?" Kingsley asks, tapping his fingers against his golden desk as
he too shifts forward in his seat.

Hermione clears her throat. "New circumstances have come to light, and I feel as though they take
precedent over lecturing about the history of Voldemort and silly topics that don't matter anymore.
They don't care about those things. We should be adapting our approach to helping them with their
actual struggles."

"Ms. Granger—" Kingsley tries to interject. But Hermione is on a roll, slowly breaking down the
wall with everything she has. She jackhammers the fortification with facts and observations, and
she feels herself inching closer and closer to the other side, to a light that will inevitably lead to a
better program for the Slytherins.

"They're lonely. And they've turned to unsafe coping mechanisms. It isn't difficult to discern that it
is mentally and physically draining them—destroying them. We should be bringing Healers in to
evaluate them. Professionals who know how to deal with this. There are even therapists and
programs in the muggle world that we can look into—"

"Absolutely not. This is a Ministry project. It is also very sensitive to the Wizarding World,"
Aberfield explains. "You know I feel very positively about muggle-wizard integration, but
sometimes these things need to be kept separated for the sake of—"

"For the sake of what? They need help, Quincy! Medical and emotional help! Healers would do
wonders in that realm. I just don't see why we're continuing to waste our time on silly matters like
'the history of Voldemort' when this whole program was created to help them. We'd be helping
them by addressing their drug problem."

Aberfield shudders, visibly uncomfortable with Hermione's blatant acknowledgment of their

addiction.

She presses forth, though, unphased by his uncomfortableness. The severity of the situation takes
precedent over Aberfield's coziness and denial of the real issue at hand.

"Have you forgotten about Graham? He was suffering. Probably begging someone to just listen to
him, help him get through whatever it is that was going through his mind. And I bet that all of
them—Daphne, Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Adrian, and Draco—are all feeling the same way."

Aberfield sighs. "I understand your concerns, Hermione. I really do. But this is an integral part of
their rehabilitation. Learning about the history of their choices, the reason that they were involved
in this matter in the first place. Lest you forget, I also helped rehabilitate their parents. I helped
rehabilitate Graham himself. I got them all out of Azkaban with almost a hundred different appeals
all aimed at the same curriculum and focus as this program. And they live comfortable lives back
in their homes, reflecting on their past mistakes. They don't rot away in prison. I did that. And it
was through this program."
"How comfortable could Graham's life have been, Quincy? He killed himself! Slit his wrists and
bled until the pain seeped out along with everything else inside him!" Hermione shouts, feeling an
immense amount of exasperation building up within her. "And just because it presumably worked
for their parents, doesn't mean it will work for this group as well. Besides, I sincerely doubt that
their parents had access to the same drugs and substances that—"

"Hermione, please stop talking about the drugs."

She's dumbfounded. Amazed at Aberfield's willful ignorance of the true issue at hand.

"Why? It shouldn't be ignored! It's important! It's probably the reason for their resentment! You
can't keep ignoring the problem and blaming it on their old choices. The program needs to adapt to
that reality, otherwise they will never get the help they really need."

Aberfield and Kingsley exchange quick glances, and it is in that moment that Hermione feels like
she might be victorious. She might sway Aberfield to see things the way she does.

But her supposed victory is short-lived. No, not even short-lived. It's squashed before it can even
take its first breath. She misinterprets the shared glance as her victory when really it is the
beginning of her downfall.

"Hermione, I appreciate everything you've done. You've been a very helpful assistant. I couldn't
have done this without you—"

Assistant? That's what she is to Aberfield? His assistant?

"But we've done the preparation for this. We've spent hours meticulously going through lessons
and discussion topics. And I've put in time working with their parents. I am fully aware of what
works and what does not."

"Then you would know that their circumstances are completely different from their parents! Why
are you ignoring this fact of the matter—"

Aberfield raises his hand, effectively silencing Hermione. "Alright. Let's compromise. I'll look into
hiring some Healers to speak with them about their... problems—"

"And their mental health—"

"Yes, that too. In the meantime, we can offer them daily doses of Draught of Peace to help soothe
their anxiety."

It's not perfect, but it's something. "Thank you," Hermione concedes, allowing her shoulders to
relax and the tension in her chest to subside slightly.

"But there is still the principle of the matter. They need to be tamed. And, with Kingsley's
permission, of course, I have an idea for that."

Hermione watches as Aberfield stretches his hand forward in a fist, turns it upright, and opens it so
that his palm is facing up. Within a few seconds, a light blue mist appears and hovers just above
his palm. The mist is small, twirling and coiling around itself. In the midst of the vapor are small
white sparks, sprouting from the center and extending to the edges of the mist like a cobweb.

Hermione inches closer to the phenomenon in Aberfield's hand, wondering what exactly he is
showing her.
It looks almost like a Patronus, if the charm were simply a figment of electricity and clouds.
Otherwise, she is completely perplexed by the spectacle of magic before her.

"It's something I've been tinkering with over the last few weeks," Aberfield explains, smiling at the
beam of light floating just above his hand. "I call it a Location Beam. It proved useful in the first
round of rehabilitations, and I think it could produce similarly successful effects now."

"And what exactly does it do?" Hermione asks, furrowing her eyebrows.

Aberfield sighs and clears his throat, as if he knows what he is about to say will undoubtedly cause
Hermione's gut to flip and head to spin.

"It is... essentially... a tracker. The process is non invasive, though. I will infuse it through the skin
on their forearms. Once the beam has settled inside their bodies, a small portion will separate and
remove itself, reemerging from their bodies in a smaller version of what you see here. I place that
section of the beam in a small vial, and whenever we need to determine where they have been or
what they have been doing, we refer to the beams in the vials to do so. There's a simple spell that
triggers the playback of the actions: revela locum. The beam will expand and reveal every scene,
every action, every breath they have taken since implantation. Sifting through the memories and
actions takes time, but I think it is a—"

"I'm sorry, what?" Hermione seethes. She can't believe her ears. She's convinced that her lobes are
playing a trick on her because this seems completely unjustifiable. "You—you want to implant
tracking devices in their bodies? That can't be allowed! That—that seems completely irrational,
intrusive, and—"

"Ms. Granger, please let Quincy finish—" Kingsley interrupts, but Hermione is quick to object.

"Kingsley, please. You can't be considering this."

Kingsley sighs and hoists himself off of his chair, standing and leaning his hands upon his desk. "It
might be for the best," he mutters. "They have, as Aberfield has mentioned, been used before on
the previous group of former Death Eaters."

"Quincy," Hermione continues, "do you honestly think this is going to get them to listen? To
respect either of you? This will only drive them away further. Please... This is a bad idea."

"They have brought this upon themselves, Hermione," Aberfield insists. "Things could have been
different if they had just been more receptive to our initiative in the first place."

Hermione scoffs. "I am begging you to reconsider. We didn't know everything about their
circumstances when we created this program. This was all based on getting them reacquainted with
the Wizarding World. Now... things are very different. We can do good for them, but this certainly
isn't the way."

Aberfield sighs. "Hermione, try not to be so naïve. They made these choices. We're doing what's in
their best interest. End of discussion."

"I'm not being naïve! I'm suggesting that we offer them real help! This program is not doing
enough. Why... why won't you listen to me?"

Aberfield just shakes his head.

Hermione is in awe of his blatant objection to her suggestions. It's nothing like how he acted when
they were creating this program, and she can't wrap her mind around what is so different now.
She turns to Kingsley. "And you're okay with this, Kingsley? You'll allow this?"

"I think I may," Kingsley concedes. "It proved successful in the last round—"

"Please..." Hermione makes one final attempt to convince them. "As someone who has known
them for almost a decade, I beg you not to do this. If you think that they will respond well to this,
you're wrong. They'll receive this worse than everything else. Let's bring in Healers, use the
Draught of Peace, and revise the program to fit their actual needs. Please."

Aberfield and Kingsley exchange another look, and Hermione's breath hitches in her throat. She
can discern from their look that they are not submitting to her suggestions. They are set in their
approach. Hermione can't help but consider just how irreversible the damage of this initiative will
be.

It's as if they have taken ten steps back in their program. All Hermione can do is hold onto the last
sliver of hope she has left. The one that continues to beg her to extend her help to them in whatever
way possible.

Because no matter how poorly they may see themselves, Hermione sees them as harboring
immense amounts of worth.

"Are you fucking crazy? You want to put what inside of us?"

Draco is seething. There is steam radiating from his ears, fire burning within his mouth. He swears
he could strangle Aberfield right this instant. His fists are hot, his fingers titillating and shaking
with anger and the dim sensation of cocaine beginning to writhe through him, colonize him, render
him captive to its intentions. He feels every single part of his body tense and vibrate. His emotions
are scattered yet completely present. His body aches under both the cocaine and the news. They
fester together, generating a storm within him. A storm that he sees no use trying to control.

The others feel the same way. They stand in the space between the door and the circle of chairs
that make up their little "feelings circle," staring blankly at Aberfield upon the news of his new
proposal.

Aberfield stutters, clearly afraid of what Draco is capable of when his unbridled anger takes
charge. "Mr. Malfoy, please calm down—"

"You're seriously considering infusing trackers in our bodies? What the fuck is your problem—"

"Mr. Malfoy—"

"That can't be legal! It can't be!" he continues to shout, flailing his arms up and down in a state of
vexation.

"It is. I've confirmed the protocol with Minister Kingsley, and he has given his permission to go
forth with this procedure. Let me remind you that this is all in your best interest—"

"Our best interest?" Draco taunts, scrunching his eyebrows and stalking towards Aberfield, who
visibly shrinks away as Draco's towering body inches closer to his. "You have no idea what's in our
best interest."

Hermione's hair stands erect on her body at the sound of Draco's snarl. She is behest to his
mannerisms in a way that is both discomforting and captivating. The way he makes Aberfield
shrink in fear is fascinating to her.
"Regardless of what you think, this measure has been approved by the Minister of Magic. And you
are all being compelled to accept it."

Hermione watches it unfold. She observes their faces shift from being placid to exhibiting abject
disbelief. She can see the life drained right out of their eyes as they learn about their fate.

And when Draco turns to face her, Hermione feels a sharp pang in her stomach. It disperses
through her body and puts her in a state of total fear.

She could've saved them from. She could've said more.

But she failed.

Why was it that she didn't say more? There was something about being in that room—in that
testosterone-infused environment—that made her feel less powerful than she's ever felt before.
Because although she's the Golden Girl who saved the world, even she sometimes can feel
powerless—can fall victim to the unfair nature of the world.

"You," Draco sneers at Hermione, and she swears that her whole body goes cold at the way he
addresses her. The way he makes her skin freeze with fear is beyond unsettling, and she fears that
his power over her will never fade. "You think this is the right option for us? You think putting
trackers in us is the way to get us to obey?"

Hermione wants to say no. She wants to tell them that she feverishly pushed for other options. That
the idea of a tracker was incredibly disturbing to her. That all she wants is the best for them. For
him.

She fears that they will label her as a holier-than-thou savior, though.

"No, I—"

"Ms. Granger does not have jurisdiction in this matter," Aberfield interrupts.

An assistant. She's apparently just an assistant.

Draco huffs at the situation, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

There they are again—his tattoos. Hermione's wandering eyes fall on the splurge of ink layering
his body. Something about the chaos of the designs intrigues Hermione beyond comprehension. It's
the manner by which they're sprawled across his body, painting him in a light so intriguing and
dark that Hermione can't help but wonder how much pain he must've been under when he got them
etched into his porcelain skin. They're like a puzzle, coating his arms and chest in a medley of
designs.

Hermione wants to solve the puzzle. Wants to piece together every tattoo he's ever had imbued into
his skin. The wheels of her mind won't stop turning until she does.

"You say you want to help us—that these trackers will be good for us. That they'll keep us ordered
and controlled." Draco flares his nostrils at Aberfield. "I promise you that they won't."

The Slytherins are silent, but the aura of the room speaks volumes. Hermione cowers at her own
weakness, reverts into a bubble of shame as the eyes of the Slytherins dart back and forth between
her and Aberfield. Every one of them begs her with their eyes to stop this. Say something. Truly
help them.
She's tried, though. And Aberfield didn't listen.

And she didn't know why. Why wouldn't his listen to her?

Aberfield ignores Draco's comment in the same way he ignored Hermione's suggestions. He
speaks plainly: "The process is noninvasive. Just takes a little magic. And it is mandatory."

"You can't do this, Aberfield," Adrian says, shaking his head. Hermione swears that the shells of
Adrian's eyes are wet with hopelessness. A part of her breaks as she scans the other Slytherins,
who all exhibit a look of both resentment and gloom.

And her eyes fall on Theo's. He locks them in place.

"Granger, come on..." Theo pleads. "Help us out."

She opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted yet again.

"You've left us no choice," Aberfield says, clasping his hands behind his back and broadening his
shoulders and chest as a way of exerting authority and indifference to their fruitless pleas. "With
last week's chaotic disruption, we can't risk having you act out again. If that means inhibiting your
engagement with such... illicit activities... then so be it."

"There has to be some law against this—" Blaise starts.

"There isn't. As I said, this is Ministry approved." Aberfield sighs, and Draco detects that the sigh
is insincere, masked in some sort of ulterior agenda. "We just want to help."

"You don't want to help us," Draco seethes. "You want to control us."

"We have to exert some authority over you if you want to get better. Otherwise, you'll remain privy
to your habits. At least this way we can counter the..." He gulps, swallowing the word he planned
on using.

"Fuck's sake, you're such a pussy," Pansy remarks under her breath, and in the middle of the
substantially tense moment, Theo emits a soft chuckle and squeezes Pansy's hand. She jabs her
tongue on the inside of her cheek and smirks, her lip curling with pleasure.

"Like I said," Draco continues, "all you want to do is fucking control us."

"Your other options are much bleaker."

"Other options?" Daphne asks.

"There's the possibility of a more evasive and unpleasant form of rehab," Aberfield explains in a
rather threatening tone, one built on the precipice of his dwindling patience.

"More unpleasant than this shitshow you call a rehabilitation effort?" Draco remarks.

"I'd say so. If you'd like to be subjected to St. Mungo's infamous fourth floor, where they'll treat
you like dogs—like you don't have a shrivel of consciousness left within you—then by all means
you can withhold consent for the tracker. But do be advised that the program there is much more
invasive than this. You won't even feel like a person. They'll strap you down to a bed, monitor you
constantly, and your withdrawal will be just as bad as it already is. At least here we can slowly
phase out your habits and reorient you with the pleasantness of sobriety. I promise you this: at St.
Mungo's, your chance of recovery and survival are slim. You'll go mad there."
If ever there was a more overwrought, strained moment of silence, this moment tops it all.
Aberfield's threat rings through their ears like a shrill siren, the frequency of the buzzing so high-
pitched that not even a swarm of bats could hear it.

But the Slytherins do. Very clearly. It reverberates through their brains, unceasing in its ominous
missive.

It even counteracts the cocaine they consumed several minutes before the meeting. It's as if the
powder's effects are reversed by the sheer threat of forced hospitalization.

Aberfield sighs loudly and removes his wand. "Please form a line. I'll make this as quick as
possible."

There is hesitation, but the Slytherins eventually give in and organize themselves into a straight
line with the knowledge that they do not really have much of a choice in the matter.

Aberfield steps forward and begins the process, and all Hermione can do is stare. Watch as
Aberfield places his wand upon their arms, just above their Dark Marks, and injects them with the
blue light, revoking any shrivel of autonomy they once harbored right out of their body.

A quiet hiss, like the sound of a hot saucer against one's skin, fills the air each time the beam
settles underneath the membrane of their arms. And then, after a few seconds, a small part of the
light seeps out. Aberfield catches the remaining part of the light in small vials that he pulls from his
satchel, labeled with the initials of each Slytherin.

Aberfield treads down the line, one by one, embedding them with the tracker.

And Hermione just... watches. Her body shakes. The sight of it is perturbing beyond belief.

And as Aberfield places the tip of his wand on Draco's forearm, just above his concealed Dark
Mark, Draco locks eyes with Hermione. Stares at her during the entire process, breathing slowly,
engaging her soul with his own.

Hermione can't look away. The way his icy eyes capture her attention, hook her completely in a
state of tense apprehension, makes it impossible for her to break their eye contact. She can
practically hear his thoughts.

Why are you letting this happen, Granger?

She doesn't know. She wishes she could stop it. She wishes she could fucking help them. Why
won't they let her help them?

Hermione wonders where it all went wrong.

And just how much worse it is going to get.

 Chapter 9

The October breeze bears curiosity as it crashes against Hermione's apartment window. The wind
seeps its way through the crack between the window and the frame, straight into her home.
Hermione feels the fresh atmosphere—blended with the air from outside and the aroma of her lit
oakwood candle—bend to her innermost thoughts and desires. The smells and sensations congeal
and stir a determination within her to unpack and fathom what happened just a week ago.

She regrettably replays the reality of the situation in her head: Aberfield infused trackers within the
Slytherins.

Location Beams. Hermione had never heard of such a thing before. The only thing that came close
to Aberfield's trackers was the Trace, but that magic was entirely distinctive to what Aberfield
crafted. To put a tracking device not on someone's wand but inside their body, trailing every little
move, every action, every breath they took—that is a complete invasion of privacy.

And she did nothing to stop it. She just watched as the Slytherins' autonomies were torn away from
them. Stood by as yet another part of them was forced to sustain immeasurable amounts of dark
and unusual magic.

She should've said something. Why was she so afraid to do that?

Hermione peers across her small living room towards the bookshelf nestled to the left of her brick
fireplace. A light fire crackles, its ember sparks and flames illuminating the dim room and
breathing a sense of passion within her—an ardent desire to investigate the circumstances that
Aberfield had forced upon the group of Slytherins.

Her eyes skim the dozens of books that line her wooden shelves, combing through the mix of
tattered and pristine volumes for something to read that would tell her about the process of spell
creation.

She knew several cases of spell creation off the top of her head already.

Luna Lovegood's mother, Pandora. Hermione remembers Luna explaining to her that when she
young—just a few years before coming to Hogwarts—her mother was experimenting with a new
spell she created. When the spell backfired, it killed her instantly. It's why Luna can see Thestrals.

Then, there's Tom Riddle. He created Morsmordre out of pure evilness, and consequently passed
on the skills required to creating one's own dark spell to his followers so that they too could
attribute to the promotion of dark magic. In fact, Hermione recalls that Antonin Dolohov created
his own spell and exercised it multiple times during the the infamous Battle at Hogwarts.
Hermione remembers it clearly; he almost hexed her with it.

And Snape crafted Sectumsempra, among other spells. But that specific one always stuck with
Hermione; when Harry told her whose spell it was that sliced Draco's chest open, she cried. She felt
betrayed by Snape, both for herself and for Draco.

She thinks about the infirmary. Seeing Draco lying in his hospital bed, alone.

She should've approached him then. Just like she should've done something yesterday.

Both times she's failed to do something for him, even when her heart begged her to.
Hermione runs her fingers through her tangled curls, trying not to dwell on the past, but rather
planning to amend her past failures in the future.

Add to the list of spell creators Quincy Aberfield, charming up a Location Beam and creating
revela locum.

She wants to search for information on how that is done—how one can simply create a spell out of
nothingness. What the process is, how it affects the witch or wizard who creates it, and what it
means for the Wizarding World itself to have a new spell ready at the helm of everyone's wands.

Her eyes glance over a tried and true book: Miranda Goshawk's Book of Spells.

During her fourth year, she duplicated the book from the library in Hogwarts and snuck it back
home with her, wanting to read and learn about every spell the pages had to offer. She would look
at the book every day, commit the spells to memory, and savor in the fashion that the Latin rolled
off her tongue, like the magic instinctively belonged to her. She looked at that book every day,
read those spells with great care and dedication, and it reminded her that she was deserving of this
life—this life with magic.

She wiggles her finger at the book and says, "Accio."

The tome floats out of its spot on the case, nestled between two other books. It soars through the
air and into Hermione's hands. She catches it and strokes the texture of the vellum. Opening the
book to a random page somewhere near the middle, she falls upon the section of spells that start
with the letter 'P.'

Her goal is to find something about a tracking or location spell.

She flips to 'T,' gazing the pages of miniscule text for any spell that resembles a tracking charm.
Her finger traces each entry with care and attention, scouring for anything that could explain
Aberfield's phenomenon. Her nail falls upon something: 'the Tracking Spell.' Reading the entry,
she searches for information about a tracker, a location beam—anything that resembled Aberfield's
own charm.

She groans as she realizes that this spell isn't the same. It only reveals traces of magical activity in a
given area; it has nothing to do with tracking one's location or implanting beams of light into one's
body. Nothing to do with harboring complete control and authority over someone else.

However, she notices an asterisk next to the Tracking Spell, which guides her to the bottom of the
page. Dropping her eyes to the sub-note, she scans a sub-entry about a similar spell: 'Avensegium,
page 34.' She flips to the mentioned page, following the same process as before with tracing the
spells with her finger. Finding the charm, she reads the properties:

Avensegium is a charm that turns an object into a tracking device—

Hermione slams the book shut and tosses it to the side of the couch.

She doesn't know why she surrenders so suddenly. Why is feels like nothing is working.

She gives up on the Location Beam—for now. But she promises to come back to it when she can
find a more in-depth book about spell creation. Perhaps she could bother Harry to snoop around the
Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library like they did years ago.

She smiles at the memories. Yes, she'd write to Harry and ask him for this favor.
Affirming her news course of action, Hermione resolves to remind herself of the ingredients in
Draught of Peace. She recalls them effortlessly, as if that lesson occurred just yesterday:
moonstone, Syrup of Hellebore, Unicorn horn, porcupine quills, and Valerian root.

They're relatively uncommon ingredients, but she sees no concern as to whether or not Aberfield
will be able to come across them. With extensive archives at the Ministry and plenty of
connections, Aberfield could likely attain those ingredients without issue.

She does harbor concern for Aberfield himself, though.

What had changed? When they began planning the program together days after Graham's death
became public knowledge, Aberfield had been so receptive to her ideas and excited about restarting
the program as a means of reaching the younger generation. It seemed like he really wanted to help
the Slytherins. He crafted a comprehensive plan that Hermione considered to be effective and
conducive to their reintegration in the Wizarding World.

Things changed when their drug problem came to light. The transformation was steady, but it
happened, nonetheless.

Hermione reminds herself that it's not that the program changed, but rather it didn't adjust for the
better. It became worse—consumed with ideas and techniques that did nothing to help the
Slytherins with their most pressing problem. Aberfield actively ignored their drug addiction,
treating it as inferior to his idea of rehabilitation, which apparently consisted of berating and
dehumanizing them for their past choices.

As if that will help at all...

When Hermione had offered to assist him with brewing the potion because of her aptitude for such
an art, she was shot down by Aberfield, who said that he would brew it himself. He followed his
response with ambiguous reasoning, saying that he didn't want to trouble Hermione with something
so tedious and irrelevant. Hermione didn't find it irrelevant, though—the Draught of Peace was
going to soothe the Slytherins in ways that the program wasn't succeeding at. It was going to serve
as a medication, of sorts. A way to numb their pain.

Was it selfish that she wanted to brew the Draught of Peace all by herself?

Is the whole program selfish? Is it just a way to make her feel less guilty about all the times she
could have intervened and helped them? About the fact that she couldn't be strong enough to stand
up for the Slytherins back at Hogwarts when they needed it?

Was she making up for that now by working with Aberfield on this pathetic excuse of a
rehabilitation program?

Hermione rubs her eyes and exhales, wishing the wheels of her brain would stop turning for just
one fucking minute. Wishing she wouldn't over analyze everything in her life.

She hears a purr at her feet and casts her eyes down to the source of the noise.

Crookshanks paces over her feet, rubbing his ginger fur, tainted with grey stripes, across her bare
legs and reaping ephemeral giggles from Hermione.

Bending over, Hermione hooks her hand under Crookshanks and lifts him up, placing him in her
lap and scratching his pelt just above the base of his tail—his favorite spot to be coddled. He purrs
again, placing his little paws against her chest and nestling his head onto Hermione's blushed
cheek.
She kisses his nose once, twice, then three times. Never has she adored a sight more than his
scrunched nose and big, beady eyes. Others would take a look at him and assume the worst;
Crookshanks' beauty comes from within, manifesting itself in the way he nestles against her, purrs,
and exemplifies his adoration for her. All he needs is a push—someone to show him affection, and
he's putty in their hands.

It reminds her of him—someone with a tough exterior, judged too quickly by everyone else.

She wonders if on the inside, he's just the same as her bloody cat.

"Welcome back. I hope you've all had a calm weekend—one full of reflection and contemplation
since our last meeting."

The group of bored Slytherins stares back at Aberfield with completely blank expressions.

Aberfield clears his throat, cognizant of the everlasting tension that comes with each meeting.
"Right," he mumbles, tapping his fingers against his knee, "how are you all feeling today?"

They all remain silent, continuing to stare at him with intense discouragement. Draco lowers his
eyebrows at him and bites the inside of the side of his lip, wishing he'd snorted his morning dose of
cocaine before subjecting himself to today's lesson.

"I do have something for you all," Aberfield exclaims, trying to alter the despondent ambiance of
the room to one a little bit brighter. No one humors it, though. They don't just stare at him anymore
—now they glare, each one shooting daggers at him with their vexed expressions and scolding
eyes.

"Let me guess," Theo says, breaking the ominous silence, "you plan to inject us with something
else today?"

Aberfield presses his lips together and shakes his head. "Like I said, that was in your best interest
—"

"Sure it was," Draco whispers, rolling his head back and lounging further into his chair.

"This is something that I think will help with the pain and agitation I see you've all been
experiencing," Aberfield explains, standing up and ambling towards the table shoved against the
back wall of the room. Laid out on the wooden surface is a rack with six vials lodged within the
openings, all filled to the brim with a turquoise-blue liquid. Aberfield collects them in his hands
and begins to describe the purpose of the substance. "This is Draught of Peace. It will help soothe
your agitation and anxiety. I've concocted it myself, and you'll be pleased to know that I received
an O in Potions while attending Hogwarts," he says with a chuckle. "It's perfect."

"I wonder what this guy's social life was like at Hogwarts," Theo mumbles in Pansy's ear, followed
by a subtle kiss against the top of her ear.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he spent his Friday nights alone, his only source of company being his
right fucking hand," Pansy responds.

Theo snickers as Aberfield approaches the circle and begins to pass out the potions to each
Slytherin.

Everyone receives their vial, twirling it in their hands and inspecting the enchanting color of the
liquid. When Aberfield lands on Draco, he initially hesitates taking the potion. Eventually, Draco
yanks it right out of Aberfield's hand, but not without parading a conspicuous and dramatic eye roll.

"Go ahead and take it now while it's still fresh. I simmered it minutes before the meeting, so it
should be ready for consumption," Aberfield instructs, sitting back down in his chair and watching
intently as the Slytherins observe the potions.

Hermione notices immense apprehension among the Slytherins—and why shouldn't they be
apprehensive about it? Aberfield had injected trackers in them a few days prior. Their skepticism is
completely warranted and valid.

To Hermione surprise, they oblige. The first to ingest his potion is Blaise; he twists the cork of the
vial open, and out pours a stream of grey mist in conjunction with a light sizzling sound. Holding
the vial up in the air, he gulps in preparation and knocks the potion back into his throat. Daphne
follows suit, then Pansy, then Theo, then Adrian, and then finally Draco.

Aberfield smiles, then turns to Hermione. "Would you collect their vials for me, Hermione?"

Apparently, she's just an assistant.

Hermione concedes, standing and collecting the vials from each person, then breaking through the
circle and placing them in the rack upon the table. Behind her, she hears Aberfield initiate the
discussion. With her back to the group, Hermione subtly holds a vial up to her nose and smells the
potion.

Everything smells normal. Everything looks normal.

She considers taking one of the vials with her to confirm its validity but goes against it in fear that
Aberfield would notice a missing vial.

For now. She goes against it for now.

She slowly returns to the group as Aberfield continues to lecture.

He talks and talks and talks. Hermione doesn't bother listening because, one again, the wheels in
her brain won't stop turning, gyrating, churning out dozens of thoughts, concerns, and questions
about what the fuck she's even doing here. What she's even contributing to this program. Her brain
coils around itself, as if the webs of questions and concerns consume her mind and drain out every
other possible function. She can only think about her current situation—everything else fades
away.

For a brief moment, Hermione falls out of her trance; as her eyes course over the faces of the group,
they abruptly stop on Adrian's face, who sits next to Draco and across the circle from her and
Aberfield.

She inspects his expression closely.

She's never seen him look so tense before.

It's during the moment that Aberfield references Unforgiveable Curses. Hermione watches as
Adrian purses his lips and cracks his neck uncomfortably. He shudders, as if something has just
climbed up his back and ominously blown wind across the nape of his neck.

And Hermione notices. She watches as his fingers curl underneath his chair, his tongue swipes
across his teeth and mouth, and his chest heaves up and down.
She feels the same things, forced to closer her eyes and take deep breaths to endure the inescapable
images of her own suffering. It swarms back into her mind—writing under Bellatrix, begging and
screaming for her to stop. The memory floods her mind in waves of all too palpable senses; she
smells Bellatrix's musky aroma, feels her teeth and dagger sink deep into her skin, hears her hiss
just atop the alcove of her ear, and sees the look of pure insanity in her eyes.

She dispels the thought as quickly as possible, unwilling to relive it further.

And when she opens her eyes again, she witnesses something unexpected before her.

Draco's hand is on Adrian's shoulder. They look at one another, exchanging soft smiles.

Hermione's mouth hangs open slightly as she considers what the gesture could mean. Why Adrian
recoiled at the mention of such curses as well.

To her knowledge, Adrian himself had never been under the influence of an Unforgiveable. But
then again, she barely knows him. He was never someone that Hermione paid attention to because
he was never a major threat. No, that was Draco, Pansy, Marcus, even Theo at times. But her
knowledge about Adrian and his past is scarce, so who is she to assume what he has gone through?

Who was she to assume anything about them?

They've all led lives that she could never fully understand. She harbors her own trauma, her own
problems, her own pains, but so do they. A part of her concluded a long time ago that she could
never sincerely understand their tribulations.

She resolves to never pretend to try, but to always sympathize whenever possible.

"The reason I bring up such dark magic is because I want us to have a discussion about what
compels us to perform such spells. And how such spells represent a relinquishment of our free will.
Now, I'd like to discuss what free will means to you, and how our choices affect not only the
people around us but also ourselves."

"Fuck's sake," Draco mumbles, shoving his head into his hands and leaning against his knees.
"You're so fucking dimwitted it hurts."

Aberfield flinches at Draco's comment. "Pardon me?"

Hermione already senses the start of another outburst. She can see the chaos burning in Draco's
eyes and fingers, itching to spring itself free from his body.

"You think any of us excitedly performed an Unforgiveable on someone? That our insides were just
longing to torture people? That we get off on seeing other people in pain because—what—we
were Death Eaters? Oh, you know what, let me rephrase that—because once a Death Eater, always
a Death Eater? At least, that's according to the issue of the Daily Prophet that was passed out to
every single witch and wizard in the United Kingdom—and maybe even beyond the country—to
not only create but also propel a distorted image of us as these innately evil individuals—"

"Alright, I understand your frustration, Mr. Malfoy—"

"No! You don't! You don't!" Draco shouts, rising from his chair and pointing his index finger at
Aberfield. "Stop fucking pretending like you know what it's like! You don't! You never have, and
you never will!"

Hermione deduces that the Drought of Peace has obviously not settled in Draco's system just yet.
"I'm only trying to help—"

"Like you helped Graham?"

The room falls silent at Draco's comment, like the air has been sucked out by a vacuum. It leaves
them in a space of total emptiness, Draco's words lingering in the void as their only source of
oxygen. They're all forced to swallow it to breathe—all forced to come to terms with the reality of
Graham's suicide, especially Aberfield.

Draco sneers, cognizant of the chord he has struck. "Yeah, you really did fucking wonders for him.
For our parents. You know we haven't seen them since they got out of Azkaban? And you take
pride in that fucking program? You think your lessons actually helped then and now?"

"Malfoy, it's not worth it," Adrian advises, standing and placing his arm in front of Draco, trying to
reign him in and bring him back to his senses.

"Listen to your friend, Mr. Malfoy," Aberfield warns, cocking one of his eyebrows.

"Or what?" Draco taunts. "You're going to silence me again? You're going to inject something else
in me? Force a sedative down my throat to get me to shut up?"

"I just might, if you continue to disrupt the discussion," Aberfield cautions.

"What fucking discussion?" Draco almost shouts. "None of us give a shit! Not one of us has talked!
All you do is ramble on about material we don't care about. You just force this bullshit down our
throats and into our bodies. If this really was a discussion, then you'd also be listening to us."

Hermione can't help herself. From the look on Adrian's face and the way Draco is reacting, she
knows she needs to stand up and soothe his outburst before something unscrupulous materializes.

She rises abruptly, and everyone's eyes shoot in her direction.

"Quincy, please. Malfoy is... right. Let's take a break. Maybe we can reconvene tomorrow? I—"

"No. We can't do that."

The walls come back, trapping Hermione in a box yet again. A box where her ideas and
suggestions bounce of the walls and right back into her brain, unable to pierce through the exterior
that Aberfield has built around her.

She won't back down this time without a proper fight, though. Without showing them that she
really does care.

Aberfield's patience with Draco withers away. He stands and removes his wand from his blazer
pocket, twisting it in his hand as a kind of admonition. "Mr. Malfoy, you have five seconds to sit
back down."

Draco chuckles, unphased by Aberfield's caveat.

Hermione's heart begins to race. "Quincy, that isn't necessary."

"Just let him go for a walk," Adrian pleads, scrunching his eyebrows and soliciting Aberfield's
mercy.

"He's just frustrated," Pansy chimes in, now on her feet along with the others.
Aberfield lifts and aims his wand at Draco, who refuses to sit back down.

Hermione can feel every muscle tense within her. She stares at Draco, entreating him with her
mind to just sit back down. To endure the pain of the meeting just a little longer.

"Draco, please sit down," Pansy urges, desperation painted in her sullen eyes.

"No." Draco's voice is unwavering and resolute.

Hermione tries one more time to reason with him. "Malfoy—"

Her sentence is cut off by a white spark shooting from Aberfield's wand and striking Draco square
in the chest.

Draco falls backwards, tumbling into his chair abruptly.

The rest of the group leaps out of their chairs.

"Whoa—what the fuck!" Adrian screeches, flailing his arms in the air in exasperation. With a look
of unbridled anger, Aberfield flicks his wand again, and suddenly Draco is engulfed in a series of
ropes that coil around his body. The ropes tie around his ankles, his thighs, and his torso, securing
him to the back of the chair and revoking his ability to move.

To Hermione's shock and horror, a thin rag wraps itself around Draco's mouth, securing itself
between his teeth and around his head. Draco bites down on the rag, his teeth searing into the
fabric with deep ferocity.

Hermione can't believe what she's seeing. What Aberfield has done.

Her instincts takes control; she rushes towards Draco.

"Are you fucking serious? Why the hell would you do that?" Daphne screams, stumbling towards
Draco as well and reaching towards his binds, feverishly pulling and tugging at them. But they
won't give. Hermione and Daphne continue to work at the ropes winding around Draco's body.

"You left me no choice—"

"You can't use magic on us like this! Let him go!" Blaise yells.

Hermione pulls out her wand and tries to reverse Aberfield's spell. The ropes don't give in to her
magic, though. They persist, coiling themselves around Draco even tighter.

Draco looks at Hermione, his eyes on fire. His teeth pierce down on the cloth, and he struggles
beneath the ropes with aggressive grunts and jolts. Hermione's mouth hangs open as she and
Daphne desperately pull at the ropes. She resolves to place her hand on the nape of his neck as a
means of support as she tries to tug the cloth out of his mouth. It just won't budge. And she
frantically searches for a knot to untie, but there's nothing.

"I'm... Malfoy, I'm so—"

Draco grunts and shakes his head, attempting to speak through the rag that acts as a gag within his
mouth. To Hermione, it sounds as though he is saying "don't."

Don't?

"Let him go!" Theo shouts as he and Adrian stalk towards Aberfield.
"Remember what I said? About St. Mungo's? THIS is exactly how you would be treated. Is that
what you all want?" Aberfield yells, shaking his wand at Theo and Adrian as they approach him.

"No! We would not like to be treated like this!" Adrian shouts, rage dispersed through each word
he delivers. "So why are you doing this?"

"To teach you all a lesson!" Aberfield explains. "I'm not one to be undermined!"

Draco continues to struggle beneath the ropes, grunting and growling as his eyes remain fixed on
Aberfield.

"Well, alright! We've learned! Let him go—please!" Daphne begs, wrapping her hand around his
wrist as a means of calming him down. Hermione follows Daphne's action, swathing her hand
around Draco's left wrist. The way her skin connects with his rushing pulse sends shivers up her
arms; she can feel the desperation and anxiety in his body pulse through his throbbing veins.

"This is highly unprofessional, Quincy!" Hermione interjects, her voice raised in anger. "And I
have the right to tell Kingsley about your completely inexcusable conduct—"

"He's approved all of my measures already, Hermione," Aberfield responds sharply. "Besides, I
have no choice. If they want to keep acting out... then... then... this is how it will have to be."

"Fuck's sake, this is what Draco was talking about! Listen to her! Listen to us! We fucking get it!"
Blaise yells back.

Quivering with frustration, Aberfield returns Draco's eye contact, his wand still pointed straight at
him. "Do you, Mr. Malfoy? Do you understand?"

The fire in Draco's eyes could scorch through Aberfield's skin if he wished. But, to everyone's
surprise, he nods in submission.

"And you'll be quiet?" Aberfield pesters, widening his eyes.

Draco nods again.

"Step aside now, ladies," Aberfield instructs Daphne and Hermione. They each let go off Draco's
arms and step backwards. Aberfield releases the spell: "Finite."

The ropes around Draco suddenly vanish into thin air, a light grey mist bursting around him for a
few moments before disappearing altogether. With the ropes and rag go the evidence of the spell
and mistreatment altogether, evaporating into the void as if it never happened. Draco abruptly jolts
out of his chair, standing and breathing with mammoth anger.

"I'm taking a walk," Draco growls through gritted teeth, pushing past everyone in the circle and
storming out the door, not bothering to look back.

Hermione wants to follow him.

She has to stop feeling that tug. She has to refrain from running to his aid every time he storms out.
But he deserves someone to care about him, damnit. Someone who will listen.

She goes against her better judgement and follows him. Behind her, Aberfield's shouts drain in the
background, the only thing coursing through her mind being what she'll say to Draco if she catches
up with him. As she pushes the door open and steps out into the hallway, she feverishly glances
around, looking for that blonde hair and those distinguishable tattoos. But Draco is nowhere in
sight.

Her eyes fall on the door of the bathroom, and she takes a leap of faith, feels the tug draw her to
that location with urgency.

She marches to the door, takes a deep breath, and shoves it open.

And he's there. He leans his shaking hands against the counter, head lowered in the sink, shoulders
contorted, back arched, and chest falling up and down in a rickety pace. The door closes behind
Hermione with a click of the handle, and Draco's head jolts to the right at the abrupt; their eyes
lock.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Draco groans, twisting his head back to face the mirror. He
stares at himself in the reflection, disgusted with everything he sees.

"I'm just—"

"You're just checking up on me! Yeah! I got it!" Draco shouts, his fingers pressing against his
temples in a state of downright aggravation.

Hermione inhales, filling her lungs with a gust of oxygen fused with bravery and altruism.

"Malfoy, I'm really sorry about what just happened—"

"Don't apologize," he snaps. "I don't want to hear anything from you."

Hermione ignores him and presses on, desperate to get her point across. "I should've done more to
help you. Should've done everything I could to stop him. And I..." She fears her next words will
dig up unresolved issues, but she says them anyway. "I shouldn't have just stood there while he put
those trackers in you."

"You think?" he retorts with a tang of sarcasm.

She sighs. "You asked me if I thought this is what's best for you. That day, when Aberfield put the
trackers inside of you."

Draco looks back at her, flaring his nostrils and awaiting the continuation of her sentence.

"Of course I don't think that. Of course I fought against it. When Aberfield brought it up with
Kingsley, I begged them not to go through with it. I told them over and over that it wouldn't work."

"Glad to know your skills of persuasion are sharp as ever," he scolds her.

She huffs and rolls her eyes. "It's less about my lack of persuasion and more about my lack of
testosterone, I presume."

Draco emits a hmpfh and leans against the sink, his eyes trailing up and down Hermione's figure.
She can feel his gaze all over her, and she wonders if this is what it feels like for him when she
stares at his tattoos.

Hermione clears her throat. "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

Draco snickers. "Absolutely not."

"But I thought that's what you said you wanted?" Hermione pushes.
"Well, the time for talking today has passed. Instead, I think I'll turn to something a little more...
effective."

A knot curls in Hermione's stomach at Draco's ambiguous yet perfectly clear insinuation.

She gulps as Draco reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out a dime bag full of white
powder, similar to the one she saw him toy with the first day of the program just over a month ago.

Draco perceives Hermione's uncomfortableness and uses it to his advantage, taunting her with the
unsavory sight. "You want to watch me do it?" he hisses, shaking the small baggie in the air,
allowing the grains of powder to shift up and down within the plastic. "You want to watch how I
successfully drown out everything in my life?"

"You don't have to do this," Hermione says, reaching her hand forward to grab the bag out of his
hand.

She should've known better than try to snatch his drugs, though; he withdraws his arm abruptly
and tuts his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"Don't even think about it," he growls. "You keep those hands to yourself. I want you to just sit
back and watch."

"Please, don't. You don't have to turn to that anymore. I want to help you."

"Gods, I fucking hate that word." Draco cranes his head with a disgusted frown. "You pity me,
don't you? And you want to 'fix' me? Want to make everyone think that you're my liberator?"

"Please, that's not it at all—"

Draco tears opens the seal of the bag, much to Hermione's protests.

"Malfoy—"

He dips his finger inside, curls the top of his index finger beneath the powder, and collects a pile of
the cocaine. Shaking his finger to gather the perfect amount of powder, stacked like a tiny
mountain upon the tip of his finger, he slowly removes his digit and holds it up to his nose.

"Nothing can fix me. You understand? Nothing. This is all I need to feel better. All I'll ever need."

"Don't—"

"Just watch. This is all I will ever need."

He shoves his finger to his nostril and immediately inhales the substance.

Hermione watches with dismay as it disappears up into Draco's nose. His eyes shut and his face
trembles with pleasure. He swipes his nose several times with the same finger that the cocaine
rested on, ensuring that he does not waste one grain of it. Once he finishes, he looks back down at
Hermione, his nose twitching with gratification.

"Almost forgot," Draco says with a smirk, removing his wand from his pocket and pointing it at
his head. "Accelero momentum."

Hermione cocks an eyebrow. "What did you—"

"I sped up the process," Draco quickly responds. "I want you to watch the way it all unfolds."
Hermione shakes her head. "I don't want to watch that."

"Yeah, well, I'm not giving you a choice." He sniffs and compulsively swipes his finger under his
nose again. "And now you'll know what that's like—to not have a choice. To be forced to watch
something happen right before your eyes that you wish you could've stopped but didn't because
someone else was fucking controlling you. Manipulating you. Holding you prisoner in your own
body."

Pain seeps out of his eyes as he delivers those sentences. Pain and... regret.

"What are you referring to?" she asks quietly.

Draco's eyes widen. "Nothing."

Hermione doesn't believe him.

"I do know how that feels," she responds. "That's all I've been feeling these past few weeks. I've
been dying to help you in a way that matters, but Aberfield won't listen to me. So I do know how
you feel."

Draco shakes his head. "That's not the same thing. Do you have a tracker implanted in your body?
A fucking tattoo of some ugly skull and serpent that will never go away? No matter how many
times you scrub at it? Scratch at it? Tear at your fucking skin until it bleeds?"

Hermione doesn't answer because she hasn't felt those things.

"Huh? Do you?" Draco repeats.

She concedes, shaking her head. "No."

"Exactly. I'm a fucking prisoner to those things. I might as well be in Azkaban."

"That's how you feel, then?" Hermione asks. "Like a prisoner in your own body?"

Draco hesitates, then groans. "Don't make this some kind of therapy session."

"I'm just trying to have a conversation with you. Isn't that what you want?"

"You... you are something else, Granger, you know that?"

"Is that not what you want?"

"I just snorted cocaine in front of you, and you want to talk about feelings?"

Hermione straightens her shoulders. "Precisely."

Draco laughs, and Hermione notices his fingers continue to twitch and quiver. He sucks in two
quick breaths through his nose and yet again swipes his thumb under his nostrils.

His chest heaves more visibly. Hermione can't refrain from gawking at his new mannerisms.

"Yeah... you see that, Granger?" Draco asks, diverting the topic as he notices Hermione's enamored
gaze. "That's the cocaine. It's also the spell speeding it up, forcing it to stream around inside of me
so that is takes over every inch of my insides." He takes a step towards her. "You're curious, huh?
You want me to tell you what will happen to me?"
Hermione is silent. Draco takes it as his cue to explain the intricate process slowly and sweetly.

"Soon, the lights of this bathroom will become too bright to handle. And my fingers will tremble
until they feel like they're going to fall off." He continues slowly walking towards Hermione, and
she swears the room shrinks around her with each step he takes. "I'll hear, see, feel, smell, and taste
every little thing that makes contact with me. I'll perceive it ten times more strongly than normal.
That's one of the best parts, actually. Every sense is elevated, increases to monstrous levels of
sensitivity. I'll be able to feel every little thing."

He's closer to her now, and she begins to tread backwards. While she physically recoils from Draco
as he stalks her, she can't help but feel enticed by his vivid descriptions, enamored by the way he
describes the feeling of euphoria. It is fascinating—she can't deny it. No matter how far away she
wants him to be from those drugs, it doesn't change the fact that she is captivated. It's human, after
all.

She lets him continue, drowning in his words.

"And there will be a lovely little buzz in my head. It's the dopamine, talking to me. Whispering
wonderful little things in my ears about what it wants me to do."

Hermione can't help the word vomit; it spills out of her mouth, stemming from a place deep within
her of genuine fascination.

"And then what?"

Draco stops walking towards her and laughs, pleasantly surprised by Hermione's question. "Oh, I
see. You're intrigued, aren't you?"

"Well I—"

"You want to know how this feels, don't you?"

She can't breathe. Can't function. Can't focus on anything except for the look of pure euphoria
taking over Draco's face.

"You know something," Draco continues, resuming his inching towards her, "I always thought you
had a little dark side to you. A part of you that wanted to break free from your boring life. I think
that part of you is dying to come out. And seeing me do this—I think it makes you feel something
you've never felt before."

He's reading her mind. The closer he gets to her, the more of her he is able to pick apart with ease.

She wanted to do that. She wanted to be the one to unfold his layers, pull them back with her
fingers and words.

But somehow, he's flipped the power. She's wrapped around his finger, enchanted by his actions.
His tempting, appealing, practically irresistible actions.

"Am I right?" he asks again with a smirk.

Before she can answer, her back collides with the door.

Draco laughs again. "I'm right, aren't I? You want to know this feeling so badly."

"Malfoy—"
"I can show you."

Hermione stares at him, her blank expression in competition with his vibrant one.

"Yeah," he whispers, "I'll show you. I'll make you feel things you'd never dream of feeling." He
leans his left forearm against the door right next to her head. The proximity of his face from hers
causes her breath to jump out of her mouth. They're inches away. Hermione can feel the space
between them grow warm with the amalgamation of their deep and heavy breaths. "Would you like
that, Granger?"

Yes. She would.

"No," she responds through gritted teeth, "I want you to step back."

Draco sticks his tongue just outside of his mouth and bites it lightly. To Hermione's surprise, he
uses his free hand to reach for the handle of the door. He pulls away from her, allowing her space
to step forward and off of the door. Draco pulls the door open.

"My offer stands, should you ever want to indulge."

"So does mine," she retorts. "Let me know if you'd ever like to talk."

She huffs, the side of her lip curling as she relishes in receiving the last word. And as she slips
under his arm and storms out of the bathroom, she doesn't dare look back.
 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

tw // drug use

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Hermione can't stop thinking about it. Can't stop considering all the things she could've done that
day. And all the things that might've happened were she to do it—were she to just stand up to
Aberfield. Were she to force Kingsley to listen to her in a serious setting, one where she could
reestablish the bond they fostered so brilliantly when they fought alongside one another in the War,
without Aberfield hovering and interrupting her every single time she tries to offer a point in the
conversation.

She pinpoints the moment Aberfield began to crumble as the day he silenced them all—the first
day he used magic against them. Tensions were running high, and Hermione just assumed that he
was frustrated with their outbursts. But ever since then, Aberfield had changed—had become a
figment of the man she knew before.

A week later, as she prepares to depart from the relatively calm meeting for the day, Hermione
replays the scene following the most recent outburst in the seminar room over and over in her head:

"Kingsley, it was highly unprofessional!"

"I did what I needed to do, Kingsley. Hermione doesn't understand my actions because she's too
emotionally involved with the group."

"Emotionally involved? Sure! I'm emotionally involved! If that means having gone to school with
them for seven years and then watching them crumble under a drug addiction while we do
absolutely nothing to help them, then sure! I'm exceedingly emotionally involved with the
situation!"

"Ms. Granger, I recognize your concerns with Quincy's conduct—"

"With all due respect, I am past concerned," Hermione interjected. "I take great offense to his
conduct. It is shocking to me that you tolerate something like this. And that out of nowhere, Mr.
Aberfield has anointed himself as some sort of marshal of the law. You're..." she considered her
words carefully, but they slipped out alongside her immense anger, aimed and pierced at Aberfield
like daggers dipped in venom. "You're out of line, unbridled, and completely abusing your power.
And your de-escalation skills are fucking rubbish! You resort to violence rather than conversation
and listening to their needs!"

"Ms. Granger! Your language!"

She continued, unphased by the offense spewing from her mouth that was tinged with the sweet
release of abject rancor. "I am frustrated and disturbed and tired of being gaslighted into believing
that this isn't more of an issue! And I have the right mind to make a request that this program be
disbanded immediately on the grounds that it is ineffective and doing more damage than good to
everyone involved."
"That's out of the question, Hermione," Quincy answered with a raised voice, shaking his finger
and head. "When you accepted your position to work at the Ministry, you took an oath and signed
a contract that explicitly stated that you would train underneath the guise of a superior in your
department of choice for three years. There is no possible way that the contract can be voided.
Unless, of course, you'd like to give up your position in the Ministry entirely."

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't conquer the ire that boiled the blood inside her body. It spurted out
like flames, hot and heavy with nothing but fury.

She knew she signed the contract, knew that it meant a three-year commitment to training
underneath a member of her desired department, knew that her apprenticeship was going to be
long and full of challenges. But she never expected it to take this turn. Never expected something so
horrific to happen. Never expected it would involve them.

"You're going to hold me against my will, then? I'm forced to continue to humor this sad excuse of
a program?" she screeched.

"That is right!" Aberfield returned.

"That's fucking rubbish! I'd like to be transferred—"

She stopped herself mid-sentence and remembered the Slytherins. If Hermione left the program,
who knows what sort of protocols Aberfield would implement. Who knows how they'd respond, and
what would happen if things were to get out of hand. She considered the possibility of staying
involved and helping them in other ways, secretively.

Hermione swallowed her sentence, and as Aberfield emitted a small sigh of relief, she grinded her
teeth in anger.

"Quincy." Kingsley redirected his attention back to Aberfield. "Is it true that you used an
Incarcerous Spell against Mr. Malfoy?"

"In an effort to restrain his unbridled anger, yes," Aberfield answered without shame. "He was not
listening to my instructions. He was causing a major disruption. He used grotesque profanities and
completely undermined my authority."

"He was trying to explain to you why this program isn't working," Hermione insisted. "And we
should listen to him. We should listen to them all and heed their concerns. This program won't
work if we don't include their needs in the process."

"That's NOT how this works!" Aberfield yelled, leading Hermione to flinch at the sheer bellow of
his usually calm voice.

She had no idea where the man she once knew was. If he'd been trapped somewhere deep within
his conscience, begging to be released. And she had no clue where his new ideas came from. Why
he was being so unreceptive to the truth.

"It is how it works!" she yelled back. "They need someone to listen! They need Healers! They need
comprehensive help! I can't keep having this conversation!" She turned to Kingsley, desperation
coloring her tired eyes. "Kingsley, please listen to me. Don't you trust me?"

"Hermione," Kingsley said, standing from his desk and offering her a kind smile. "Let me speak to
Quincy for a moment. I appreciate your input. I really do. But I want to discuss protocol with him
alone, now."
Hermione glared at them, presuming that she had failed yet again. She was convinced that
Kingsley's words were full of empty affirmations. She lowered her eyes, turned, and left, feeling
just as asphyxiated and rubbish as all the other times.

Hermione's thoughts are soon interrupted.

"So, Granger. Any fun plans tonight for this spooky holiday?"

Hermione looks up to see Adrian gazing at her. He taps his fingers against the wooden table in the
seminar room as she recovers her satchel.

"No, I don't think so," Hermione responds lightly. "I'll probably just stay in and watch a movie with
my cat—"

She realizes too late how bloody pathetic that sounds. Adrian's lips curl into a cheeky smile as he
tries to restrain the bubbling laughter lodged in his throat.

"A movie with your cat," he repeats, jabbing the inside of his lower lip in order to conceal the
laughter.

"Oh, stop," Hermione whispers, lowering her head and hiding the smile that creeps on her face.

"I remember that cat, actually," Adrian says, nodding his head as if to recall the memory.
"Blindingly orange, to my recollection. Like a fat, fuzzy, perpetually angry carrot."

Hermione bursts into a fit of giggles, slapping her hand over her eyes. Adrian's laugh sounds like a
sweet melody, and he soothes her flustered mind and emotions with the sound.

"So, let me get this straight. On what is considered to be the most enjoyable and exciting evening
of the year, you're going to be sitting in your home tonight, cuddling your prehistoric cat and
watching a movie?" Adrian asks with an eyebrow raise.

Hermione purses her lips. Gods, she's pitiable.

"That's... right."

Adrian snorts and pushes himself off the desk. Hermione catches her breath as Adrian breaks eye
contact and rummages through his pocket. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Hermione inspects the
white and red packet, watching as Adrian flips open the lid. Removing one of the cigarettes from
the already half-empty box, he slides the smoke between his index and middle finger. Meeting
Hermione's eyes again, he holds the cigarette up and asks, "I can still smoke in here, right?"

Hermione nods.

"I'll make it quick," Adrian says with a wink. "I suspect the muggles will change the law at some
point. Too bad such matters automatically apply to the Wizarding World as well."

"I suspect within a few years they'll make it illegal to smoke indoors. It's quite a large public health
issue," Hermione responds, cocking her head to the side.

"Yes, well, my body's been through hell and back already, so I don't think a little smoke will do
that much damage to me," Adrian says cryptically.

Hermione lingers on that comment. As Adrian snaps his fingers and lights the cigarette in one
swift motion, she remembers his visceral reaction to hearing about Unforgiveable curses.
A thought crosses her mind, one too overwhelming to dwell upon. She dispels it quickly.

The cigarette glows, and grey smoke pours out from the sides of Adrian's mouth in a pool of
tempting vapor. Hermione watches, her mouth gaping in wonder and awe as Adrian pleasantly
smokes in front of her. She wonders what it tastes like.

He removes the cigarette from his mouth, notched between his index and middle finger, and looks
down at Hermione. He extends the cigarette, offering it to her. "Want a smoke?"

She'd by lying if she said she wasn't enticed.

Hermione shakes her head. "No, but thanks for the offer."

He shrugs and sticks it back between his lips. "One of these days, I'll share with you the best weed
I've ever smoked in my life. And we can have that heart-to-heart you mentioned. You remember
our deal, don't you?"

She smiles. "How could I forget?"

Another question pops out of her mouth: "Where do you get your... contraband from?"

"Oh, we're back to big vocabulary, are we?" he says, his cigarette still lodged in his mouth. When
he exhales, the smoke trickles out of the opening of his lips and breezes across Hermione's face.
She inhales lightly, her nostrils opening slightly to invite the scent into her body. "I procure it from
a muggle acquaintance, someone I've known since after we left Hogwarts. He lives in Barnet. I'll
occasionally apparate over there, obtain the goods, then pop back to Hogsmeade. It's quite an
effective system."

"Sounds like it," Hermione acknowledges, slinging her bag around her shoulder and starting to step
towards the front of the room. Adrian follows, still working on his cigarette. Hermione clears her
throat and asks, "What are your plans for tonight, then?"

"Ahh," Adrian says playfully. "You mean, where will we engage in our illicit deeds and what will
our—" he taps his chin with the center of his cigarette, "'nightly endeavors' look like?"

Hermione laughs with an exasperated sigh; he'll never live that phrase down. "Ha-ha," she
responds sarcastically.

Adrian's lips gleam in a cheeky smile. "Doesn't everyone call you the brightest witch of our age?"

Hermione's chest tightens. "That is what people say," she responds quietly, unsure if she really
believes it herself anymore.

As they approach the door, Adrian hops in front of her and places himself in the threshold between
the hallway and the room. He rests his hands against the sides of the door frame, leaning forward
and down to get closer to Hermione.

"I think that you can probably figure out how to find us, then. Should you want to join."

Obscurely, Adrian glances over at his left arm where his faded Dark Mark lies dormant.

Hermione remembers what Aberfield said about the trackers—how they can reveal every place the
host has ever been since implantation.

Her breath hitches as she pieces together what Adrian means.

He wants her to use the trackers.

With a brisk and perfect wink, Adrian pushes off the walls and paces backwards through the
hallway, his eyes locked on Hermione's the entire time. The other Slytherins stand towards the end
of the hallway, leaning against the walls and waiting for Adrian to join them.

"Hopefully we'll see you later tonight, Granger," Adrian calls out. He stops, raises his finger, and
contemplates his next words. "I look forward to familiarizing you with our euphoric, nocturnal
customs."

Hermione offers a small smile as Adrian gives her a salute and reconvenes with the group in a light
jog, saying, "I'm coming! I'm coming! Sheesh!"

As the Slytherins depart, Hermione turns her head and looks down the other side of the hallway.
Aberfield stands a few dozen feet away, speaking with another employee and pointing at words on
loose papers atop his clipboard. She waits and watches as he walks down the hall with the other
gentlemen, fully engaged in conversation. They turn the hallway and disappear.

She seizes the opportunity, unaware of her time frame but desperate to do her digging.

Pacing down the corridor and stopping a few doors down from the meeting room, Hermione finds
herself outside of the wooden door to Aberfield's office. She reaches for the handle and tries to
twist it, but it only budges a few inches before resisting her tug. It's locked. Sighing, she surveys
the hallway again and hastily removes her wand. She hides it just behind the side of her body and
whispers, "Alohomora."

The door clicks open, and she rushes in.

Hermione closes the large, creaky door behind her and peers around Aberfield's personal office. It
is small and compact, decorated on the walls to her left and right with shelves of antique items and
dozens of books. There is not one item out of place. It resembles a museum exhibit, as if each item
is meticulously and carefully placed in its spot for a specific purpose and aesthetic.

She sees jars of ingredients, most of which she observes as belonging to Draught of Peace, but
others she assumes are simply for his personal brewing. Books about potions, the history of magic,
international relations, and public policy all line his shelves, organized by their subjects and then
by the last name of the authors. Her eyes fall on a book about the conception of dark magic and
then one about the First and Second Wizarding Wars. She approaches the books and inspects them
closely. As her fingers trail the binding, she notices the intensely tattered and fragile nature of the
binding and vellum. More tattered than the other books, at least, which are still almost perfect in
their stitching from what she can deduce.

To the right of the books rest six small vials situated in what appears to be a spice rack. She
approaches the vials and traces her fingers across them, her eyes glazing over the initials etched
into a space on the wooden rack below each vial. She stumbles upon one labeled D.M.

As she reaches for it, she hesitates.

Maybe... maybe that's not the best idea.

Something feels wrong about intruding on his memories, his thoughts, his breaths even. It all feels
erroneous, like it teeters her moral compass a little too far from center.

She reaches for Adrian's instead, hoping that his clandestine suggestion to use their trackers would
thus warrant consent to sifting through his memories. Popping open the cork of the vial, Hermione
stares in awe as a blue and white beam of light mixed with an enchanting and gentle vapor slivers
out of the container and levitates in the air before her.

She lifts her wand and mutters the spell: "Revela locum."

The blue and white light expands, creating a hollow space in the middle of the mist. Her eyes
adjust to the magic as pictures begin to fade in and out, displaying everywhere that Adrian has
recently been. The images move backwards in time, starting at the meeting room where they just
spoke, then shifting to the atrium of the Ministry, the living room of his apartment, his bedroom,
the dark streets of Hogsmeade, a pub, and then a... a club? It almost resembles a speakeasy... some
sort of nightclub illuminated by colorful neon lights, glitter, and the pulsing bodies of dancers and
partygoers.

Displayed on the wall behind an elevated platform, she makes out a name: Amortentia.

Hermione inhales deeply, retracing the steps of Adrian and deducing the location of the club based
on his recent movements.

She'll apparate to Hogsmeade in the evening and look for it among the shops.

"Finite."

Oddly, the charm does not respond to that command.

Unsure of exactly how to terminate the spell, Hermione tries her luck by simply lifting the vial up
to the light. As if it harbors a mind of its own, it quickly seeps its way back into the vial.

Good to know.

Shutting it with the cork, Hermione quickly places it back in the rack next to the other vials. She
gathers her bearings and departs from Aberfield's office, checking the hallway for any sign of him.

Confirming his absence, Hermione slides out of the room and into the hallway. She brushes her
hair off her face, takes a deep breath, and begins her descension to the atrium of the Ministry, her
mind throbbing with the anticipation of tonight.

Hermione doesn't know what she is doing.

Holy fuck. What is she doing here?

She considers turning around, but as she stands outside of Amortentia, staring up at the sign in the
middle of the brisk, October weather, she resolves to be brave. To summon that Gryffindor courage
and fearlessly step inside the club.

Her feet coincide with her mind's deepest desires, and she treads forward through the entrance of
the tavern.

Inside, she's confused. Because it's just a regular pub. It has wooden floors, rows of alcoholic
bottles such as rum, gin, whiskey, and other forms of hard liquor lining the shelf in front of a large,
horizontal mirror hung on the wall, and booths full of friends dressed in their costumes in
celebration of the revered and beloved holiday.

But beneath her feet, she feels the floor pulse with life. She discovers the secret that this rather
ordinary pub harbors. And she's determined to make her way down there.
Towards the back of the pub, she notices a man sitting on a stool in front of a staircase leading
downstairs. She marches towards it, squeezing past the bodies of chattering friends and swaying
inebriates and eventually stopping before the man. He looks up at her with a questionable look, as
if he can tell that she is completely out of place, out of her comfort zone, exploring something she
ought not to be.

"Good evening," she says, nodding her head slightly in the hopes that he'll reward her graciousness
with admittance.

The guard stares her up and down. Doesn't even hide the way he cocks his eyebrow at her,
reaffirming her fears that he'd see right through her naivety and immaturity in this specific setting.

"I'd like to—"

"I.D., please," he interrupts her, his voice low and coarse.

"Oh, yes, of course," she responds, reaching into the pocket of her black jeans and removing her
wallet. She flashes her Wizard Identification card at the man. He glares at it, cinching his eyes and
reading her information.

"Never seen you here before, Ms. Granger," he says, leaning back in his stool and crossing his buff
arms over his chest, which consequently reveals an array of dark, thick tattoos lining his biceps and
flowing down his arms.

Her heart leaps at the sight.

"Yes, well, I live in London. I don't really come up here much anymore. I actually never knew this
place existed, which is odd because I only recently graduated from Hogwarts, so you'd think that
—"

The man stares at her blankly as she rambles on.

She catches herself and clears her throat. "But tonight I'm meeting some friends."

Friends. She called them her friends.

The man gestures his hand towards the staircase, saying, "Have a safe night, ma'am."

"Thank you," she responds with a soft smile, shoving her wallet back into her pocket and stepping
forward. The heels of her black boots clank against the wooden steps as she descends into
unknown terrain. The stairs coil around themselves like a screw, and she grasps the rail to her left
as she treads carefully down the winding staircase. When she reaches the bottom, she is greeted by
another guard and a large, steel door. The man opens the door without question, and suddenly the
sound of low music and the sight of bright lights colonizes her senses in overwhelming capacities.

She enters the club. And with every bone and muscle in her body, she forces herself to walk in with
confidence.

Her senses heighten immediately at the sights, sounds, and smells of the atmosphere. The familiar
neon sign that hovered above the platform and music stand catches her eyes first, illuminating a
bright red light over the horizon of the space. Around the room there are several other neon signs
placed on the walls directly above several velvet loveseats and couches. She observes dozens of
people engage in rather crude activities on those couches. There are no limits to hedonism within
this club, no rules about who can frolic with who. The souls of the clubgoers mesh and
amalgamate with one another in a series of fluid motions ranging from dancing to sexual pleasures.
Hermione breathes in the atmosphere, sniffing the odor of lust and letting it seep into her brain, her
body, and her fingers.

Her goal is to locate Adrian. He's the one who suggested she join them in the first place. Seeing
anyone else first might be awkward—she didn't know what Adrian told them about her potential
arrival, if anything.

As she steps down into the crowd of dancing bodies, Hermione notices Adrian's face just a few
dozen feet away. He's not hard to pick out in a crowd, for his height and distinct facial features give
him away instantly.

Adrian's arms are in the air, and he sways romantically in the hot atmosphere with closed eyes,
taking in every sensation through the pores of his skin. Hermione pushes through the crowd of
people to get to him. As she lands at his side, she spontaneously taps his shoulder. He turns slowly,
his eyes adjusting to her figure standing before him.

When he realizes it's her, Adrian smiles and speaks, slurring his words under the effects of his
daze. "Ohhhhh Granger! Ohhh my stars and heavens, you've madeeee it!" He wraps his arms
around her waist and pulls her in for a tight hug, lifting her slightly off the floor in an amiable hug.
"Happy Halloweeeeen, you lovely little minx!"

"Same to too!" she shouts over the music. Adrian sets her down and steps back, allowing Hermione
the opportunity to inspect his outfit.

Adrian wears black slacks and a white dress shirt, but he's unbuttoned the top four buttons, which
doesn't leave much to the imagination. The temporary emerald lights of the club highlight his
broad and supple chest. He wears an unfastened black bowtie around his neck, which hangs down
upon the lapels of his dress shirt. He looks well put together but also liberated under the influence
of whatever drugs he is undoubtedly working under.

"What's your costume, then?" Hermione asks.

Adrian draws his fist to his mouth and clears his throat into the top of his hand, as if to make a
performance out of his costume reveal. He subsequently folds the ensemble of his middle, ring, and
pinky fingers over themselves and points both his index fingers to the sky. His eyes dart to the left
and right, then return to Hermione's eyes as he delivers a famous catchphrase in a distinct Sean
Connery voice:

"I'm Bond. James Bond."

Hermione can't help the laughter; it topples out of her mouth in a fit of amusement. "Of course you
are."

"And what about youuuu, missy?" Adrian drawls, gesturing to her outfit. "Where's your costume?"

Hermione peers down at her outfit: black jeans, a cream-colored, skin-tight, sweater, and her little
black boots that reach just the top of her ankles.

"Let me guess who you areeee," he starts, stepping back and inspecting her as his fingers rub the
skin below his chin in contemplation.

"I didn't realize that you were all coming in costumes," she admits, still shouting over the music
blasting from all sides around them.

Hermione watches as Adrian blinks his eyes rapidly, trying to steady his likely hazy vision. "No
costuuuume? I'll take care of that!" He snaps his fingers, and instantly a set of ginger cat ears
materializes in his hand. He steps forward and places the headband carefully atop Hermione's
wildly curly hair. "There," he says, stepping back and admiring his masterpiece, "Now you're
dressed as that ancient kneazle of yours!"

Hermione and Adrian both chuckle, but his laughter is distinctly drawn out and over-exaggerated.
She wonders for a moment what sort of high he is experiencing—whether it's his usual drug of
choice, that being the cocaine, or perhaps something stronger, more prone to enable hallucinations
and slurred speech. She doesn't know enough about muggle drugs to deduce her observations,
though.

"That's a wonderful gesture, Adrian. I'm sure Crookshanks would be happy to know that he's
famous enough to be my Halloween costume!"

"I'm sure him and I would get along very well," Adrian responds with a bright smile. "Now, can I
get you a drink? There's a bar on that wall behind you with plenty of options. Or, I do have
something a little more fun, if you're interested."

Her stomach flips at the insinuation. "What, um, what sort of drugs are you—"

"Ohhhh fuck! Do my eyes deceive me? Or is that Granger in the flesh looking as raaaavishing as
ever?"

Hermione turns abruptly and sees Theo stumbling towards her, Pansy's hand clasped in his. They
harbor the same sort of euphoric and dazed expression as Adrian, one characterized by their dilated
pupils, slurred words, and sweaty foreheads. Hermione studies their outfits, construing their
identities for the evening as principal characters from the movie Pulp Fiction. With her short, jet
black hair, Pansy exudes the perfect Mia Wallace; she complements her natural, physical
similarities with the character with a white Oxford, unbuttoned to expose a black, lace bra beneath
it, black pants, a cigarette lodged between her lips, and what appears to be fake blood dripping
from her nose. Theo wears a similar outfit but sports a bolo tie as well to exemplify Vincent's
character; his shirt hangs open as well, further than Adrian's, so that the bolo tie rests upon his bare
chest.

They stumble forward and place their hands upon Hermione's shoulders, smiling and welcoming
her to the club.

"Holy shit, Granger! What the hell are you doing here!" Pansy slurs, removing the lit cigarette
from her mouth and smiling as big and radiant as the sun itself.

"Oh, Granger, honestly," Theo interrupts, "you look absolutely stunning tonight. Your hair is quite
possibly your best feature! Don't you think so, Pansy?"

Pansy giggles sweetly. "Oh, I loveee her hair!" She reaches for Hermione's locks and toys with
them in her free fingers. "It's gorgeous! I wish mine could be so voluminous!"

"Outstanding word choice, Parkinson!" Adrian interjects. "You should join mine and Hermione's
gaaaame, where we try to outwit one another with who can use the biggest word in a sentence!"

Merlin, Hermione thinks, they're high out of their minds.

More familiar faces start to swarm the group. Blaise and Daphne stumble over, their hands
clutched tightly and their faces inches apart as they giggle and roll their heads around in pure bliss.
Daphne wears a cropped, black tank top, a black leather mini-skirt, black boots, and a red cape
with the hood pulled over her braided, blonde hair. Blaise sports grey, wool sweater and black
slacks, topped off with a painted nose and a headband with furry ears atop his head. Undoubtedly
portraying another famous duo.

"Granger! Oh my word!" Daphne exclaims in a shriek, jumping forward and throwing her body
into Hermione's arms. "What a surprise! Oh, this is the best day ever! Blaise! Blaaaaise! Do you
see who it is? Oh, I just adore her so much!"

Blaise steps forward, and Hermione perceives his beautiful smile, one she's only ever seen when he
looks at Daphne. "So glad to see you outside that bloody seminar room, Granger!" he shouts,
wrapping his arms around Daphne's waist and lugging her off of Hermione, much to her pouting
and fussing about being "pulled away from her new best friend!"

"Yes, well, Adrian mentioned that you'd be here tonight, and I thought I'd stop by to see you all,"
Hermione responds, careful to construe the truth slightly so as not to mention her use of the
tracking devices to find them. She treads lightly, unsure of their reaction, although it seems as
though they're all rather giddy and blissful anyway.

"Oh, where is our favorite bloody sourpuss?" Theo shouts, scanning the crowd for the last
remaining member of their group. "I just know he'd be thrilled to see you, Granger."

Hermione's jaw drops in dismay, but she quickly tightens it back up and purses her lips.

"Oh, there he is!" Daphne exclaims, pointing her finger to a tall, moving figure several feet away,
slowly making its way towards the group.

When Hermione sees him, her breath catches in her throat.

He inches closer to them, and his costume reflects boldly off of the multi-colored strobe lights,
most notably under the crimson shade. Draco wears black slacks and a white dress shirt, stained
with red splotches of fake blood. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and, just like everyone
else, the buttons of his shirt are practically fully undone, exposing those mesmerizing tattoos
painted across his body. There are drops and splatters of fake blood scattered around his skin too,
covering his head, arms, neck, and chest.

Hermione isn't entirely sure what his costume is, but gods he looks rugged, dangerous, and
completely alluring underneath the neon lights.

"Always has to make a big entrance, that one," Adrian leans over into Hermione's ear and mutters.

Draco pushes through the others and looms over Hermione, at least a head taller than her. The
group slowly disperses as the atmosphere around Draco and Hermione slows down, creating a
bubble of slowed time and sluggish movements around them.

"Granger," he slurs, towering over her and looking down into her eyes, staring into her soul,
tempting her with his dazzling look to do something she might regret. "You've stumbled into rather
unwarranted territory, haven't you?"

Hermione stutters over her words. Nothing come out; her lips simply quiver in the drawn-out
silence she is creating.

Draco chuckles, completely fixated on this sight of Hermione that he loves—almost worships—so
much. "What brings you here?"

Hermione finds her voice. "Well, Adrian mentioned something about you all going out tonight—"
"And how'd you know where to find us?" he taunts, inching closer.

There's no bloody chance she's telling him about using the trackers.

She resolves to lie. "Oh... I just—"

He suddenly leans in right next to her ear and whispers with a fake tone of surprise, "Did you... did
you track us?"

As Draco pulls away to witness her expression—her being caught in utter culpability—Hermione
nods.

"Yes, thought so. You naughty girl, using those tracking devices against us."

Hermione shakes her head. "I shouldn't have done that, I'm sor—"

"It's just like I said... you can't stay away, can you?"

Hermione is lost in his eyes—in the way his pupils are enlarged in a deep, black hue. Even through
the strobe lights and the dark chamber of the club, she plainly observes just how dilated his eyes
are.

He licks his lips enticingly, drawing her interest in further.

"The temptation is just too strong, isn't it? You just had to come here and find out what we look
like when we do this."

The drugs dance around his eyes as Hermione stares deep into them. Deep.

"What...um..." Hermione attempts to say, but the music assiduously blares through her eardrums.
She raises her voice and leans towards Draco. "What exactly have you... taken?"

Draco laughs, sticking his tongue out of his mouth and biting down on it. He begins to sway his
head with the flow of the music, ignoring her question and beginning to dance instead.

"Why don't you come find out?"

Hermione's breath hitches in her throat. No, not even there. Her breath barely makes it to her throat
—it's lodged in her diaphragm, constricting her stomach in a fit of wonder and temptation.

Draco steps back further and further into the crowd towards the middle of the dance floor, but he
simultaneously beckons Hermione to join him with his index and middle finger, flaunting a
seductive gesture as if to demand that she follows him.

Of all the times she's followed Draco, this moment feels more enticing than any other one.

She obeys him. Stalks him through the crowd as he naturally parts the sea of sweaty bodies around
them. Their eyes are locked the entire time, as if he's hypnotized Hermione. And each time a strobe
of light hits his face, Hermione becomes even more enthralled with the possibilities of tonight. The
way which Draco's face is illuminated under emerald and cherry beams of light strengthens the
spell he has on her.

It blinds her, and she teeters on the precipice of her morals.

Draco halts in the epicenter of the dance floor and stands perfectly still around the storm of dancers
surrounding him. About six feet away from him, Hermione freezes and gazes at him. Watches as
the corner of his lips turns up in a seductive smile and his fingers rise again to summon her towards
him with three slow flicks in the air.

Her feet take over and carry her towards him without her mind even processing what she's doing.
She's five feet away, then four, then three, two, one—

Draco hisses between his teeth and grabs Hermione by her shoulders, tugging her towards him to
close that last foot of space between them and spinning her around abruptly so that her back is
pressed against his chest. She lets out a small whimper, purely out of shock, but as she feels Draco's
chin rest upon her left shoulder, his breath float across her neck, and his chest crowd against her
back, she finds herself sinking into his grip, fully enamored by his electric touches against her
sensitized body.

His fingers drag down the side of her body, tracing every inch of her figure. His hands spare no
inch of her as they pulse up and down her sides, until they finally clasp around her hips. Hermione
lets out a quick and unsteady breath, one saturated with a jolt of pleasure.

"My, my, my," he hums, his lips briefly streaking over the top of Hermione's ear, "looks like we
both have a problem keeping our hands off each other."

In tune with the music, Draco starts swaying his hips left and right, coaxing Hermione with his
hands to follow his movements. At first, Draco orchestrates the movements, tugging Hermione
with him as a way to lure her in. But within several seconds, Hermione capitalizes on the balanced
rhythm of the music, and her body once again takes control without consulting her mind. She
moves against him, her senses tripling as their bodies mesh in one fluid dance.

"You are a curious little thing, aren't you?" he continues whispering in her ear as they dance. "I
could tell... in the bathroom... when you watched me do what I did."

She exhales as he speaks upon the pulse of her neck.

"I want you to say what I did."

"What?" she breathes out.

He grips his fingers around her hips a little tighter, digging his nails into her denim, and he sucks in
a sharp breath through his clenched teeth. Pressing up against her tighter, Hermione can feel every
curve and dip of his body mold into hers. "Say it. I want to hear you say what I did."

"You... you snorted cocaine—"

"Yes. I did. Like I do every fucking day. Like it's my fucking medicine." Hermione's mouth hangs
open in shock. "And you watched. You watched like a good girl."

Hermione crooks her neck to the side ever so slightly so that she can watch him out of the corner of
her eye. She looks up at him with her bold, almond eyes, and their gaze connects just as a blue light
darts past his face, reflecting the glimmer of his eyes that first allured her years ago.

Draco snarls with a wicked smile. "And that turned you on, didn't it?" he whispers, his tongue
flicking around his mouth and scraping the bottom of his top layer of teeth. "Peaked your interest?"

Hermione doesn't answer. Doesn't want to admit how enticing it looked that day. Doesn't want to
admit how inviting Draco Malfoy looks this very second.

Her body responds instead as her right hand slides over his and forces it deeper against her side.
"Answer me," he growls, and Hermione feels his fingers tense and contort beneath hers.

She nods frantically, completely wrapped around his finger in this moment of seduction. Willing to
spill any secret and any desire she harbors about him. Receptive and open. Free.

"Here's what I think, Granger," he continues, blowing cool air across the tip of her earlobe. "You
relish in the fact that you know almost everything about everything in the world. That you can
conjure any spell, any charm, any hex you want in seconds with the flick of your wand."

Hermione closes her eyes, drowning out everything else so that she can simply take in his raspy
voice, cement it into her mind and replay it over and over again like a record.

"You know everything—except for this. This feeling."

Hermione's breath catches in her throat at Draco's inept remark.

"And the best part of it all? You desperately want to know what the drugs feel like in your little
body. How they'll cling onto your veins, seep into your bloodstream, and dance upon your muscles
the same way we are right now. I know you want to feel that."

Merlin, help her... She does.

Why is this so enticing?

"Would you like me to show you what this feels like?"

The feelings within her divulge and converge in a battle. On the one hand, she considers their
desperate need for comprehensive rehab, and how indulging in the drugs with them would only
enable their addiction.

On the other hand, the temptation to try—to indulge in something she's never experienced before—
is so fucking strong that she could implode with her want for it.

"I don't know..." she exhales, but her body says something else. It continues to move against
Draco's effortlessly, like it was molded to fit against his. At the feeling of Draco's hands sliding
across her stomach and wrapping around her torso, Hermione's head loosens at the neck and falls
back into his right shoulder like a puzzle piece fitting into place.

"I think you do know," he whispers, his hot breath filling the cavity of her ear.

She can't help herself; she whimpers again at the sensitive feeling, the way his hot breath seduces
her to just try it.

That whimper does it for him—knocks him over the edge. Draco spins her around at the waist,
throwing her arms over his shoulders and staring down at her with a look of immense hunger, like
he could tear her apart right then and there. He places his forehead against her and forces her flush
against him. She sees the drugs dance in his eyes. And her left hand begins to explore his body,
trailing down his neck and upon his cold, bare chest. Her fingers run over a splotch of fake blood
splattered across his pecs, and she rests her fingertips against his heart, feeling it beat at an
alarmingly fast rate.

This... this is wrong, she thinks. He's... he's high. He's not totally lucid.

"I can make you feel so fucking great. On top of the world," he continues, biting his lower lip.
Hermione swears the sight makes her knees buckle. "Is that something you want?"
She doesn't respond.

"Aren't you fascinated by this?"

"Well—"

"Don't you want to just drown everything else out and feel this euphoric? Feel this euphoric with
me?"

Everything around them seems to slow down, pulse in half the normal speed as he stares at her.
She's enticed, intrigued, desperate to feel something further than anything she's ever felt before.

His face is inches from hers when she notices him removing something from his pocket. He holds
up a dime bag in the limited space between their faces, with two little green pills in it. He dips his
fingers inside, pulls out a pill, shoves the baggie back inside his pocket, and holds the solitary pill
up to her face.

She stares at it. At the possibilities it harbors.

Hermione reaches for the pill, but Draco abruptly withdraws his hand, holding it behind his head to
tease her.

He tuts, his wet tongue contacting the roof of his mouth in several flicks. "Not so fast," he slurs
with a menacing shake of the head. "If you want it, you'll have to come and get it this way."

To her surprise, Draco sticks his tongue out and places the pill right on the tip of it.

Hermione can't breathe. The atmosphere of the club is suffocating her, and Draco's temptation
completely revokes any traces of oxygen left.

She needs to share his oxygen. Needs to press her lips against his in order to not suffocate.

He curls the tip of his tongue slightly and stares at Hermione. And his tongue hangs there, out in
the open space between them, waiting for her to give in. Connect hers against. Steal the pill right
from that wet spot.

"I shouldn't," she whispers, unsure if he can even hear her, unsure if she is addressing him or
herself when she says it.

Draco chuckles, leaning in closer. Hermione can feel his hot breath everywhere.

She wants to take it. Wants to be able to breathe again.

Hermione opens her mouth, fully prepared. The pill is slowly dissolving atop his wet tongue; it's
now or never.

Centimeters now. They're centimeters apart. Hermione opens her mouth, and the inside becomes
wet with desire and hunger.

They're practically exchanging air as their mouths hang open just centimeters from one another.
She can feel his hot breath against hers as he chuckles. Were someone to stumble into her back and
push her forward on accident, Hermione would be thrown into his arms and mouth, and then that
would be it. She would have sealed the deal. Created a mess beyond anything she could imagine.

She doesn't need a mess. Doesn't need to make things more complicated for everyone. Doesn't need
to sully the program more than it already has been.
Oh gods, what's she doing?

She pulls away.

"I can't..." she says, stumbling backwards slightly.

Visibly frustrated, Draco flicks his tongue back and knocks the pill back into his throat smoothly.
He grits his teeth as his throat gulps the pill.

"You're a little fucking tease, aren't you?" he says to her, and Hermione swears she can feel the
vibrations from the rasp of his vocal cords crash against her face.

She stares at him slack-jawed as she inspects her surroundings, finally released from her daze.

Fuck, what is she doing here? This is... this is completely inappropriate.

She shouldn't have come.

"I'm sorry," she says, turning around and darting away.

Her breath is unsteady and her brain pounds against her skull as she processes what just happened.
What she almost did.

She stumbles to the exit, refraining herself from looking back, not even daring to imagine how
Draco is probably glaring at her with rampant fury right now. Pushing past the crowd of bodies
around her, Hermione jumps up the platform and bursts through the door, leaving the hedonistic
utopia and everything within it behind, subjecting it to a distant memory only she and Draco would
share.

Draco watches her run through the crowd to escape him and he clenches his jaw tighter than ever.
His teeth feel like jelly, like they'll sink into one another without any resistance. His tongue tingles
with the dissipation of the ecstasy. He runs his sopping tongue over his teeth and watches as
Granger frantically pushes her way through the crowd and towards the exit.

His breath becomes unsteady with anger as the void of her lips becomes more obvious to him.

She's flustered, yes. And he loves that. Savors the sight of it.

But she also rejected him. Left him gawking in the air like a fucking prick.

He lets his eyesight give way to the ecstasy within him. It becomes hazy under the rush of
dopamine and serotonin pulsing through his body, making him grow warm and roused with the
desire for someone—anyone—to pleasure him.

If not Granger, then someone else. There was always someone else. He could look left and right
and there would always be plenty of options in this club.

His lips grow dry as he eyes the women around him. None of them look as enticing as that fucking
swot, that bitch, that god damn Aphrodite—

Little arms find their way around Draco's shoulders. He looks over to his left and sees Pansy
gazing at him, the same look of haze and elation in her eyes. Daphne approaches his front and juts
her fingers around his stomach and chest, poking him with a sweet laugh.

"Dance, Draco," Daphne whispers. "Enjoy the night while it's still young."
 "Relaaax," Pansy drawls. "You look far too tense, Malfoy."

Draco groans but ultimately gives in, releasing the tension in his clenched jaw and lips and sticking
his tongue out into the air. Pansy and Daphne cheer and scream and jump, and they all release
themselves to the purpose of the club, the whole reason they began coming to this place.

To indulge in their lust and desires and escape their perpetual pain.

Draco can't tell whether Granger alleviates or multiplies that pain. Whether it's best that she left
when she did or if it would've been better for her to stay.

He aches for her. Wishes he wouldn't, but he does. He can't help it.

As he dances until dawn the next day, he only thinks about the way her body molded against his.

Chapter End Notes

hope you all enjoyed the ~sexual tension~ because I sure did hehehe
 Chapter 11

When Hermione apparates back to her apartment later that evening, she immediately collapses
face-first onto her indigo sofa, reaches for her wand from the back pocket of her jeans, casts a
quick Muffliato around her, and screams into one of her grey pillows.

The squeal emanates from high within her chest, centered near her sternum. She doesn't even know
how she is able to center it there; it comes with such intensity that she can feel her own heart strain
underneath the pressure. And the reverberation of the scream seeps into the velvet throw pillow,
practically setting the fuzzy filling inside of it on fire. As her hands begin to shake with an
indistinguishable emotion, she grips the sides of the pillow and sinks her fingernails into the fabric.

She's furious at herself. Screams into the poor, tortured cushion yet again in one perfect mesh of all
the confusing and frustrating parts of her life, as if screaming could somehow dispel all her stress
and anger and implant it straight into the velvet cushion. She could thereby become just as
inanimate and lifeless as the cushion itself.

Wouldn't that be something? If only there was a way that she could exert that built up anger and
channel it into something else. Something productive, something with her hands, something that
could relieve every inch of her being that succumbed to the hexed lines of this evening. The lines
she almost crossed, the things she almost did.

Hermione's mind begins to reel, as usual. She can't help it; she ruminates through every part of her
life that vexes her.

There's Aberfield, who reeled her in like bait this summer to work for him, only to unexpectedly
downsize her to his assistant. Who now holds her captive at her own post, refusing to let her go
except at the expense of her future career at the Ministry.

There's Kingsley, the man who trusted her during the war and hired her at the Ministry to put forth
the same ideals which they fought for. Who now effectively silences her, bending to Aberfield's
influence, as if he's not the Minister of Magic himself—one of the most powerful men in the
magical world. As if he doesn't have the power to put an end to this circus of a rehabilitation
program.

There's Draco. The way he looks at her, toys with her, makes her insides churn with both
frustration and pleasure.

But who's to say whether those feelings aren't simply two edges of the same sword?

The way he looked at her tonight—like he was undressing her with his mind and preparing to
devour her whole—haunts her. She reimagines in the scene in her mind against the black backdrop
of her closed eyes, recalling the lights, the sounds, the smells. As if he's still behind her, Hermione
can feel his breath lingering all over her neck, the chemical molecules of his cologne and scent
surfacing upon and suffocating her body and mind.

She's angry at him for successfully seducing her.

She's angry at herself for that, too. For willingly playing along with his advances when it was clear
that he was high, not lucid, unable to distinguish between right and wrong.

That was... unacceptable. She knew better. She absolutely knew and deserved better.
Hermione has felt strong hatred for a few people in her life. But in this moment, all the odium she's
ever fostered simply centers around Draco and spreads throughout her body, one part at a time.

Her fingertips feel it first. She remembers where they were moments ago and how they harbored a
mind of their own as they strapped and coalesced around his, forcing them tighter around her hips.
Then, the hatred travels up her arms, where he imprinted tentative yet deliberate traces of his
fingertips, colored her tantalized limbs with the reciprocation of his seduction. It climbs to her
shoulders, where his chin rested as he cupped her waist and drew her further into his beating body.
Then it's in her throat, her flushed cheeks, her ears where he whispered sensuous and irresistible
things to her—

Don't you want to feel this euphoric with me?

She yells again into the pillow under the safeguard of the muffliato. Screams in order to drown out
his voice in her head. His voice, which successfully penetrated the fortifications of her mind.

How was he able to do it?

Maybe that wasn't the right question. Draco had slipped his way into her mind without forcing it.
The fact of the matter is that Hermione let him in, granted him access, allowed him to infiltrate her
shrouded emotions. He might've taken advantage of them, but Hermione let him in; she wanted
him to explore her.

Draco is everywhere on her. She can feel the spots of her body that he touched shiver with desire
and yearning for his hands again. Simultaneously, in those spots where he is now just a ghost,
animosity fills the void. Bitterness for the way he was able to tempt her, sway her, seduce her into
softening herself onto his chest.

Hermione groans as she lifts her head off of the pillow and twists it to the right, her eyes falling
upon her fireplace and bookshelves. Her body remains prone on the couch like the trunk of a
collapsed tree, unwilling to move an inch. Nothing could lift her from this spot. She lies there,
sulking in the way the evening played out, in how she morphed into someone who could be so
easily tempted. It would take a procession of visitors and immense temptations to lure her off the
couch. Her body is already imprinted on it perfectly, anyway.

When her ears perceive a soft purr from the ginger cat that paces along the bottom of the couch,
she deems it an exception to her perpetual somberness.

With minimal energy, Hermione unlodges her arm from underneath her torso and slumps it over
the edge of the couch, wiggling her fingers to invite Crookshanks to nestle his furry head into her
soft hand. He immediately accepts her gift, nuzzling and purring around her fingers. Hermione
pushes back against her exhaustion and begins to scratch at his fur.

"Alright... come here, you," she mutters, lugging herself out of her position and sitting upright.
Extending her arms forward as an invitation, she prepares herself as Crookshanks bends his stumpy
legs and leaps forward into her lap, spinning thrice and treading upon her thighs before finally
settling down on her legs in a neutral position, his paws curled up under him and his furry tail
wrapping around the front of his stomach so that the tip rests just above his face. Occasionally, his
tail lifts up and drops back down, a sign of his complete content upon her legs.

She somehow falls asleep minutes later, the sights and sounds of Amortentia penetrating her
dreams all through the night.
Hermione resolves to face him today.

Not just face him. That word spares the tantamount levels of anger she holds towards him.

Confront him is a more accurate description of her intentions. Dig deep past the walls in his mind
and unravel his unclear motives.

She's gone over what she will say to him in her head every day since that night. Thought about it all
weekend, wrote down talking points, organized her discombobulated thoughts into separate
emotional compartments—one for anger, one for confusion, and one for...

An emotion she doesn't even know how to describe. How does she pinpoint the feeling he stirs
within her? He successfully wrapped his fingers around her, mentally and physically. What does
that denote? Lust? Temptation? Intrigue?

Hermione just wants to get it over with. Wants to put a stop to everything before it goes too far.

Because there's a sensation sweltering inside her stomach, subsiding deep within the apex of her
darkest desires, crawling its way around her insides and unlocking every craving she's ever dreamt
of, ever tried to subdue and control for the sake of her social image.

Draco edged his way into that forbidden and clandestine part of herself on Halloween. Crept his
way back into her life and even further into her subconscious, the part of her which she's always
tried to subvert because of the responsibilities and attributes she believed she had to abide by.
Draco unlocked the part of her she had yet to even explore herself. The part of her she desperately
wants to explore.

But today's not that day. And Draco cannot be that person.

He can't possibly be that person... can he?

Hermione wonders what it's like to be Draco. To harbor such resentful outlooks towards everyone
around him. To not give a shit about what other people think. To successfully orchestrate chaos
with the blink of an eye.

She resolves to channel that energy. Play his game.

And win.

With only three minutes before the day's meeting commences, Hermione stands outside of the
seminar room, leaning against the wall to the right of the door and waiting for the Slytherins to
arrive, patiently anticipating her moment to pull Draco aside and confront him. She'd be lying if she
said she wasn't a little bit nervous; her twitchy fingers and slightly unsteady breaths are testaments
to that.

Disrupting her thoughts is the sound of an office door shutting a few doors to the left. She lifts her
head and watches as Aberfield's hand falls from the handle on his door. With his other hand, he
holds a clipboard with a stack of papers on it, staring down and mouthing whatever words rest
upon the paper as he paces towards the room.

The moment Aberfield looks up and locks eyes with her, Hermione decides to practice being
Draco. And who better to use as her guinea pig than the man whom Draco would probably do
anything to annoy and vex with his tempestuous game.

Aberfield halts on the other side of the door and leans himself against the wall in a similar fashion
as Hermione, creating a symmetrical picture in the middle of the hallway. She stares forward,
unwilling to make eye contact with him at the moment. She's too busy considering what it is she
could say to throw him over the edge.

"How are you today, Hermione?"

She huffs out of her nose, her nostrils flaring with indignation and a newfound bode of
stubbornness.

Aberfield clears her throat and tries to address her again. "Might we be able to put aside our
differences for a moment and have a conversation?"

Better start practicing.

"Yes, why don't we?" she responds, shifting to lean her left shoulder against the wall and crossing
her arms over her chest. "What would you like to talk about?"

Aberfield detects the sarcasm in her tone immediately but resigns to just continue conversing in a
plain tone. "I know you don't agree with my methods—"

"Wherever did you get that idea?" she responds satirically.

"Oh, Hermione, don't you start acting like them now—"

"Like whom? Like my peers?" she questions, raising her eyebrows. "Bold of you to assume I
wouldn't start picking up on the traits of people you claim that I am so emotionally attached to."

"I'm going to calmly ask you to not speak to your supervisor in this way—"

"Or what? You'll treat me like how you treat them? You'll fire me?"

Gods, now she knows why Draco does this. It feels absolutely delightful.

"No, I wouldn't that. Because I am confident that there are a million reasons that you wish to
remain in this position. Would you like for me to fire you and then consequently blacklist you from
any further jobs at the Ministry? I am aware, from our many discussions over the past few months,
that you want to be the Minister of Magic in the future—do you think that will become a reality if
you are fired from this program on the grounds that you were being insubordinate and
disrespectful?"

Hermione's jaw clenches.

Right, so, she hasn't perfected this just yet.

"And what of your dear friends?" Aberfield continues, sounding rather smug. "Don't you want to be
a part of their rehabilitation? Don't you want to put this on your resume, or one day see on the Daily
Prophet the following headline: 'Gryffindor's Golden Girl Saves the Wizarding World Once Again
with Successful F.D.E.R.E.' Doesn't that feat make this all worth enduring for the next several
months?"

That's... that's exactly what she is trying to avoid. She wants to avoid redirecting this program to be
about her. It should be about them.

She reverts back to her logic for a moment—just a moment.

"At the expense of their comfortableness and privacy? Their wishes? Quincy, that's not the point of
this program. It's not about elevating our feats—it's about helping them. And anyway, they have to
want to get better for this to work. And as much as I want to support them, I don't want to force
them to do anything. There's a much better way to go about doing this."

"And there's a practical way," Aberfield retorts, knocking his fist against the stack of papers and
creating two soft thuds. "The Ministry is fully equipped to handle such a situation—"

"Quincy, for fuck's sake—"

"Hermione! Please mind your language—"

"I began working with you because I perceived your aims to be pure and well-intentioned. I
dedicated my time to you and the program because I believed that we would actually do some
decent work. Because I was there, at Hogwarts, and I watched them every day walk around the
corridors looking miserable. I wanted to help them then, but things were complicated. Now that
those boundaries have been shed, and we're no longer distinguished by our houses—by arbitrary
traits and personas—all I want is to do what I should've done then. And that doesn't involve
dehumanizing and degrading them."

She inhales deeply, wanting to steady herself for her next comment.

"Malfoy was right—you don't want to help them. You want to control them."

"They need discipline," Aberfield responds. "I believe in second chances, Hermione. I believe in
giving people an opportunity to restore their character. And I want that for them, just as I wanted it
for their parents. Do you think it was easy making all those appeals to have their parents released
from Azkaban? Begging the Ministry to grant them all second chances at life? It almost didn't
work. But because of my comprehensive plan and compromised terms, I was able to do it. I want
the same thing for your friends. But if they are going to be selfish, greedy, and blatantly resentful
—"

"You forced them here against their will!" she responds. "That's... that's not the proper way to
rehabilitate them. They have to want it."

"Their parents wanted it!" Aberfield retorts.

Hermione's mind nearly combusts into flames as she yells back, "They are not their parents!"

Aberfield falls mute. Whether it's on account of her enraged screech or the candid content of her
observation, Hermione is uncertain. But she takes advantage of the silence and continues to press
for her argument.

"A Healer. They need a Healer, Quincy. Someone to help them. If I'm going to be stuck working
for you, then I intend to do things the right way. The ethical way. Employ methods that don't
involve using magic against them, or holding them against their will, or forcing them to do
anything they don't explicitly state that they want to do. How can you argue against that?"

Hermione revels in her success—the one she's been pursuing for so long against Aberfield. His
silence speaks volumes. And she wastes no time asking one more pressing question. She doesn't
know why she feels compelled to ask him this, but there's a query nagging around her brain that she
is fraught to understand. It pops out of her mouth and punctures the void between them:

"What is it that they've done to make you harbor so much anger towards them?"

Something twitches underneath his face. It's like Hermione has just uncovered a tick, an itch,
something vexing Aberfield to his core. She notices his lip quiver for just a brief second, but that
palpitation is long enough to act as a window to his deepest and obscurest thoughts and intentions.

Her intuition to ask that question was right. She struck a nerve.

But before she can inquire further, a familiar rumble of voices echoes behind her. Hermione turns
sharply and witnesses the group of Slytherins trollop gleefully down the corridor towards the
room.

Hermione has come to recognize now when they're under the influence of an upper and when
they're not. She can especially discern it with one look at Daphne; today, Daphne's face is vibrant,
bright pink, and full of life, a stark contrast to the state she appears in when she undergoes a
withdrawal. Theo and Pansy touch one another tentatively, pressing their fingers against one
another's waists and engaging in fits of giggles.

Even Draco displays a smile... a wicked one, but a smile, nonetheless.

At the sight of Hermione before him, Theo smiles and throws his arms to the side in excitement.
"Granger! You disappeared on us on Halloween, where'd you—"

Hermione rashly raises her eyebrows and attempts to shake her head as inconspicuously as possible,
desperate for Theo to not finish his sentence. With Aberfield standing a few feet away, she fears
that he will hear about her conduct and reprimand her in some way.

Theo notices as quickly as Hermione tries to hush him; he forms an 'o' shape with his mouth,
contemplating a valid way to reshape his sentence.

"We missed you at the... uh... at the uh... the—"

"At the Fountain of Magical Brethren!" Daphne chimes in, nodding her head voraciously. "Where
we were supposed to meet after the seminar!" She nudges Blaise with her right elbow. "Right,
Blaise?"

"Yeah, of course," Blaise adds. "When we were going to talk about..." Blaise falters, combing
through his mind for an excuse. "Well... Adrian remembers, doesn't he?"

The tension within Hermione subsides, and she blushes with appreciation as she realizes that
they're all trying to cover for her. The sight of it is actually rather enjoyable that she discharges her
anger to relish in the fresh approach the Slytherins take to her.

"I sure do," Adrian answers with a mischievous grin. "We were planning on conferring about the
appropriate methods for adopting a pet. As you may or may not know, Aberfield, Granger has this
adorable little kneazle, and Malfoy—" Adrian wraps his right arm around Draco's shoulder and
tugs him him— "has always wanted to get one of his own—"

"Oh, you're shitting me," Draco grumbles, shaking and lowering his head in total abjection.

That's all it takes for Hermione to feel angry yet again. Her initial fury resurfaces; she stares him
down.

"Actually, Malfoy, I'd like to speak to you more about that. Might we go somewhere to talk?" she
asks boldly, straightening her shoulders.

The group becomes visibly intrigued by Hermione's request. The expressions they share lead
Hermione to wonder if Draco told them what happened that night, or—even worse—if they saw
what she did—witnessed her allowing Draco to bind himself around her and fall victim to his
wondrous caresses. She had been far too mortified to say goodbye to them. She'd apparated back to
her flat without even saying goodbye.

Who knows what Draco has told them?

Aberfield steps forward, hesitant to allow them to wander off. "We have a meeting to get to,
Hermione—"

"This shouldn't take long," Hermione interjects, still glaring at Draco. "And it's quite time
sensitive, actually. I've spoken to Mr. Malarkey from the Magical Menagerie, and he has informed
me that he has the perfect kneazle for Malfoy, but that arrangements need to be made as soon as
possible. Nice and cuddly, with lots of white, puffy fur, and a gigantic personality—"

Pansy chortles, and they all exchange looks of amusement.

Draco rolls his eyes and huffs indignantly. "Right, Granger. Let's discuss that, shall we?"

"I really must insist that you—"

"You know, Aberfield," Adrian automatically interjects, leaping forward and wrapping his arm
around Aberfield's slim shoulders, "I'm actually quite looking forward to a lesson today. I'm feeling
revitalized and excited for the possibilities of discussion! What do you have in mind for us today,
big guy?"

Adrian begins to guide Aberfield inside the room, and the others follow along, interjecting their
own forms of affirmations to distract him.

As they all enter the classroom, Adrian turns back and gives Hermione a wink.

It's an enigma as to why they're being so helpful. It's obvious that they're dreading the program—
they always do. What had changed that made them want to help her?

Gods... what, if anything, did Draco say to them about that night?

Unwilling to risk Aberfield interrupting their discussion, Hermione reaches for the metal handle of
the door and pulls it shut quietly, hoping that Adrian and the others will keep him occupied as she
speaks to Draco.

Speak. That's an understatement.

"Kneazles," Draco snarls. "What a ridiculously unbelievable excuse for pulling me aside to talk—"

"You know exactly why I'd like to speak to you," Hermione interrupts, her lips slanted in a
purposeful frown.

At the sight of her flustered and furrowed face, Draco intentionally counters her expression and
slides his cherry lips into a delectable smirk.

Too bad he's taken his morning dose of cocaine already, he thinks to himself, because he could
very easily overdose on this sight before him.

"Whatever could you be going on about?" Draco teases, cocking an eyebrow as a form of torment.

Hermione wastes absolutely no time at all. "I want to talk to you about Halloween. Last time I saw
you, you were all over me. I want to know why you were trying to... seduce me."
Draco's smirk grows even wider. "Ah, so you admit to being seduced, then?"

Hermione's cheeks turn pink as she relinquishes herself to the persuasion of his enchanting gaze.
His magnetizing, alluring silver eyes that have always seemed to captivate her in a way that no
other eyes can. She hates admitting to herself how absorbed and lost she can get in them.

"I'm not admitting to anything—"

"But you were seduced."

"No, I wasn't!"

"That's not what your little hands were saying when they wrapped around mine," he whispers, his
tongue stroking his bottom lip slowly.

Suddenly, the image of the green pill atop his ruby tongue rushes back into her mind, and she feels
weak at the knees.

Merlin...

She must regain control. But it's as if all the conversation points she'd compiled this weekend are
being liquefied under his fiery gaze, a gaze tinged with the same intrigue and wonder as that night.
He's melting her, reducing her to a puddle of total disposition and alacrity.

"Well, your hands and your mouth were saying more," she responds, gusting up a moment of
confidence strong enough to deliver that line.

"Well, your taut waist certainly seemed to want to be up against me," he slurs.

Hermione can't handle it anymore. She needs to change the subject immediately.

"What was that pill?" she asks brazenly. "The one you wanted me to take?"

Draco snickers. "It was ecstasy. Why? You're curious to hear how that one works as well?"

"No," Hermione replies, shaking her head in an attempt to reconcentrate.

"Really? You seemed pretty interested that night," Draco teases with a lip bite. "Come on, let me
tell you—"

"I don't want to hear about it—"

"Here's something you'll find interesting, since you're so inquisitive and riveted by research and
reading. Studies show that ecstasy increases the sex drive of some people who take it. It marks its
host susceptible to such vigorous levels of arousal that they can barely control themselves." Draco
takes a step closer to Hermione, and she suddenly becomes very aware of the fact that they're still
standing in the middle of the hallway. "Isn't that fascinating?"

"No—"

"And to think, you almost licked that pill right off my tongue. Who knows what would've
happened, then."

She wants to slap him for that comment.

But she also wants to listen. Wants to know so badly how it works.
"It also increases your confidence," he continues, as if he can read her mind. "You have no idea
how good that little pill makes you feel. You're hot, alive—you can literally detect the streaming
crusade of your boiling blood as it pulses through your body. That night, I could feel the heat of the
strobe lights tinge and seethe against my skin." He stops for a moment and smirks, his next thought
driven by such unsavory intentions that Hermione gasps. "And when you pressed your body
against me, I felt everything. I could sense your heartbeat through your back. I could feel your
pulse in your neck. I could spot fucking goosebumps on your ears. And I could read your fucking
mind: you liked it."

Hermione feels a sudden swell of confidence rise within her, one stemming from her task to play
Draco in his own game. She inquires, "Doesn't that say just as much about you than it does me?"

Draco lowers his eyebrows. "It says more about the will of the pill than any actual feelings."

"No," Hermione responds, shaking her head at the pleasant thought of winning yet another victory
today. "You said only some people succumb to a sex drive under the pill."

Draco's face tenses at her careful construing of his words.

The confidence bubbles and bursts out of her effortlessly.

"You know what I think? I think that you're a part of the other percentage of people who don't feel
a sex drive through the pill. I don't think the ecstasy completely drove the manner which you acted
that night. I think all those things were done on your own volition. And you're using the pill as an
excuse. Because there's something inside of you that feels attracted to me—"

"You want to play a game of semantics, you bitchy swot?" he says through gritted teeth, and
Hermione can sense the precipice of her victory, can see it in the horizon behind his furious eyes.

"It's clear in the way you describe it," she continues. "Your detailed descriptions of that night make
it so obvious. If you really were hallucinating—if the pill really did misconstrue your intentions—
then how is it that you can remember everything in such vivid detail?"

In a brief moment, Draco closes his eyes and twitches his head to the side, like his body is
compulsively reacting to something she said. It could be the drugs—she still doesn't know exactly
how cocaine works, even though she's been meaning to do her research.

Knowing Draco and his talents, though, Hermione considers something unrelated. It's the way his
neck spasms with panic and trepidation of the thought of Hermione getting too close to
transgressing beyond his walls, uncovering his secrets.

She noticed Harry twitch in a similar way fifth year when Voldemort constantly impeded his mind
and body.

Draco's trying to occlude.

But his Occlumency must not be as resilient as before because he's evidently struggling. His teeth
grit together in frustration and his eyes cinch together tightly. She assumes that his lack of success
is due to his intense drug use—it must somehow be corrupting and weakening his magic.

How the mighty have fallen.

"You're occluding, aren't you?"

He glares at her, feels wildly exposed as Hermione picks him apart.

"You're thinking about that night right now," Hermione says through a successful grin. "You're
trying to repress it. And you honestly expect me to believe that you didn't enjoy it?"

"Don't push my nerves—"

"What, you can poke at everyone else's buttons but can't bear to have yours pushed? You know
what—I think the moment you get a taste of your own medicine, you become wildly flustered. And
you attempt to occlude. You struggle to force everything you're feeling back down into a hidden
compartment. We've all got dark secrets stashed deep in our souls. And I think you're worried that
I'm getting closer and closer to exposing yours."

"Aren't you a little swot—"

"It's not that difficult to recognize. You're straining your neck, your head is spasming, your eyes are
shut closed—all clear signs of someone attempting to occlude, although they are beginner traits.
It's clearly become more difficult for you to successfully block your memories. And I have a rather
decent indication of why that might be."

Suddenly, without warning, Draco storms off.

"Malfoy!" Hermione calls out, rushing after him. They twist through several hallways, stumbling
deeper into the intricate design of the Ministry's fifth floor, one filled with alcoves and spare rooms
that extend in all different directions. Hermione remains on his heels, though, unwilling to allow
him to escape that easily. "You don't get to just walk away from me!"

They pass by an alcove on their right, and Hermione daringly grips her fingers around the back of
Draco's black shirt. She tugs—no, hauls him into the aperture in the wall. Driven by her soaring
levels of frustration, she twists him by his shoulders and shoves him up against the indigo tiles.
Draco's head knocks back against the wall, and he lets out a groan.

Draco is shocked. He's stunned. He's... turned on. Titillated by the way she handles him
effortlessly, at the way he is capable of liberating the anger within her.

But he too has a war to win. "Get your fucking hands off of me," he growls at her, lunging his face
forward to frighten her. But Hermione is quick to counteract his approach; she removes one of her
hands from his shoulders and heatedly locks his neck against the wall with the side of her forearm.
With their significant height different, the position is undoubtedly straining, but Hermione has
never felt more in control.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asks with immense exasperation, shoving her forearm against
him again. "What have I ever done to you? Why have you always felt the need to embarrass me
and toy with my emotions? Why?" The questions roll out of her one by one with each flummoxed
breath she exhales. She can barely process the rate at which they leak out of her mouth.

"It's fun," he says through his seething teeth, delivered in a staccato of punctured syllables, beating
against the air like waves on jagged rocks.

"I can't understand what I've ever done to make you hate me. Like, really hate me."

"You want to know why I hate you? You really want me to go down that rabbit hole?" he taunts,
licking his lips and sniffing through his nose. "You asked for it. You're a bitch. You're a swot.
You've always been bossy, a killjoy, and a fucking pain in my arse. I can't stand you. I can't stand
your shrill voice, your uncontrollable hair, and your beady little eyes. You repulse me, Granger.
You and your hero complex, festered by the Sorting Hat's faultless decision of placing you in
fucking Gryffindor. You, along with all the rest of those fuckers, harbor the notion that you're the
only ones who are remotely capable of saving the world. You are obsessed with making yourself
the hero. And it makes me fucking nauseous."

She listens, processes every word he says, and considers her next choice of words very carefully,
wanting more than anything to resume her charade masked as the bearer of chaos that is Draco
Malfoy, flip the roles and provoke him the same way he does to her and everyone else in his life.

"It's funny... during that monologue of yours, you called me several things. But you refrained from
using that one word."

Draco stares back at her, his mouth agape. She savors the sight.

"You still haven't called me a mudblood."

"So what?"

"I just think it's noteworthy that you haven't said it yet."

"Shut up, Granger—"

"I think you don't want people knowing that it's not how you feel anymore—that maybe you never
really believed it when you called me that name all those years. Because you certainly seemed to
be keen on getting quite intimate with a mudblood on Halloween—"

"You think I don't use that word anymore?" he interposes, the corner of his lip climbing up the side
of his cheek. "You think I don't love hearing it roll of my tongue so effortlessly?"

"No, I don't. You would've said it by now if you really wanted to."

Draco gulps, beads of sweat starting to procure on his temples.

"In fact," Hermione continues, recognizing without question that she holds the upper hand, "I think
you were excited at the prospect of having a mudblood's tongue stroke against yours that night.
Not just any mudblood, though. Me. 'Granger.' Hermione."

His eyes widen with fear, like her first name is somehow a trigger for him.

"I could say it if I wanted to," he insists. "I could say it."

"It sounds as though you're trying to convince yourself of that more than you are trying to convince
me."

"Gods, Granger, I wish I could fucking strangle you right now—"

"You still haven't said it—"

"If only you knew how badly I want to fucking rip that smug expression right off your face—"

"Still haven't said it—"

"How desperately I want to tear the rat's nest that you call hair from your scalp—"

"Still haven't said it—"

"Fucking split you limb from limb—"

"And yet, you still don't say it, Malfoy—"

"MUDBLOOD!"

The sound of his scream echoes through the concave, rattling off the walls and projecting right
back into their ears.

Hermione freezes. She's done it—she's gotten a reaction out of him.

"Is that what you fucking want from me? Huh? You get off on hearing me call you a fucking
mudblood?" Draco hisses.

Hermione chuckles, and Draco cocks an eyebrow in perplexity. "There he is," she whispers.
"There's the Malfoy I've always known—"

"Stop," he mutters, his breath fluttering and quaking.

"You know something, Malfoy?" She wraps her hand around his right wrist and yanks the sleeve
up to his elbow. "You may look very different on the outside, what with configuring your body into
a canvas for your tattoos. You may have covered your arms and chest and body with them in order
to abandon who you were in the past. But on the inside, you are still so despicable."

Draco stares at her, dumbfounded.

Hermione's words tumble out of her mouth without even thinking or considering the possible
damage.

"I don't think anybody forced you to do anything. I think you made all those choices yourself.
People might have created a hell for you on the outside, but you fostered the one within. And so
long as you keep abusing drugs, keep ignoring your problem, and refuse any help that is being
offered to you, you'll never escape that hell."

"Granger—"

Hermione doesn't allow another word from him. She turns and storms away, utterly finished
entertaining this anymore. She achieved what she wanted to do. She won. That was all she needed.
Walking away feels incredible, and as she finds her way back to the seminar room, she awaits the
moment they will sit apart from one another, her victory plainly painted across her face for him to
wallow at with self pity.

Watching her hair bounce up and down her back as she recedes through the hallway and back from
where they came, Draco can't prevent the memories from floating back into his mind. He studies
her back and can feel the ghost of her on him again.

It's all too similar to how it occurred that night; Draco pushed too hard, and she walked away.

Draco undergoes intense déjà vu.

He...

He just...

His hands ball into tight fists, so taut that his knuckles skip past the red tint and instead become
even more pale than his skin.

He knows that... that she's right—

Draco spins and slams his fist against the wall with a grunt.

"Fuck," he mutters.

He despises every little thing about him in this instant. The rage within him burns so intensely
through his flesh that were he to place his hand upon any surface, he swears it would swelter and
blister underneath his fiery touch.

But there's still that other feeling, too. The one he got when she was all over him. It burns in the
same way as his rage—maybe it's even synonymous with his rage. Maybe his rage is what drives
this other feeling. Maybe they're identical—different forms of the same base emotion.

Passion. Burning passion.

Fucking hell, he thinks to himself, that bitch. That motherfucking bitch.

The fact of the matter is that Draco wants to wrap his hands around her neck in more ways than
one. He wouldn't mind killing her. Would love to watch as the life evaporates from her beady eyes,
slowly but surely. But he also wouldn't mind having her body up against his again and trailing his
hand up her sensitive skin, over her shoulder, and straight across her neck. He would drive her neck
backwards, gently, arching her head onto his shoulders so that her curls could suffocate him, and
then he'd stamp her throat with just enough pressure that he'd leave little marks on each side—little
finger impressions that showcase how he feels about her. And she would whimper—that sound that
makes him go fucking crazy—and that would be it.

He tries to occlude again. Tries to push that detailed picture back down into the abyss within him.

But he can't block something that strong. Something that desirous. Something that real to him. And
he certainly can't do it with the drugs in his system, which effectively counteract and intensify
every little sensation within him. The desire sprouts faster than the cocaine, festers and multiplies
in him like a Gemino Curse. And he can't control it. Can't resist it much longer.

Today, Granger beat him at his own game. He can confess to that.

But tomorrow, and the day after that, and the weeks after that, and the months after that, until the
end of this stupid fucking program, he'll restore his power over her. He'll have her wound around
his little finger, tempting her with the thing he knows she wants to explore more than himself.

Because it's obvious she wants him.

But it's even more obvious that she wants the drugs.
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

tw // graphic scene of alcohol abuse

Draco spends all week staring at Hermione throughout the mind-numbing and repetitive
F.D.E.R.E. meetings, bursting at his seams to reap another pugnacious riposte out of her.

But no matter how acutely he gazes at her, or how many times he rocks back and forth in his
squeaky chair, she refuses to look at him.

Won't give him the time of day.

Won't stare him down with those ember eyes.

He hates to admit it, but he misses their belligerent repartee. Craves it. Desires more confrontation;
it's one of the only things that keep him sane and engaged in his life beyond the drugs.

But the memory of his cruelness towards her is like an incessant ringing in his ear, a bothersome
bee buzzing right in the slip of his cavity, constantly reminding him that he is a fucking arsehole. A
worthless, good for nothing, piece of shit. With each vibration, he hears more about his failures,
his letdowns, his disappointments.

He hears that Hermione Granger wants nothing to do with him.

Never has, never will.

By the end of the week, he is queasy at the thought of it. At the possibility that she'll ignore him
for the remainder of the program. He can't get a reaction out of her. He'd been so confident that
he'd still be able to.

But she's a stubborn bitch.

He needs to get his anger out. Needs to cope in the only way he knows how.

Needs to drown out her voice: soft, like the most forgiving velvet again rough skin, but
simultaneously shrill, like nails on a chalkboard.

Nevertheless, music to his ears.

For most nights that week, the Slytherins had remained in their apartment, content on smoking their
weed and engaging in their lighthearted sexual excursions.

Draco's only source of happiness: Adrian and his fucking jokes.

"You know," Adrian starts as they pass a blunt between one another whilst the others retire to their
bedrooms, "If you're ever really lonely and are craving some company—"

"Adrian, for fuck's sake—"

"We do share a room. Not a bed, mind you, but a room. It would be easy."

Draco inhales the cannabis behind his cherry-tinted smile. "Sod off."

There'd always be a laugh shared between them at the end. And Draco would feel better—for a
moment. But the darkness would always return, promptly engulfing him yet again, like he'd
suddenly find himself suffocating on hot steam in a small room, the particles coated with verbal
reminders of his failures.

On Friday, he resolves to occupy himself with something stronger. After another painful
F.D.E.R.E. session and another failed attempt at occluding everything he feels about Granger,
Draco persuades his friends to make a trip to Amortentia. And they elatedly concur, agreeing that
they'd been well-behaved this week and deserved to have some fun.

Draco launches his night with several consecutive shots of firewhiskey, straight from the spout of
his bottle. He swigs down the burning alcohol at an alarming rate. The alcohol spreads and latches
onto every blood cell in his stream, clinging onto its newfound sense of power over him. The warm
liquor fuses with his cold blood, eventually causing his vision to blur and his mind to stumble over
itself. He concocts a perfect remedy to mask Granger's incessant voice echoing in this mind.

Get her out, he thinks as he draws more and more alcohol into his system. Get that bitch's voice out
of your head.

With the shades of their windows pulled up, the incandescent beam of the full-moon casts a subtle
light into their dimmed apartment. It calls out Draco's name, tempting him to step outside into the
brisk air and explore the possibilities of the night. To seek out other eclectic beams—more colorful
and radiant than the moon's very own lumen.

Draco stares at the moon, the source of eternal light in an otherwise shadowy sky. He wonders
what the source of light within him is. Whether he harbors one at all.

They're a half-hour into drinks. Once he's downed more than half the bottle of firewhiskey, Draco
begins to sense the effects of the alcohol. They're nothing like the drugs, though. And he wants
more.

He licks his lips as he gazes around the room, searching for a pill, some cocaine—anything to
supplement and enhance the insatiable yet decelerating speed of alcohol.

Blaise is quick to notice his treasure hunt for drugs. And he's just as quick to stop him.

"Malfoy, no," Blaise says, grabbing Draco's wrist mid-search and shaking his head. "Take it easy.
You've almost drunk a whole bottle of firewhiskey. You know how mixing can be dangerous."

"What are you, my mother?" Draco slurs, lowering his head and glaring at his friend. He starts to
laugh, a low and hollow sound emanating from the pit of his stomach. Yanking his arm away from
Blaise's grip, Draco continues to stumble around the apartment, combing through their space to
locate those fucking pills.

His eyes suddenly catch them. They are green and pale blue, resting within clear dime bags on the
television stand against the wall. Just begging to be ingested.

"I'm not in the mood to take care of you tonight like usual," Blaise continues with a lowered voice.
He reaches for Draco's arm again and drags him back.

"But you will," Draco sings, turning around with a roguish smirk. "You've got healer hands,
remember?" Draco lifts his hands and clamps his tightly wound fingers together in the air like a
crab, his index finger and thumb of his right hand still clasping the mouth of the bottle. "Blaise and
his little superpowers. Blaise the Healer. Healer Zabini, ladies and gentlemen! Give him a hand!"

Draco hears a whistle come from somewhere in the apartment. He sticks his right arm up in the air
with a pumped fist, reveling in his received reply.

"Draco," Daphne interjects, stepping in for Blaise and placing her hand on his arm, "You don't
need those tonight. Stick to one thing, yeah? We've talked about this already."

Draco ignores her, too focused on the soft flow of crimson blood dripping from her nose, the high
viscosity of the liquid causing the pace of the dripping to be rather gradual. He points at her face
and says, "Your nose, Daph."

"Fuck, already?" Daphne lifts a dainty finger to the entrance of her right nostril and looks down at
the scarlet blood on the tip of her index, staining her painted nails.

"I'll take care of it," Blaise whispers, placing his hand on her back and subsequently trudging
across the apartment to retrieve his wand from the bedside table of his room. He returns and points
it at Daphne, muttering a quick charm, and suddenly the blood rolls back up her nose and dries in
the aperture.

"Wish you'd do that for me every time I get a nosebleed, Blaisey-kinz," Adrian calls out with a
smirk as he lounges upon their navy couch, his legs spread wide and a blunt jammed between his
lips.

To his right sits Pansy, her back leaning lightly against Adrian's shoulder and her legs wrapped
over Theo's lap. Theo strokes her leg delicately, his fingers tracing up and around her fishnet
stockings, feeling each little opening of the netting, until he reaches the hem of her black, silky
dress.

"You never ask," Blaise retorts with a small grin. "You like the way it looks—don't lie."

"I do look pretty tough, don't I?" Adrian chortles, blowing out the smoke between his plump lips.
"Remember that one time when Granger thought that I broke my fucking nose? That one knows
quite a bit, but she needs to brush up on her drug—"

"Careful, Adrian," Pansy interjects, tipping the back of her head onto Adrian's shoulder and looking
up at him with her doe eyes, "Or little Draco here is going to get jealous."

"Oh, right," Adrian says with a cheeky grin and raised eyebrows. "My apologies, mate."

Draco grunts and takes another hearty swig from his bottle.

For fuck's sake, he can't escape her for two bloody minutes.

"You haven't mentioned her all week—"

"Why would I?" Draco snaps.

Theo snorts. "Well, this is certainly a shift from how you were slurring on and on about her on
Halloween—"

"Shut up," Draco orders, taking another drink and glaring at his friend as he does it, his pupils
burning with anger.
Tired of his attitude and worried about his safety, Daphne wraps her hand around Draco's now
more than half-empty bottle and attempts to yank it away. But he aggressively snatches it back, as
if one moment away from it would effectively kill him. Daphne stumbles forward as he heaves the
bottle away, and she trips over her heels and stumbles onto her knees in front of Draco.

Blaise steps forward, his nostrils flaring, but Daphne rises back onto her feet by herself.

"Draco, come on," she whispers. "No more. You don't need any more."

"Let go of my bottle," he responds through gritted teeth.

"No," she says, shaking her head and standing her ground. "That's enough for tonight."

"Since when did you become in charge of my habits?"

"Come on. I know you're feeling disappointed in yourself—"

"Stop," he mutters, shaking his head, trying to occlude, desperately vying for a moment where he
doesn't need to be reminded of his mistakes.

Daphne furrows her eyebrows, doing everything she can to persuade him to stop drinking. "You've
had plenty to drink, far more than anyone should."

"You'd know about that, wouldn't you?"

His words cut through the space between them like a poisoned dagger, vaporizing the air Daphne
breathes and causing her to deeply inhale the reminders of her own wretched memories. Those
memories, where she hurls everything from her stomach from the night before, or causes a scene,
or makes them all late for meetings. Those where she forces Blaise to hold up her hair and she
leans over a toilet, to embrace her in the nights when she shakes with the anticipation of her
morning withdrawal, or to grip her arm to help her walk around when she feels too weak.

Everything she does, she forces other people to help her. Her biggest fear is being too co-
dependent, coercing others to take care of her when she should be able to do it all by herself.

"I know you don't mean that," she whispers to Draco, shaking her head slowly, staring back at him
with a gaze so pure and unsullied by bad intentions that Draco's throat constricts.

He immediately regrets what he said.

He knows... He knows it's not her fault...

"I didn't," he whispers ever so quietly. "I'm..."

He struggles to finish his sentence.

Clouded by friendship that has stood the test of time and circumstances, Daphne curls the side of
her lips in a small smile—a peace offering fit for the both of them. Not flashy, flamboyant, or
public, but a small bidding to placate the tension.

And as she lifts her thumb to dab off the alcohol staining the corner of Draco's lips, Draco
suddenly feels his vision come back for a moment. He sees a friend, an anchor—someone to bring
him back when he's at his lowest point, when the things in his life concave in on him and thrust
him into the depths of his desolation.

He stills feels the alcohol. It's well within his system. But he feels Daphne, too. Her frosty eyes
speak to him to counteract the liquor.

Then, when Daphne breaks eye contact with Draco to address the group, the alcohol takes control
again. Shoves that comfortable feeling down to the crater in his conscience and regains authority
yet again.

"Let's get going, yeah?" Daphne calls out to the others. "I'm itching to fuck around with Titus
tonight!"

"Yes, please!" Pansy shouts, throwing herself off the couch and stretching her arms up to the
ceiling. Taking advantage of her position, Theo rises and wraps his arms around Pansy's open
sides, nestling his head into her shoulder and kissing her neck with fervor.

Draco's head begins to throb as it becomes a slave to the liquor within him. He transfers his
autonomy to the substances in his body; he relinquishes himself to whatever his subconscious aims
to achieve tonight. Whatever the alcohol drives him to do.

And so long as you keep using that word, keep abusing drugs, keep ignoring your problem, and
refuse any help that is being offered to you, you'll never escape that hell.

He sighs out of his nose, the air stained with his rage at the unremitting voice of her in his head.

Maybe, he considers, hell is exactly where he belongs, anyway.

Usually, the lights are electric. Tonight, they're suffocating him.

Draco.

He can't breathe. The alcohol desperately needs a new host, a new body to torture. He knows he
should force it to resettle in the toilet bowl, immediately, before it shadows over his senses and
triggers him to plummet into a position of immobility.

But the burning liquor remains firmly planted in his stomach, not done with him yet. Keen to
persecute and brutalize his body just a little bit more.

Draco.

He can't even enjoy the night. Can't think straight. The lights pass by his eyes like blaring shots in
the dark, and the sounds coalesce into a loud buzzing within his ears.

Thinking isn't an option. His brain is set aflame by the heightened sensations, drowning him in
color, vibrations, shouts.

The room spins. Like he's stuck on a fucking merry-go-round.

Draco.

His stomach is like a rock; in a quick moment, gravity tows him to the floor.

He finds himself on all fours, crawling around and struggling to breathe under the pressure building
in his torso.

His hands feel sticky. They're glued to the adhesive floor of the club, smothered in the residue of
spilled drinks and sweat.
He sees black. But his eyes are open.

He gasps for air but instead inhales the smell of the bodies jumping around him, either unaware or
uncaring of his condition.

Someone steps on his hand. He can barely scream on account of the pain because he isn't even able
to comprehend it properly. It just... happens.

Draco.

"Stop it," he mutters to the voice in his head, his body dropping and running parallel to the floor.
"Leave... me... alone..."

Suddenly, he feels a set of hands wrap underneath his armpits and drag him up to a slumped,
standing position. His body hangs limp under the person's grip, and his legs drag across the ground
as he feels his savior maneuver him through the pulsating crowd.

Ears ringing and pulse increasing to intense and dangerous levels, Draco emits a forlorn groan. It
slips through his teeth and punctures the air around him. And behind the incessant ringing in his
ear, he faintly perceives his name being spoken over and over again, the voices tarnished with
urgency and fear.

Suddenly, he's lying supine on a cloud. A magenta cloud. Soft and plush.

The feeling in his stomach grows more visceral as everything slows down. He becomes violently
conscious of the puke stirring in his stomach.

He sinks into the cushion and stares up at a black hole—no, it's just the ceiling of Amortentia.

Vague and hazy outlines of bodies hover over him. Voices speak, indistinctly.

He has no idea who is who.

He hears phrases, incomplete sentences behind the shrill ringing.

"Pump... Stomach... Alcohol..."

"Blaise... Need... How..."

"On his side..."

Warm hands steadily turn him over to lie on his left shoulder, and he finds himself facing the
crowd of alive dancers. As he watches them dance in euphoria, the scene becomes blocked by
several other figures, all muttering his name.

He just wants to see them again. Wants to be happy, damnit.

He disassociates from his conscience like an out-of-body experience, gasping for air as the
contents of his stomach churn in reckless circles, like a tornado wayfaring up his torso towards his
throat.

His mouth hangs agape, dry and desperate for something warm and wet to stabilize him.

"Like this?"

Draco takes a deep breath, preparing for the inevitable.

"Dispello temeta!"

His insides explode, pouring out of him like water spurting from a sink. He retches off the side of
the couch—into where, he doesn't know. He just does it. Follows the impulse of his body and the
magic. Doesn't question anything.

Draco.

"H—help," he calls out for a moment, and then he's retching yet again.

The lights start to become mute as his eyes flutter closed.

"We're here... Draco... Hear us?"

"Fuck... he's not... Draco?"

He calls for help again, impulsively and unknowingly adding her name to his plea:

"Granger... Hermi... Help..."

Draco.

"Stay with us," he hears, and then the words become staggered and undecipherable to him.

He suddenly becomes aware of his fingernails digging into his palms, drawing blood.

He retches again, dispelling the alcohol, the contents of his stomach—everything within him.

Except for her. No matter how much he heaves, he simply cannot expel her from his mind, body,
and soul.

Draco.

Lodged deep in his box of darkest secrets, he can still feel her body on his. Can smell her.

His vision gives way, and he succumbs to a dark sleep, the only sense existing in the moments
before his loss of consciousness being her pungent scent of strawberries and vanilla.

Draco's knee won't stop bouncing. Even as he digs his nails into his lower thigh as a way to mask
the agitation, his knee won't surrender. It hops up and down with gross anxiety, itching for
something.

It acts like a rubber band being tugged apart over and over, teased by the prospect of snapping but
never actually undergoing the process of being ripped apart.

Draco ingests his daily dose of Drought of Peace, just like everyone else. Closes his eyes and tosses
it down his throat as instructed.

He hates the way Aberfield watches him drink the potion. Hates the way his eyes glare at Draco
while he swallows the sketchy concoction, as if to both demonstrate and remind him of his
unrestrained control over all them.

As if that's what they need any more of—someone controlling them.

Draco wishes he could gargle the potion in his mouth and subsequently spit the simmering liquid
right back into Aberfield's fucking face.

When Granger approaches each one of them to collect their empty vials, as Aberfield grossly
requests her to do every day, she still doesn't look at Draco. She just impatiently rips the vial out of
his hand. For a brief moment, he feels her fingers swipe across his, and he swears the heat of her
anger burns his skin as they touch, as if she wishes to demonstrate to him just how much he
repulses her. How one touch can set her skin aflame with rage.

Rage. Synonymous with passion. To Draco, at least.

The group is rather quiet today, as if they've once and for all succumbed to the will of Aberfield's
program. They're practically his fucking prisoners, what with the forced ingestion of his Draught of
Peace and the implanting of the trackers. At this point, it seems only fitting that Aberfield strap
them down to chairs and administer the Draught of Peace himself. Tip their heads back by their
chins and drive the liquid down their throats without mercy.

The new face standing among them in the room doesn't look like a promising ally, either.

"I've discussed with Minister Shacklebolt different approaches for how we can improve this
program," Aberfield explains to the seated Slytherins, including Hermione, who's effectively taken
her place among her peers, unwilling to outwardly present herself as a part of this charade.

Aberfield continues, gazing at Hermione as he delivers his next line: "I've concluded that you all
should begin speaking with a Healer about your circumstances."

Hermione glares back at Aberfield, her mouth slipping open in astonishment.

That was her fucking suggestion, she thinks. Her advice. Her proposal.

"This is Cleo Bruiser, your Healer," Aberfield says, gesturing to the woman to his left. She's tall—
nearing Aberfield's height but still considerably shorter than Draco—and her straight, brown hair
rests just below her shoulders. Her face is both chiseled yet appealing, elongated and sharp at the
edges. Her olive skin glows against her navy power suit.

She looks at the group of Slytherins, her eyes coursing over each one intensely.

"Right," Theo mutters, "Anyone else see the irony of our Healer being named 'Bruiser,' or is it just
me?"

"Thank you for that inept observation, Theodore," Healer Bruiser responds, lowering her eyebrows
at him. Her voice is rather soft, coated with stable yet easy-going tones.

"Can't be the first time you've ever heard that one, can it?" Adrian adds, his tongue swirling over
his lips in pleasure.

"People don't pay much attention to my name. They care more about my services."

Hermione straightens her back, the urge to be hostile ascending up the length of her spine. It's the
unsettling way which Healer Bruiser delivers that sentence that sets Hermione on edge, causing her
eyebrows to furrow and bend with skepticism.

"And what exactly are your services? Your credentials?" Hermione asks.

"Ah, you must be Hermione," Healer Bruiser says, ignoring Hermione's questions and instead
stepping forward to cut through the boundary of the circle. She subsequently extends her hand to
Hermione to shake. Hermione considers not engaging with her greeting, but she ultimately gives in.
"I've heard so much about you."

"Can't say the same," Hermione mutters, releasing her hand and noticeably rubbing it on the side of
her pants.

Draco catches himself chuckling at Granger's comments, but the second she scowls at him, he
quickly presses his lips together in a stoic expression. She inhales slightly, just enough for Draco to
see her chest lift up and down slowly in a moment of tenseness—something she does often that he
can't get enough of.

He still breathes off of her mannerisms. Lives off of them like the pills. He can't help shoving
those images of her into capsules and downing each and every one of them with a swig of alcohol.

And she looked at him. Even if it was just for a moment, she finally looked at him.

"Healer Bruiser is well equipped to handle this situation, Hermione," Aberfield ensures, placing a
hand upon Healer Bruiser's shoulder as she recedes back to stand next to him. "We've been close
friends for a while—"

"Oh, that's great fucking news," Theo grumbles under his breath.

"And she's very skilled in healing. She is currently employed at St. Mungo's but has agreed to join
us three times a week for individual sessions with you all."

"Which will begin today," Healer Bruiser adds. "One by one, you'll join me in one of the spare
rooms down the hall. I'll evaluate your conditions, your thoughts, and your intentions for this
program. I'll be transcribing the sessions and taking notes as well for future reference."

"We can just tell you right now to save us all the time exactly how we feel about this program,"
Adrian snickers, and the group echoes his sentiment. Even Hermione allows a laugh to escape her
mouth—she doesn't try to hide it.

"Well, since you're just itching to do so, why don't you come first?" Healer Bruiser asks, gesturing
her hand to the front door.

Adrian sighs, slapping his palms against his thighs just before he rises. Dramatic as always, Adrian
points his finger forward to his friends, spinning in a circle until he lands on Hermione.
"Remember me, Granger!" he calls out theatrically.

"Oh, Mr. Pucey—"

"Tell everyone how handsome I was! Don't let them forget about my charming personality, either!"

The group can't contain their smirks and giggles as Adrian treads backwards and out the door,
touching his fingers to his puckered lips and gifting the group one last kiss in the air before
disappearing behind the closed door.

Patient no. 1. Adrian Pucey. 10:35.

H.B: How are you today, Mr. Pucey?

A.P: Splendid, darling, and yourself?

Patient no. 1 seems to harbor a lot of self-confidence. Maybe too much for his own good.
H.B: I'd ask that you call me either ma'am, Healer Bruiser, or Ms. Bruiser.

A.P: Not married, then?

H.B: Mr. Pucey, please.

A.P: Alright, alright, I apologize. It's just that—well, a charming woman such as yourself should
have a wizard to take care of her. Or witch. Or whoever it is you might prefer. Say, what about
Aberfield? You two look like you could be quite the power couple. You'd be like Hogwarts
Sweethearts! Now—you have to agree—that's rather adorable.

Patient no. 1 likes to redirect conversations when they become too difficult. Possibly uses humor to
cope with deeper issues.

H.B: Why don't we move this conversation back to you.

A.P: Alright. Fair enough. What would you like to talk about?

H.B: Let's start off with you telling me about your parents. What sort of influence did they have on
you, both while growing up and more recently?

A.P: Sheesh, we're not treading lightly. Why deviate from a classic question, though? Straight to it
then. Obviously, my saint of a father was a Death Eater, and my mother left him the second he took
the mark. Smart woman. Ran off somewhere in London. At the end of the war, my charming father
was sentenced to Azkaban—that is, of course, until Aberfield freed him. And now he's back at our
manor, basking in his undeserved freedom. And my mother is still gone. Haven't seen her since she
left.

H.B: And would you characterize your relationship with your father to be positive or negative?

A.P: Did you not just hear my sob story? He wasn't exactly father of the year. He actually
threatened to disown me if I refused the mark. Crazy fucking bastard, I tell you! Guess none of that
matters anymore. I haven't seen him in almost four years.

Patient no. 1 does not have a good relationship with father.

H.B: And what about your mother? Do you know where she lives now?

A.P: I think she's in... Barnet.

H.B: Have you tried to contact her?

A.P: Ah... no. Not exactly.

Patient no. 1 has not kept in touch with his mother.

A.P: I know why she left. Sometimes, I wish I could've been strong like her. Resisted everything
that my father had set up for me. Things would be very different, wouldn't you say? For example,
we would've never met! Merlin, imagine a world where you don't know who I am. Can't imagine
how terrible that'd be for you. I know I'm a joy to be around.

Patient no. 1 certainly uses humor as a coping mechanism for deeper rooted problems.

H.B: There's still time for things to be different, Mr. Pucey.

Patient no. 1 chuckles at the previous comment, possibly denoting his disbelief in previous
statement.

A.P: Is there?

Patient no. 2. Daphne Greengrass. 11:02.

H.B: Hello, Ms. Greengrass. How are you feeling today?

D.G: I'm okay.

Patient no. 2 is physically shaking.

H.B: You're shaking... Would that have anything to do with the drugs you've been taking?

D.G: The lack of, actually. I really need some, if possible.

H.B: I'm afraid I can't allow that, Ms. Greengrass. Your path to rehabilitation must start now.

D.G: Please, I just need a little bit. Just to brush against my gums. It'll be very quick.

H.B: I cannot allow that.

D.G: Then... I need more Draught of Peace.

H.B: Too much Draught of Peace will put you in a dangerous state of stasis. I'm afraid I can't help
you there, either.

Patient no. 2 appears unsatisfied.

H.B: How often do you consume drugs?

Patient no. 2 does not respond immediately.

H.B: Please don't lie. Remember, we will be able to verify everything on the tracker.

D.G: I usually have a little something every day.

H.B: And do you supplement the drugs with anything else?

D.G: Sometimes alcohol.

Patient no. 2 regularly abuses her body with a combination of drugs and alcohol.

H.B: How do you feel after?

D.G: Like shit.

H.B: And how are you all able to afford all this contraband?

D.G: Well, it's funny, actually. Theo's really quite smart. Always been rather clever and ingenious,
but no one gives him enough credit. He actually charms the drugs to multiply so that we rarely run
out. But there's a catch to the magic that we haven't been able to solve. Each time the drugs are
multiplied, they become a little less effective. Eventually, we have to go buy more. But that's
Adrian's job.
Patient no. 2 exhibits immense admiration for her friends, as illustrated by previous comment.

D.G: I figure it's not worth lying if you're just going to check the tracker.

Patient no. 2 is cognizant of the tracker's capabilities.

H.B: I appreciate that. Ms. Greengrass, do you ever envision yourself not depending on drugs?

D.G: Yes. When I dream at night.

H.B: And what do you dream about?

D.G: It's not really what, but who.

Patient no. 2 has a strong, emotional connection with someone.

H.B: There's someone you see yourself with? Someone who is there to help you with your drug
problem?

D.G: Yes. He's always there, in my dreams. Like my anchor.

H.B: Well, who do you dream about?

Patient no. 3. Blaise Zabini. 11:33.

H.B: Mr. Zabini. Welcome.

B.Z: Thank you.

H.B: How are you feeling today?

B.Z: Actually, I'd like to ask you a question.

H.B: Of course.

B.Z: I've, uh... I've been itching a lot lately. My chest, my throat, my arms, and my thighs,
specifically. And I have some shooting pains around the center of my body. Like, centered in my
chest and sprouting out like cobwebs. I'm wondering, based on your knowledge as a Healer, what
you think that might be from?

H.B: Well, are these new symptoms?

B.Z: Relatively.

H.B: Has the Draught of Peace brought you any sort of comfort?

B.Z: Not much. I feel the pain even now.

Patient no. 3 complains about itching and body aches.

Healer Bruiser takes a deep breath and makes a crucial edit on the observation she wrote on the
evaluation sheet.

She crosses it out.

Erases the words entirely, as if they never existed.

H.B: If I may be frank with you, I assume the itching and the body aches are a result of the drugs
which you all take.

B.Z: Well, perhaps, but I don't think those are very typical symptoms—

H.B: Mr. Zabini, what is it you wanted to do with your life?

B.Z: Wanted?

Patient no. 3 becomes visibly upset with the tense of the verb, insinuating that he still envisions
doing something in his future.

H.B: Excuse me—want. What is it you want to do with your life?

B.Z: I want to become a Healer.

H.B: That's wonderful. Why?

B.Z: There are several reasons, all rather scattered but important, nevertheless. I excelled in Potions
and Herbology at Hogwarts. They were just classes I enjoyed being in. And... when I first took the
mark, I wanted to channel the depression I felt into something more productive. It was Madame
Pomfrey who offered to train me in the Hogwarts infirmary, and she did it without question. She
showed me how to properly apply bandages to wounds, perform proper healing spells, and brew
healing potions. She didn't know my secret. She was so kind. And I... I want to be that for someone
else. Their caretaker. Their anchor when they feel like no one else cares.

H.B: Are you referring to Ms. Greengrass?

B.Z: Yes. I'd do anything for her.

Patient no. 3 would do anything for Daphne Greengrass.

Patient no. 2 and Patient no. 3 have a strong, intimate connection.

H.B: I'd encourage you to reflect on that desire. Ms. Greengrass' body is weak and tired, and the
drugs are only making it worse. From one Healer to someone who wishes to do the same, I would
recommend that you begin to take better care of her.

Patient no. 3 is visibly agitated.

B.Z: I can take care of her. And I would do anything for her. Don't presume to know anything
about our relationship with one another, or our relationship with the drugs we take. You don't know
the first thing about it.

H.B: I can see that I've struck a nerve. I apologize.

B.Z: She's mine. She's mine. And I do my best. I will always do my best to take care of her.

Patient no. 4. Draco Malfoy. 11:59.

D.M: Nervous for my session, ma'am?

H.B: On the contrary, Mr. Malfoy. I'm quite eager to speak with you.

D.M: That's a first.

H.B: How are you feeling?

D.M: Fuck's sake, you lot always have to start with that question during one of these things, don't
you?

H.B: Come again?

D.M: You Healers always ask the same boring questions.

Patient no. 4 might have met with a Healer in the past.

H.B: Are you saying that you've met with other Healers before?

Patient no. 4 refuses to respond.

H.B: Have you sought help in the past, Mr. Malfoy?

D.M: Is that any of your business?

H.B: You have, haven't you?

Patient no. 4 is shutting his eyes, twitching his head, and straining his neck.

H.B: Are you attempting to occlude right now?

D.M: Fuck's sake, you're just as much of a swot as she is.

H.B: She?

D.M: Tch. I don't want to elaborate.

Patient no. 4 is thinking about someone.

H.B: Mr. Malfoy—

D.M: Why don't you just ask me the question I know you're dying to ask? 'What's with all the
fucking tattoos?' Salazar knows that everyone I come across is so fucking interested in them. As if
I need to have a reason for each and every one.

H.B: Well, do you have a reason for them?

D.M: No. They're wholly unimportant. Sprinkled on my skin to represent just how
discombobulated my insides are. Why not bring that out for everyone to see? Be exactly who they
think I am?

H.B: Your tattoos certainly don't sound unimportant if they do in fact represent how you feel on
the inside. Why don't you tell me about just one of them?

Patient no. 4 hesitantly looks at the plethora of tattoos on his arms.

H.B: How about that one? The shark on top of your right wrist. A shark is a natural predator, is it
not?
D.M: I suppose so.

H.B: Is that how you see yourself, then? A natural predator?

D.M: Not entirely.

Patient no. 4 does not see himself as a predator.

H.B: Then, why a shark?

Patient no. 4 is hesitant to respond.

D.M: Because they're determined and headstrong. Will barrel down anything in their path to get
their way. And they're restless. Constantly craving more.

H.B: So, would you characterize yourself as restless?

D.M: For some things.

Patient no. 5. Theodore Nott. 12:31.

H.B: Take a seat, Mr. Nott. How are you feeling today?

T.N: I'm good, and yourself?

H.B: I'm well, thank you.

T.N: Ah, you're one of those people.

H.B: Which people?

T.N: The ones who answer with 'I'm well' rather than 'I'm good.' Tells you a lot about a person.

H.B: Like what?

T.N: Well, just that they're... smart. And want people to know it.

H.B: So, based on your logic, do you not think you are smart?

Patient no. 5 is hesitant to respond.

T.N: I'm not the smartest, no.

Patient no. 5 might struggle with self-esteem issues.

H.B: Well, I've heard some things about you that beg to differ.

T.N: Oh?

H.B: I hear you're quite skilled at charms.

T.N: Ah, who's the mystery admirer of mine? Finally! I deserve one, don't I?

H.B: Why don't you tell me some other things you believe that you are skilled at.
T.N: I'm pretty proficient with Legilimency, actually.

Patient no. 5 is a Legilimens.

H.B: Is that so?

T.N: Yes.

H.B: How did you learn?

T.N: My father.

H.B: Ah. Were these pleasant lessons?

T.N: Not particularly. But inserting yourself into someone's brain, mind, memories, and thoughts is
never really a comfortable endeavor to begin with, so, I figured the lessons would be torturous.

Patient no. 5 does not have a pleasant relationship with his father.

H.B: Do you find yourself more fascinated with Charms or Legilimency?

T.N: Both are equally fascinating to me.

H.B: I see. Your father taught you Legilimency. Who was your Charms teacher?

T.N: That'd be Professor Flitwick. Nice guy. He used to tell me all the time that I—

Patient no. 5 does not finish his sentence.

H.B: Used to tell you what?

T.N: That I... had a knack for it. That my skills were some of the sharpest he'd seen. That one day I
could write books, create spells, maybe even teach at Hogwarts if I wanted to.

H.B: Teach at Hogwarts? Is that something you'd like to do?

T.N: Well, it doesn't really matter anymore, does it? They'd probably never have me back.

Patient no. 5 had life goals and felt a connection to Hogwarts.

H.B: And why is that?

T.N: You're the Healer. Can't you tell I'm completely broken?

Patient no. 6. Pansy Parkinson. 12:59.

H.B: Welcome, Ms. Parkinson.

Patient no. 6 seems displeased with that title.

P.P: I'd prefer if you called me Pansy.

H.B: Is there a reason for that?

P.P: 'Ms. Parkinson' sounds too much like my mother.

H.B: Wouldn't that be Mrs. Parkinson?

Patient no. 6 appears irritated.

P.P: Do we really need to get into semantics? The phonetics are the same to me.

Patient no. 6 has deep, purple bags under her eyes.

H.B: I see. And why do you not want to be referred to as something close to your mother?

P.P: She's a bitch.

Patient no. 6 does not have a good relationship with her mother.

H.B: Would you like to talk about why?

P.P: Her and my father are cruel—to me, to one another. I'm glad to be away from that house.

Or father.

H.B: When was the last time you saw your parents?

P.P: Right before they were shipped off to Azkaban. Where they belong.

Patient no. 6 has a strong discontent for her parents.

H.B: And were they released under Mr. Aberfield's rehabilitation program two years ago?

P.P: Yes. They're living comfortably at Parkinson Manor. Probably in separate wings. Probably
never even seeing one another.

H.B: How does that make you feel?

P.P: Not my problem. It's theirs. If they don't want to fight for a relationship—fight for love and
family—then I won't bloody force them.

H.B: Do you feel that's why you so strongly wish to deviate from your mother and father? Because
you wish to fight for love?

Patient no. 6 seems thrown-off by a question about love.

H.B: Do you feel love for anyone, Pansy?

P.P: Yes. For multiple people.

H.B: Do you strive to show your love for people because you want to separate yourself from the
world your parents created? A world that doesn't involve love?

Patient no. 6 takes a deep breath.

P.P: I... I guess.

H.B: What does love mean to you, Pansy?

End of Day One Session.

 Chapter 13

Pansy has always been instructed to cast a façade over any weakness that might slip across her
expression. Drilled to disregard any signs of imperfection and fragility that might come to pass
beneath her chocolate eyes and pale disposition—repress those signs until they are simply figments
of her imagination. Until they never even existed in the first place.

Ignore, ignore, ignore.

So when the skin around her Dark Mark begins to burn in an agonizing array of sharp stings and
aches, she's careful not to show it. Careful not to draw attention to the sweltering pain subsiding
beneath and upon her supposedly stagnant Dark Mark.

Blisters start to configure upon her skin around week after her first meeting with Healer Bruiser.
She notices it while taking a shower—little splotches of red bumps scatter across her forearm,
surrounding her latent tattoo. And as the scorchingly hot water contacts her sensitive skin, her arm
surrenders to the deeply painful sensation, as if the heat acts as a catalyst to the mark's desire to stir
pain.

Retreating from the water raining from the nozzle, Pansy stumbles backwards in her shower, her
feet tripping against the saturated base of the porcelain bath. She knocks her bare back against the
tan-tiled wall and grits her teeth in pain, careful not to cry out. Cognizant of the fact that their walls
are thin, and that any nose can travel through the plaster with ease.

Not that she cares about other noises. But this one in particular—one coated with the divulgence of
her pain—is one that she desperately wishes to keep a secret.

Gripping her left wrist with her right hand, she lifts her arm up to her face to inspect the marvel
before her.

Her skin is enflamed, red and seething from a mix between the water and some sort of dark magic.
And her mark is... moving. It just danced upon her skin.

Pansy swears that the snake's head bobs up and down, as if it's waking up from a deep slumber.

It's just the hot water, she reasons with herself, ignoring the pain, the possibility of weakness, and
the obvious imperfection that taints her skin. And it's just your fucking imagination.

Two weeks after that shower, as she and Theo fuck upon their bedsheets in a chorus of laughter and
pleasurable moans, Pansy suddenly feels the pain expand upon and beneath her arm yet again.

She brushes it off, thinking that it's just her body aching for how much she loves Theo. A sensation
illustrating just how much his touches stimulate every inch of her being, and how she has no
choice but to instinctively respond to her soulmate in visceral and bewitched ways. Ways that she
can't possibly control.

Theo fucks her gloriously, but as he swathes his hands around her wrists to latch them above her
head, Pansy can't help but cry out in pain.

"Fuck!" she shrieks through their kiss, shutting her eyes and squirming at his grip on her forearm.

Theo's eyes widen as he immediately pulls away and loosens the grasp on her wrists. "Shit, Pansy,
you okay?" he panics.
"My... my arm," she stutters, twisting her head to her left to inspect her mark and verify the
presence of those same blisters.

She sees them. The blisters. Even in their dimly lit room, Pansy can make out the swelling upon her
skin, like a pestilence bedeviling her otherwise perfectly smooth skin. Her mind begins to spin like
a hurricane as she contemplates the inevitable circumstances—she has to tell Theo.

"Must've grabbed you too tight. I'm sorry—"

"No, it's not that," Pansy interrupts, shaking her head and letting out a brisk laugh.

It's not enough to soothe Theo's concerns, though. He watches as Pansy struggles to form an
explanation for her sudden outburst.

Eventually, she emits a staggered procession of words. "It's... uh... there's something..."

Theo climbs off of Pansy as she shifts to sit up against their wooden bedframe. Clutching her knees
to her exposed chest as if to instinctively hide herself during this moment of vulnerability, Pansy
slowly extends her left arm forward to occupy the space between them. To show Theo the root
cause of her pain. To expose herself in the way she's always been told not to do.

The skin around her mark is enflamed—red, puffy, and throbbing.

"What the..." Theo mutters, inching his head closer to examine the phenomenon on her arm. "What
the fuck is that?"

"I don't... I don't know..." is all she is able to say before dropping her forehead onto her shaking
knees.

Theo lifts his fingers slowly, then hesitates. "Would you let me touch it?" he asks, gazing up at
Pansy as if to assure her of his solely delicate and gentle intentions.

Timidly, but harboring more trust for him than anyone else in the world, Pansy eventually nods,
consenting to his touch yet again.

With immense care and delicacy, Theo runs the tips of his fingers over the red spots on Pansy's
arm. Even with his soft fingers, Pansy can't help but recoil at his touch, hissing through her teeth as
if he's burning her with his strokes.

She knows it's not him. Knows that his skin is quite possibly the most soothing antidote she'll ever
need.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispers, yanking his fingers back.

"I know," she responds, nodding her head. "It's fine."

Theo clears his throat. "Why is your arm so... red?"

Pansy falls silent, forcing out a shrug and then suffocating herself with the words she wishes she
would just say. But they remain lodged in the epicenter of her throat as a reminder of her
heedfulness.

She avoids the discussion altogether, wishing that she could just go through this alone. Suffer in
silence like usual. She bites down on her tongue, desperate to resist the tension and wearisome
reflex building behind her temples, stirring salt-water to form near the inside corners of her eyes.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.

She sniffs through her nose, forcing herself to replay that word over and over again.

"Does it ache? Burn? Talk to me, Pans. What the fuck is going on?"

Pansy takes a large gulp, challenging herself to dissociate from everything she's been taught and
cautiously relinquish herself to Theo. It's undoubtedly a challenge; she struggles to formulate
words, and when she does concur on what she wants to say, they continue to find themselves
lodged in a compartment within her, placed there since her childhood, that forces her to ignore her
troubles.

She lets go to see how it feels to emotionally yield herself to Theo.

"Yes. It hurts."

A weight is lifted off of her shoulders as she elongates the span of her emotional capacity.

"How long has it been like this?"

Pansy hesitates, but resolves to practice the same technique that gave her the courage to answer his
previous question, even if only producing a few words. "A few weeks."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Theo inquires, his voice stained with distress and panic.

"It would come and go," Pansy explains. "I didn't want to worry you."

Theo inhales deeply. "Maybe we should tell someone. Like Blaise. He might have some sort of
antidote or remedy for your skin. Or maybe even Granger can help—"

"Theo, no!" Pansy shrieks, retracting her arm and clutching it close to her chest. "No one can know
about this. It has to be a secret."

"You can't keep this a secret! Look at what's happening to you! Granger might be able to help,"
Theo pushes, attempting to console Pansy's quivering body as he touches her leg and rubs his
thumb across the goosebumps on her gentle skin.

"I don't need help," Pansy whispers, shaking her head, immediately regretting her decision to open
up.

"I think you need to pull Granger aside and talk to her. Who else are you going to ask? Fucking
Aberfield? I don't trust him, and I don't trust that Healer bitch either. What kind of name is Bruiser?
That sends a shit message if you ask me."

A small smile creeps on Pansy's face, but she immediately clenches her teeth together in an attempt
to stay as placid as possible. The voices of her mother and father ring through her mind in an
orchestra of unrelenting criticism, coercing her to subvert her pain.

"I just have to shove this feeling down. Ignore it. Pretend it isn't there."

"But it is there," Theo insists. "And I really think that Granger wants to help us."

Pansy scoffs. "You really think she wants to help me?" Her question vibrates with the unforgotten
pain of their years together at Hogwarts, where Pansy would call her slurs for sport and torment her
physical appearance daily. She'd laugh in her direction, point her finger with Draco as they'd watch
the back of her head bob up and down during lessons, and roll her eyes as they'd pass one another
in the corridors.

And now, Pansy has to ask her for help—a request which might end up in Hermione laughing her
arse off because of how unbelievably unfathomable it seems.

But Theo is quick to dispel that fear in Pansy. With a light squeeze of her leg with his hand, he
replies, "Absolutely."

As she stares into his cocoa-colored eyes, Pansy feels herself fall victim to his soothing aroma. To
the way he pleasantly coerces her to take deep breaths and allow the stress to subside in her
shoulders, neck, chest, legs, and arms. He hypnotizes her with his magnetizing glance, wanting
nothing more than to demonstrate his unfaltering love for and steadfast dedication to her well-
being.

"Please, just bring it up to her. For me," he begs, extending his hand to cup her damp and flushed
cheek.

Pansy tips her head into his touch and inhales deeply, drawing his scent into her brain as a way to
pull her back to the world she knows with him.

A world full of love.

"For you," she responds, closing her eyes and fully allowing his words and touch to kill the
tenseness in her body, along with the incessant instructions of her mother and father to simply
ignore her 'weaknesses.'

Those tribulations continue to fade away and morph into distant memories as Theo wraps her in his
arms and chest. They fall asleep, swathed in one another's warm bodies, breathing in and
exchanging with one another the loving aura of their own personal respirations.

The last person Pansy ever saw herself seeking help from was Hermione Granger.

Yet here she is, mulling over potential greetings in her mind during their meeting, desperately
trying to settle on a proper way to approach and discuss the pressing situation with the girl she
never imagined she'd be acquaintances with.

Acquaintances. They are more than just acquaintances, no doubt. But Pansy doesn't want to
overstep. Doesn't want to make their friendship seem like more of a big deal than it needed to be. It
just simply... is. It exists. It's unconfirmed, but she knows it's there.

It happened organically, like the two just needed some time and space away from the confines of
Hogwarts and its arbitrary housing system to see one another more clearly. Some time in the real
world, where things are not so black and white, to pull apart each other's exterior to understand the
phenomenons and feelings within. Registered deep in the hidden compartments of their souls.

Pansy stabs the inside of her cheek with her tongue as the day's F.D.E.R.E. meeting comes to an
end. The moment of reckoning upon her, she nervously looks to her left at Theo, who raises his
eyebrows and nods obscurely. Inhaling deeply, Pansy ruminates in her mind exactly what she will
say to Hermione when she asks for help.

When everyone rises to leave the room, Pansy watches as Hermione turns around and trudged
towards the table in the back of the room, leaning her hands upon the wooden surface and lifting
her back up and down in what appear to be frustrated breaths. Suddenly, Pansy feels a familiar
hand slip across her lower back, and she perceives the the soft voice of Theo whisper in her ear,
"You can do it. She wants to help us."

With a nod and a deep breath, Pansy treads past the boundary of the circle of chairs and approaches
Hermione's side. She turns around, as if to opt out of what she is about to do—as if to recast the
boundaries of the line she is about to cross—but as her eyes catch Theo's once more as he is exiting
the class with the others, he offers her another bright and loving smile. The curve of his lips sends
tremors through Pansy's rapidly beating heart.

He disappears past the threshold, leaving Hermione and Pansy alone in the room.

Pansy's breath catches in her throat as she opens her mouth. Her parched lips hang there, tugged
down by the sheer forces of gravity and fear.

Ignore, ignore, ignore.

No. Don't ignore.

"Hey, Granger? Can we talk for a minute?"

Perceiving a quiet voice just above her shoulder, Hermione looks to her right, shocked to see Pansy
leaning nervously against the edge of the table. Pansy's tense face and shaking fingers are foreign
sights to Hermione—reminders that she, just like the others, is simply a human, and that even she
desires the companionship of anything that even slightly bends towards their well-being.

"Sure," Hermione responds sweetly. "Is everything alright?"

"Actually, no. I... um... I need to show you something."

As she tentatively rolls the sleeve of her navy sweater up her arm, Pansy already feels the sheer
influence of her deep-rooted regret circulate atop her nerves and consume her mind.

She shouldn't be doing this. She should be keeping this a secret.

Pansy finishes rolling up her sleeve, and Hermione gasps lightly as the uncovering of her forearm.

Little red welts scatter the area surrounding Pansy's Dark Mark. They are wide but short in height,
covering a large portion of the skin of her forearm. Hermione observes several blisters as well,
bubbles of her skin trapping heat and pain atop her arm.

And Pansy's Dark Mark. Hermione swears she sees the mouth of the snake open and close in a
small pulse.

"It's looks bad, doesn't it?" Pansy asks, creasing her eyebrows and tightening her nose.

Hermione doesn't know how to respond. She's seen these symptoms before, but there have always
been explanations for them. Blisters from burns, hives from allergic reactions and other skin
irritations. But the phenomenon that appears on Pansy's arm is different. It's unnerving, alarming,
and upsetting at the very least.

"It's... well..."

"No need to beat around the bush," Pansy interrupts with a small chuckle.

Hermione exhales, unsure how to proceed. "How uncomfortable is it?"

"Very. Some days more than others. It feels like it's trying to sear off my arm."
Hermione inspects the wound more closely, trying to remember the things which she learned about
Voldemort during her arbitrary seventh year. She combs through the books she read, flipping
through the pages and skimming the paragraphs in her mind, but no information comes to mind
about the effects of hosting a Dark Mark.

Hermione remembers one crucial piece of information, though, and it haunts her to ask Pansy about
it. But she submits to ask Pansy about it anyway, desperate to confirm the answer.

"I thought that when Voldemort died, the mark was supposed to become inactive."

"Yeah, that's what I was told too. Fucking liars."

With Hermione's intuition confirmed, she continues to glare at the mark a little longer, wondering
exactly what it's dance means. If what Pansy says is true—and she is certain that it is—then there
is something deeper and more sinister taking place on her arm.

"It's moving. Right?" Pansy asks as if she can read Hermione's mind. "I'm not crazy?"

Hermione watches as Pansy's skin continues to breathe life into the tattoo.

"No," Hermione says quietly, "You're not crazy."

"How the fuck is this possible, then?" Pansy mumbles.

"I'm not sure."

Pansy exhales with frustration. "Fuck's sake, I thought you were supposed to be some gifted
genius..."

Hermione bites her lower lip, wishing that the comments like that would subside. Wishing that
people would cease to mistake and misconstrue her desire to live up to every standard and ideal as
a justification for her 'smartness.'

It's not smartness—it's survival.

Pansy clears her throat, and Hermione swears that the brief glisten in her eyes denotes a tang of
regret. It moves to Pansy's fingers, which fiddle in anxiety at her front.

"I... That was rude... What I meant is... Don't you know anything about this? Didn't you and Potter
and Weaselbee practically dedicate your entire seventh year to frolicking around the country and
studying Voldemort?"

"We didn't spend too much time on this kind of magic," Hermione responds, releasing Pansy's
wrist.

"Right. I guess I should know about it more than you," Pansy says with a trivial smile, attempting
to ease the enforced tension between them. "After all, I'm the one that got it branded on my arm."

"Branded?" Hermione asks inquisitively.

"Yeah. Burned into me. It was fucking painful."

Picturing the pain is too much to handle. Hermione shoves the thought down—way down—and
says what she can to alleviate the tension as well.

"That's so cruel. I'm... I'm sorry you went through that."

Pansy coughs in her throat, attempting to ignore the compassion that Hermione shows for her.

But actions like that are hard to ignore when they mean everything to you. When you're desperate
for one person to not judge you for your choices but rather show a sliver of compassion.

Hermione makes it so fucking hard for Pansy to not like her.

"It was my choice," Pansy responds, rolling her eyes and endeavoring to laugh off the dark
memories.

"Was it?"

A beat of silence, occupied by Pansy considering Hermione's question.

"Well... sort of."

The ensuing silence between them is prolonged, characterized by a newfound sense of trust. Pansy
doesn't know where it comes from—if it's Theo, pushing her to let her walls down, or if it's
Hermione, being willfully receptive to helping her.

Or if it's Pansy's own volition and growth. Her own desire to seek help. The realization that she
doesn't need to fight her battles alone. Help exists in places other than her secluded and dark
thoughts, ones branded by her parents' cruel approaches to nurturing. If she digs deep enough, she
can release that cry for help.

"So, you're really not sure what this could be?" Pansy asks again.

"No. But I can do some research on it, if you'd like. I have access to the Ministry Archives. Maybe
there's something in there that can tell me about Dark Mark. It's properties, it's effects on the body
—things like that."

Hermione pauses and considers another explanation, one tainted with a fear she's been harboring
for several weeks now.

Her eyes trail up Pansy's arm and stop right before her elbow. She glares at the position where
Aberfield injected them with the trackers.

"And I'll... try to look into some other things, too."

Pansy nods and taps the nimble fingers of her right hand against the wooden desk. She inhales
deeply, then smirks.

"Can I be honest with you, Granger?"

Hermione nods her head, feeling an odd sense of accomplishment coinciding with Pansy's
willingness to be honest. "Yes. Of course."

"I don't fucking trust Aberfield."

Hermione's chest tightens at the observation.

"Can I be honest with you, Parkinson?"

"Oh, I'd bloody love that."

"I'm not sure I do, either."

Hermione knows almost everything about effective research. With years of practice, she has made
any library she steps into susceptible to her tantalizing magic and inquisitive brain. Getting lost in
the records of a library is her talent, one that takes little effort but a large desire. It comes naturally
to her.

She knows much less about confrontation. But knowing less is not synonymous with being afraid
of it. It's not as if she's never confronted a friend or enemy before—she's had plenty of
opportunities and moments of such nature. Yet she is not as proficient in the art as she is in others.
Looking to inspiration from those around her, Hermione encourages herself to consolidate and
bolster those skills in order to effectively answer the question about Pansy's mark.

She practically splits her body in half—one half dedicated to research, the other half dedicated to
both instilling chaos and channeling the heart of not just a lioness, but an aggressive lioness. One
unwilling to recede when things become too difficult or unfamiliar to understand, too arduous to
endure, and too fatiguing to persist.

She doesn't just need to be courageous; she must be fearless without question. Willing to cause a
commotion for the sake of the greater good.

The feelings she underwent in the alcove a few weeks ago when she provoked Draco fuss deep
within her, burning to see the light of day. Hermione can't describe—can barely even comprehend
—how satisfactory it was to snatch the upper hand from him. How glorious it was to have him look
at her defeatedly with his glowing eyes and fall totally silent. The sight of Draco, speechless and
dumbfounded at her power, squirming underneath her arm, provides her just enough confidence to
embark on the journey to uncover the phenomenon on Pansy's forearm.

Hermione promptly arrives at the Ministry of Magic Archives, home to thousands of books,
scrolls, pieces of parchment, newspaper articles, opinion pieces, and vials of memories. She throws
herself into the archive without question, hoping to discover any sort of valuable information about
the Dark Mark. Research that can potentially help her uncover the perplexing spectacle of the
mark. With her past investigations on Voldemort focusing solely on horcruxes, she sparsely delved
into the dark magic surrounding the marks which he created.

The archive is massive. Adorned with wooden shelves that line the interior in parallel paths, the
archive is as inviting and appealing as the Hogwarts library was to Hermione. With its cascading
and staggering shelves harboring detailed histories and attractive secrets about every single major
event and person in the wizarding world, the Archive serves as a place of possibility for Hermione
—one she wishes to take advantage of now and in the future.

The warm tones of the glow of the lights emit an autumn ambiance within the vast room. Wooden
desks with built-in cubicles rest in the pathways between the bookshelves, which stand with at least
a dozen feet of space between them. Desk lamps illuminate the interior, allowing visitors to take
pause and read their selected documents with care.

As Hermione's eyes shift up to gaze at the ceiling, she watches as several white and orange owls fly
overhead with scrolls and parchments lodged underneath their beaks. She assumes that their jobs
are to organize the archive and return items to their proper spots. Her eyes continue to the ceilings,
which are much higher than she's ever seen—even taller than the Great Hall's.

She deduces that the Ministry charmed the ceiling to appear much higher than it is in relation to
the size of the Ministry itself. A classic charm—one used to create a sense of vastness and
possibility within any room.
Surging through the archives with her sole purpose in mind, Hermione gazes over the sections
displayed on the sides of the shelves. Her eyes urgently comb through the section titles, searching
for any amount of information about Death Eaters, the First or Second Wizarding World, Spell
Creation, Dark Magic, even Voldemort himself. Anything that can reveal something about the
marks and their origin. Anything that can help point her towards what is happening on Pansy's arm.

She remembers the redness, the inflammation, the blisters. Can't remove the image from her
memory. It burns into her brain, just as the mark did upon their arms.

The abundant tomes stare her down, as if their information is ripe for plucking. She senses that the
answer to her question is here, within these walls. She just needs locating it.

Sifting through these shelves will take a lifetime, though. And she just doesn't have that.

A solution to the problem of time bursts into her head. Unwilling to waste time, Hermione removes
her wand from the pocket of her sweater and holds it up in the air. She quietly mutters, "Accio
Dark Magic document," in the hopes that something will appear.

Her spell denotes a massive oversight into how much information about such a topic exists in the
archive. Soaring through the air with rapid speed, more than two dozen books, pieces of
parchment, and newspaper articles dart straight towards her. The documents collide into her from
all directions, and she stumbles to the ground under the impact. Around her, the books and papers
drop as well with several booming thuds.

"Oh, fuck!" she whispers, crawling and rushing to pick up the sprawled documents surrounding
her. Glancing around in the hopes that none of the other guests in the archive witnessed the fiasco
she caused, Hermione retrieves the books and shoves them onto a wooden table just a few feet
away, stacking them upon one another in a discombobulated mess of research material. Once
everything is settled on the table, she pushes aside her frenzied hair and takes a seat at the table,
prepared to consume herself in the words before her. Scour them until her eyes feel like they're on
fire.

Of the dozens of options available at her disposal, there are only four books, all of which Hermione
has sifted through in her life: Secrets of the Darkest Art, Curses and Counter-Curses, Basic Hexes
for the Busy and Vexed, and Jinxes for the Jinxed. She exhales indignantly, already aware that
none of the books contain any information about Dark Marks.

They'd been published years before Voldemort even created the magic.

She shoves them aside and begins to rifle through the documents, most of which being newspaper
articles, trial transcripts, and observational notes. Using her finger to trace over the miniscule
words, she begins her frantic search.

Hermione groans as she continues to flip through the pages. Nothing points to Pansy's predicament.
Every research point she glosses over tells her that Pansy's condition is impossible. That the Dark
Mark should be completely lifeless.

Yet it moves. It stirs. It dances upon her forearm and yields red blisters.

She saw it move.

How could it possibly be stirring three years after Voldemort's death?

After sifting through several unsuccessful documents, Hermione picks up an article from The
Quibbler. She inspects the title: "Perturbing Phenomenon Exposed: The Mysteries of the Dark
Mark Revealed."

Her eyes lower to read the name written in a cursive-like font below the title:

Xenophilius Lovegood.

As the memories of the most peculiar and bright man float back into her mind, Hermione can't help
but briefly smile. As quickly as they come, though, they fall victim to the shadows of his trauma.
The happy memories are replaced with dark ones—ones where she remembers hearing that several
Death Eaters tortured him for writing positively about Harry in The Quibbler. And the one where
he so easily turned her, Ron, and Harry over to the Death Eaters when he felt a sliver of hope for
seeing Luna again still haunts her.

It may haunt her, but it doesn't perplex her. Not one ounce of blame rests in her soul for him.
Mercy is the cornerstone of her disposition—without it, Hermione would've fallen apart a long
time ago.

Initially, she's confused as to why Xenophilius wrote an article about the Dark Mark. It seems like
quite a stretch from his personal interests of peculiar creatures and plants. But as she expands her
mind and reflects on it more, an explanation becomes clearer. Luna used to say that her father had
always been interested in obscure and unusual magic—what is more unusual than Voldemort's own
creations? His personal charms and alluring disposition for creating new forms of dark magic?

She begins to skim his article, looking for any sort of signs similar to Pansy's condition:

The Dark Mark is a piece of peculiar magic. The process of receiving the mark is intensely
invasive and painful for the receiver. When the dark magic is transferred from the tip of one's
wand and etched into the skin of the willing inheritor, it triggers a painful burning sensation.
Those questioned about the process of receiving their marks attest to this reality.

Just as Pansy said—the mark was burned into her skin. It automatically coagulated with her
membrane, muscles, tissue, bones, and even the thousands of nerves running beneath her skin,
functioning as the receiver and conveyor of pain.

She glides over several more sections of the article, desperate to find something meaningful.

When Voldemort died, the effects of the Dark Mark ceased to exist. For example, the dark color of
the mark significantly faded to a hue of tainted grey. The function of summoning followers also
ceased to work. The marks lie comatose on the arms of former Death Eaters, operating as a
reminder of the receiver's choice.

Hermione sucks in a sharp breath in reaction to the phrasing of that sentence, continuing to
consider her compassion and mercy as her driving force for doing this.

With the termination of Voldemort's life, the mark too became completely inactive and
unresponsive. There is no possible way to remove the mark, just as there is no possible way for the
mark to reawaken.

Hermione sighs. The last sentence haunts her—there is no way to remove the mark, just as there is
no way for the mark to reawaken.

As she rises with frustration, ready to give up, she feels a tug in her chest. It pulls her back down to
the books, the trial notes, Xenophilius' article, and the research done by other witches and wizards
with similar questions.
She can't give up that easily.

Pansy's words ring through Hermione's mind: I don't fucking trust Aberfield.

She thinks about Aberfield's office. The trackers. The Draught of Peace. The books lining his
bookshelf.

The research side of Hermione subsides to make room for the confrontational side. She invites the
spirit of a certain dragon to materialize within her, welcoming the rush of confidence and hostility
into her blood.

"Prior Incantato," she mutters, and suddenly the documents and books return to their rightful
homes in the bookshelves. She turns on her heels and storms out of the archives, her feet carrying
her effortlessly to Shacklebolt's office and her chest set aflame with determination and fortitude.

Hermione doesn't even knock on Kingsley's door.

There's simply no time for that. Not when Pansy is suffering in silence. Not when they can all be
doing something to help counter her pain.

She barges into his office without even thinking, stumbling into what appears to be the middle of a
meeting between Kingsley, Aberfield, and Healer Bruiser.

A meeting. Happening without her. Fantastic.

At the sound of Hermione barging in, everyone's eyes dart to face her in abject shock.

She inhales deeply, remembering to channel Draco's energy and feeling very conscious of the
rising rage that accumulates in her stomach.

"Hermione, I'm in a meeting—"

"I'm afraid this cannot wait."

Her first breath of fire.

Aberfield rises abruptly, gripping the back of his chair with his hand. "Everything alright?"

Hermione stares him down. "Actually, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to the Minister alone."

"I'm afraid we can't allow that," Healer Bruiser says, also rising from her seat and facing
Hermione. "Any business about the program must be discussed with us in attendance."

"Well, it's not really about the program."

"No?" Aberfield asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"No. And I'd prefer to speak to Kingsley alone."

"Anything you wish to say, you can say in front of us," Healer Bruiser responds.

"But—"

"Go on, Hermione," Kingsley says with a soft smile. "Quincy and Cleo are only here to help."

She's not so sure of that anymore—hasn't been sure of that for a while.
But Hermione takes a deep breath and lets the words spill out of her mouth like a waterfall: "I have
concerns about their Dark Marks."

"Whose? The group?" Kingsley clarifies, angling his head to the side.

Hermione inconspicuously rolls her eyes, as if the group of people whom she is addressing isn't
incredibly obvious. "Yes. And I need to speak to you about it, alone."

Aberfield shakes his head. "This has everything to do with us, Hermione," he insists, raising his
finger and pointing it towards Hermione. "If one of them is having issues with their Dark Marks,
then we very much have a right to know about it."

"But—"

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but I'd have to agree with Quincy," Kingsley interrupts, gesturing his hand
towards Aberfield. "He and Healer Bruiser should absolutely be privy to such information."

Severe irritation simmers within her gut, privy to explode any moment. She can't possibly share the
sensitive subject with Aberfield and Healer Bruiser breathing down her neck.

Especially when a large part of her harbors immense skepticism towards them.

She's said too much already, though. And now she can't take it back. She can't swallow Pansy's
secret back down. They all know.

Fine, she meditates, let's play the game.

"I have reason to believe that her mark is being tampered with."

"What do you mean—"

"That is a baseless and serious accusation, Ms. Granger," Aberfield says through gritted teeth.

"Well I saw it! With my own eyes!"

Another exhortation of fire.

"What did you see, Hermione?" Kingsley probes, his fingers tapping against his golden desk with
trepidation.

"Pansy's mark, moving. Turning a dark color. Practically coming back to life."

"Impossible," Aberfield responds, shaking his head and laughing. "That magic became void once
Voldemort died."

"Well, I can assure you it is not void."

The news sifts in the atmosphere of the room like a sour shot. Hermione awaits a response from
Kingsley, attempting to avoid the glares coming from Aberfield and Healer Bruiser. Her peripheral
gives way as she enacts her tunnel vision, staring directly at Shacklebolt. Pleading with her eyes for
him to listen to her.

"Healer Bruiser, do you know anything about this?" Kingsley asks, breaking his eye contact with
Hermione and referring to this new and ambiguous figure. Hermione's tongue grows dry as she
recognizes the very tangible possibility that she will fail yet again to convince them of the
malpractice, ambivalence, and complete neglect that is present in the program.
Kingsley turns to Healer Bruiser, preferring her expertise over the trust built between him and
Hermione.

"No, I do not," Healer Bruiser responds placidly.

"No one has informed you about a pain coming from their marks? Not Ms. Parkinson? Not any of
the others?"

"No, Minister Shacklebolt. I'm afraid I haven't heard any wind of this. I can go through my notes
again to confirm, but I am quite certain that there has been no discussion of any existing pain."

"Maybe because they don't bloody trust you enough to tell you," Hermione mutters, crossing her
arms over her chest.

"Where's Ms. Parkinson, then?" Aberfield asks. "Where is she to corroborate this testimony?"

Hermione scoffs at Aberfield's insensitivity, wishing that he would show some fucking
compassion.

"She's ashamed and scared of it. And she resents you all. You honestly think she'd willingly tell
you about this? I probably shouldn't even be doing this. But unlike you all, I actually give a fuck
about these people—my peers. I actually want to help them with every fiber of my being. With
every breath I take. With every—"

"Alright. Hermione, I appreciate you bringing this to our attention—"

"Don't," Hermione interjects, shaking her head, already anticipating what Shacklebolt will tell her.
"Please don't ignore this, Kingsley."

"I'm going to consider this information—"

"That's simply not good enough!"

Aberfield inhales sharply and jumps in. "Your testimony does not offer any proof of our
malpractice—"

"I never said it did!" Hermione shouts, exasperated and tired and...

Confounded. Intrigued by his choice of words.

Our malpractice.

The room falls silent as Hermione contemplates Aberfield's response to her bringing up an issue of
misconduct within the program.

"I never said it was your malpractice, Aberfield..."

Aberfield's cheeks grow red, denoting a sign of culpability. Enough for Hermione's lip to curl in
both a tinge of intrigue and a surge of wariness.

Aberfield placed himself in the line of fire. Confirmed her suspicions about him.

"Why would you immediately assume that I suspect you?" she asks, tilting her head to the side to
convey her distrust of him.

Aberfield clears his throat, and out comes a chorus of his own rage and impatience, qualities which
Hermione remembers never envisioning that he harbored. Never assuming that he was capable of
showing.

How very wrong she was.

"You've been rather insubordinate these past few weeks," Aberfield explains. "And you're
insinuating that I am to blame. As if I'm the one shoving drugs into their system—"

"Quincy, a little more sensitivity, please," Kingsley interjects.

"If anyone is destroying their bodies, it's them. Them and their lack of self-control. Them and their
blatant disrespect for authority. They have been given everything to them on a silver platter. And
yet, they treat their bodies like garbage. Set themselves aflame inside with dangerous chemicals
and substances. Taint the very skin they were given with despicable muggle products!"

Aberfield rages on, unwilling to relent.

Hermione doesn't mind, though. She studies his anger, calculates the value of his choice of words,
and clinches onto the very valid possibility that Aberfield is not who he says he is.

He's unraveling in front of her, spilling his words frantically and without care.

"They made all those decisions. They chose to ruin their bodies. Those marks are simply
responding to the drugs within them. You cannot convince me otherwise."

The dragon within Hermione trembles and growls, vying for its voice again.

It's the image of Draco, shoved up against the navy-tiled wall of that alcove, struggling under the
constraint of her forearm appears in her head, that allows her to burst open at the seams with her
anger.

"It's not their fault!" she roars, a fiendfyre bursting from her vocal cords. "The drugs are not their
—"

"It is their fault. It is," Aberfield insists, turning to Healer Bruiser to confirm. "Do extreme
measures need to be taken to control this?"

"You mean, forced withdrawal—"

"No!" Hermione exclaims. "You can't force them into a prolonged withdrawal! Not without proper
consultation and decision making. The withdrawal their bodies will undergo will be too damaging
unless it's done correctly and with their expressed consent—"

"There comes a time, Hermione, when you must take matters into your own hands. When you must
act impulsively and in conjunction with your gut. These matters can't be sifted on anymore."

She knows all about acting impulsively. You should've seen her on Halloween, you mother-fucking
bastard—

Healer Bruiser interrupts her thoughts: "The situation is becoming much more serious. We cannot
waste more time."

"Give them a little more time, please," Hermione continues. "They just need a few weeks off.
They're exhausted from all of this. Can't you all see that?"

Aberfield laughs. "Give them a few weeks off? So that they can, what, frolic around their little
apartment and get high every day? Not reflect on their actions and choices? I don't think—"

"Aberfield, you will allow it," Kingsley orders, staring straight at Hermione.

Her breath hitches. A win.

"Kingsley, I—"

"Ms. Granger is right. Give them some time. They've been under our eye for a few months now. I
think it's time we give them some space to reflect by themselves. If they learn something, great. If
not, we can move further with your intentions."

Just as Hermione sees a win on the horizon, it's cast aside by a tidal wave.

She's determined, though, to see this through. To help them in any way she can.

"What are the terms?" Hermione asks.

"Sorry?" Aberfield responds.

"The terms? For the next few weeks?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand—"

"I'm going to help them. Keep an eye on them. So, what are the terms? What do they need to do to
prove to you that they are deserving of compassion and help?"

"Quite a bit," Aberfield responds with a scoff.

Hermione purses her lips and nods back. "Trust me, I'll do whatever it takes."
 Chapter 14

It's the same routine as every day.

Aberfield only needs to say one thing to set Draco off and compel him to snort more cocaine.

And when Draco storms off today at the end of the lesson, Hermione doesn't feel obligated to
follow him. Hasn't done so in a few weeks, actually.

She's trying a new approach—reject his tantrums, let him storm off and vent, and subsequently
ignore him for as long as possible. Her temptation to run after him has faded almost into extinction.
It tows on her heart as she watches him explode out of his chair and stomp away, but it doesn't
carry her towards him anymore. Doesn't beg her to engage or humor his outbursts.

Its strength has faltered over the last few weeks.

Or maybe she is just becoming much stronger than it.

Stronger than the feelings which Draco has unlocked recently. The ones deep within her.

Logic fiercely battles with emotions in her mind, just like the two sentiments always have. They
hammer both sides of her brain until it becomes one mesh of clashing attitudes, a clusterfuck too
clouded and hazy to see through. She doesn't know which is right to feel more.

It's the logic that wins out today because as Draco storms out the door just before the seminar ends,
Hermione doesn't even flinch.

None of them do. It's all too common of an occurrence now.

More common for the others than it is for Hermione. But she's sincerely starting to understand
more and more about them every day.

The door slams behind Draco, and Aberfield heaves an exasperated sigh.

"Before you all depart for the day, there's something I need to explain to you." He takes a deep
breath, laced with resentment and irritation. "There will be no meetings for the next few weeks."

What once looked like a group of inmates on death row shifts to a group of liberated individuals,
people who have been revoked of the sun for so long that the brief mention of luminosity draws
them to their blissful memories of how it feels to have the heat beat against their skin.

When Aberfield relays the news to them, their eyes glow with elation and their neutral expressions
transform into smiles.

And Hermione smiles too. She can't help it.

"I suggest, in that time, that you reflect on what we have discussed over the past few months. Dig
deep and consider the place you are at in your lives right now." Aberfield locks eyes with
Hermione and clears his throat. "Hermione has graciously offered to keep in contact with you all
during the holidays in lieu of our sessions. I recommend that you use her services in whatever way
you please."

"I think one of us certainly will take up that offer more than others," Hermione overhears Theo
whisper to Pansy, which leads her to feel a sharp pang in her chest, one spiked with both intrigue
and frustration.

Not frustration at Theo. Just at the situation. The insinuation. The fact that her ears work
impeccably hard to catch little comments such as those.

Aberfield sighs, reaches for his bag next to his chair, and rises. "Do have a good holiday. We'll
reconvene after the new year."

As Aberfield walks away, Blaise twists his body and grips the back of his chair with his hand. He
lifts his index finger to ask a question: "What about our Draught of Peace?"

Aberfield pauses, then turns back slowly. "Pardon?" he asks, a tinge of hesitation resting in his
deliverance.

"Our daily dose of Draught of Peace. The one you supply us with. Aren't you going to give us any
for the next few weeks?"

Hermione watches as Aberfield's jaw tightens and chest heaves up to his throat. He releases the
pent-up breath in an exhale, followed by a grunt into his fist.

"No. I can't make a proper batch quickly enough to provide you with them for that whole period of
time. I trust that you will simply behave. That is the reason we are giving you this break, in fact.
To see if you will behave."

Pansy scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Even if we feel pain—"

"It won't be necessary," Aberfield says briskly. "We trust you all to make the right decisions for
your bodies. If you do so, then the Draught of Peace won't be required, now will it?"

"I can brew some Draught of Peace," Hermione offers, amassing Aberfield's glare at her
suggestion. "If you'd just lend me some of the ingredients. And then I could—"

"It's unnecessary," Aberfield snaps. "They can control themselves. Those are the terms you agreed
to, Ms. Granger. And it is your job to ensure that they abide by such terms."

Glaring is an understatement for how Hermione looks at Aberfield. She's carving through the
atmosphere between them with her ire. It bubbles within her like a potion itself; contradictory to
the Draught of Peace, it stirs nothing but wrath within her.

Before Hermione can spew paragraphs concerning how she feels about the situation, Aberfield
exits the room.

To break the tension, Theo blows out a quick breath from his mouth. He stands, ready to leave the
room and enjoy his freedom as quickly as possible. "So," he starts, a preemptive smile forming on
his face, "We get a babysitter for the holidays, huh?"

Everyone follows, rising from their seats.

Hermione offers a trying smile. "It was the only way I could convince them to give you a break
from these meetings."

"We appreciate that," Blaise says, nodding his head as he tugs a seat aside for Daphne to exit.

"A babysitter," Adrian smirks, flagging next to Hermione as the group breaks the divide of the
circle. "That's how all good pornographies start, y'know?"
There's a chorus of responses from the group, all ranging between hysterical laughs, groans of
irritation, and everything in between.

"Fucking hell—"

"—Adrian, holy shit—"

"—Bloody hell, mate—"

"—Too far!"

"What!" Adrian sings, shrugging and wrapping his arm around Hermione's shoulder, pulling her in
for an amicable side-hug. "Granger knows I'm kidding!"

Hermione understands that Adrian's humor is colored with impulsive and nervy sentiments. It's
why the crash of laughter that charges from her mouth comes from a genuine enjoyment of
Adrian's individuality. She attempts to press her lips together to disguise her laugh, but it escapes
with ease.

Adrian wiggles her shoulder. "See? She gets it!"

They pour out into the hallway and linger just outside the door, patiently awaiting Draco's return
from the bathroom. Hermione glances over her shoulder to eye the infamous door.

When she realizes what she's doing—that she's giving him attention he does not deserve—she
quickly faces the opposite direction.

She doesn't care, she tells herself, desperately trying to shove the emotional side of herself aside,
not give him the time of day, and not indulge in his game. His exhausting yet exciting game.

"Still—fucking hell—sometimes you let the wildest things come out of your mouth, you know?"
Pansy jokes, lightly punching Adrian's broad bicep.

Adrian turns to face Hermione, tilting his head to the side apologetically. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean
to make you uncomfortable."

"It's alright," she responds with a comforting smile.

"And anyway," Adrian continues, rolling his shoulders back and smirking, as if his next words are
sure to be just as rambunctious, "Babysitters really aren't Malfoy's favorite sexual trope. That
would actually be—"

"Holy fuck, Adrian! Catch you bloody tongue!" Daphne screeches, covering her eyes with her
hands and subsequently digging her fingers into her temples. The group chortles at the implication;
Hermione stands there, frozen, her mouth agape with shock.

"I'm sorry, what did you—"

"Hey! Oh, speak of the bloody devil!" Theo calls out as a warning, gesturing his arms towards the
bathroom door.

Hermione spins and sees Draco leaving the bathroom, swiping his nose several times with the tip
of his thumb, his mouth turned down in a melancholy frown. The moment he musters enough will
to lift his head, he locks eyes with Hermione. Immediately, he straightens his back and inhales
deeply through his nose, the sight sending chills up Hermione's back.
She just can't shove down the feeling. No matter how hard she tries. Every little mannerism—
every idiosyncrasy that defines Draco Malfoy—bounds her in a feeling of anticipation.

"Hey, big guy!" Adrian teases as Draco approaches them. "Enjoy your lines?"

Draco's tongue drags across his teeth as he playfully flips his middle finger at Adrian. He flocks
around Hermione's left and turns, eyeing her up and down as he settles next to Theo.

"We were just talking about how Hermione will be joining us for the holidays, as is a condition for
letting us take a well-deserved break from the program," Daphne interjects, leaning over to address
Draco directly. "Isn't that exciting?"

Retaining his eye contact with Hermione, Draco scoffs lightly. "Absolutely thrilling," he says, his
eyebrows shooting up in a tantalizing manner.

"You'll have to come out with us again," Pansy says to Hermione. "We'll have such a fun time.
Plus, we won't have to worry about showing up to these meetings early the next day. Fuck's sake,
that's always the worst part—how early we have to wake up."

Reticent about the prospect, Hermione simply offers a smile. She doesn't want to put herself in that
position with Draco again—one where she feebly melts in his arms in a moment of powerlessness.
She can't stand the thought of him towering over her, his hands toying with her trembling body, his
hot breath covering the area around her neck and ears—

Fuck. Well, maybe she can...

Hermione clears her throat. Uncluttering her thoughts, she simply opts for the former thought. "Oh,
I'm not sure that's a good idea—"

"Yes, I think Halloween scared her a bit," Draco retorts, knocking his head back and sneering at
her. "Threw her for a bit of a loop. Wouldn't you say so, Granger?"

It's in the way he says her name: Granger. It's almost like a trigger.

Hermione's demeanor shifts immediately with his taunt, and she yields to her love of heated
repartee with her avowed enemy.

She glares at Draco with blades in her eyes while simultaneously addressing Pansy.

"You know, on second thought, I'd love to join you all again. Halloween was very fun. Full of
possibilities and exciting moments. Wouldn't you agree, Malfoy?"

"Undeniably," Draco seethes through clenched teeth, and Hermione revels in the way he stiffens
with anger. She observes his fists strain and then contort, his long fingers vibrating with the rush of
adrenaline and ire assuming control of his body.

"Right, so!" Adrian exclaims, clapping the palms of his hands together to discontinue the festering
tension. "When will you grace us with your presence?"

The eye contact between Hermione and Draco remains. She doesn't want to break it—not yet. She
wants to revel in his noticeable uncomfortableness for just a little longer. Swim in the uneasiness of
his silver eyes—translucent puddles of his deepest emotions. Cement the image in her mind as
proof of his conflicted and intense feelings for her.

"How about tomorrow night?" Hermione responds, directing her answer to Adrian but still staring
at Draco. She cocks an eyebrow at him, which only leads to his eyes softening even more.

"Need to secure a babysitter for that prehistoric kneazle of yours for the night?" Draco asks, tilting
his head.

"Gods, Granger!" Adrian exclaims. "If you don't bring that lovely little kneazle over to our place
—"

"And do what with it?" Draco snaps, his eyes finally disconnecting from Hermione's so that he can
leer at Adrian. "Let it roam around and claw at our furniture? Invade our stash?"

"No, kneazles wouldn't do that," Theo comments, rolling his eyes. "They don't like weed."

"And how would you know that?" Pansy asks cheekily.

"Well... I just... It's... I don't know! I want the kneazle to come, okay?" Theo concedes, throwing
his arms in the air. "It'd be nice to have a little pet prancing around the place, wouldn't it? It'd give
the dreary environment some personality."

"I second having Granger bring her kneazle," Blaise interjects, latching his hands over Daphne's
shoulders.

"Third!" Daphne chimes in.

Hermione can't resist smiling at their friendliness, but she sobers her cheerfulness when she
delivers her next sentence: "Oh, I'm not sure that's necessary. I'll be back to my apartment later that
night, anyway. He won't miss me for too long."

"Maybe another time," Daphne suggests with a smile. "We have the whole holiday to meet that
little fuzzball."

"You lot are so embarrassing," Draco mutters with a roll of his eyes.

Pansy mimics his eye roll and adds a smug smirk. "You're not the least bit intrigued in meeting
Granger's—"

"I've met the thing before," Draco grumbles. "You remember, don't you, Granger?"

She certainly does. Remembers their introduction to one another like it happened yesterday.

"How could I forget?" she retorts, a devilish grin planted on her face.

Theo's eyes dart between Hermione and Draco, trying to decipher the glares, the words exchanged,
and the sentiments of the mysterious memory. "Don't leave us in suspense!" he exclaims. "I don't
remember anything about this!"

"Me neither!" Daphne squeals.

"Merlin," Blaise mumbles, "Is she talking about when the cat—"

"Blaise," Draco seethes as a caveat.

"Oh, Blaise! You have to tell us!" Daphne says, twisting her head and cooing against his face.
"Don't keep it a secret!"

"Holy shit," Adrian chuckles, slapping his hand to his forehead. "You don't mean the time during
fourth year that it practically mauled Malfoy for just glancing at it in the Great Hall, right? Merlin's
ball sack, that was bloody hilarious—"

"Adrian!" Draco yells, his eyes widening with irritation.

"Oh, ease up!" Adrian responds. "Tell me you still have that scar on your leg. Holy fuck, the
laughs I had that day were tantamount to anything I've ever experienced."

Draco exhales in defeat as the group chortles. "Right, now that kneazle is not getting anywhere
near the apartment."

Daphne leans forward and winks at Hermione. "We'll sneak him in. Don't worry."

Hermione laughs at the gesture and nods her head.

"So, tomorrow night, then?" Blaise confirms.

"Yes. What time should I arrive?"

"Come around ten in the evening," Pansy suggests. "We like to start the night early and end it quite
late."

"How are you able to stay up—"

Hermione swallows her question, the answer popping into her head in an instant.

The cocaine.

"Our place is just seven doors to the right from Amortentia. You can't miss it," Theo says. "When
you arrive, just cast some sparks into the sky so that we know you're here."

"I'll do that," Hermione responds, nodding her head to affirm the plans.

The pink tint of Daphne's cheeks beams with delight as she says, "Oh, this is going to be such a fun
holiday!"

"We'll see you tomorrow," Adrian says as the group begins to turn and depart.

As they retreat towards the other end of the corridor, Hermione stares at the back of Draco's neck,
watching as his veins strain with the anger writing within him. Hermione flatters herself at the
knowledge that she's the one who awoke that feeling within him. Something about their little game
makes her feel in control and powerful.

Her daydreams are interrupted with a shout from the group.

"Oh, and Granger?" Pansy calls, turning around and pacing backwards against Theo's shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Dress for the occasion, yeah? We're clubbing, not going to a bloody meeting." Pansy winks and
returns to Theo's side.

"What was wrong with my outfit last time?" Hermione calls out with a grin.

Pansy twists her head around. "You were covered head to toe in fabric! And on the sexiest night of
the year! Don't worry. I've got plenty of choices in my wardrobe if you'd like to step outside of your
comfort zone!"

With that, Pansy turns down the corridor and disappears with the rest of them.

Step outside of her comfort zone?

Hermione chuckles at the prospect of dressing in something more... revealing.

Obviously, her outfit that night hadn't been sexy enough.

But it's not that part of her internal reflection that preoccupies her.

It's the fact that even though she wore those square clothes, Draco had still been all over her. His
hands still found the crevices of her body which they belonged in.

He still found her attractive.

Hermione could wear whatever she wanted, and she'd be content in knowing that Draco wanted
her.

When Hermione's fireplace suddenly begins to crackle late that evening as she's wrapped under a
blanket on her couch and reading a chapter of her book, Hermione senses a strange and ominous
presence coming from the sputtering coals.

She hadn't intended on setting a fire this particular night. But it sizzles and hisses, subsequently
instigating an orange blaze amidst the leftover coal pieces.

Tugging her blanket off of her lap and jumping off of the couch, Hermione watches as a round
shape emerges from the epicenter of the fire. In a colorful array of red and orange sparks, the shape
of a face pushes through the bits of coal. She inspects the features carefully, noticing how the
hollow parts of the face are colored more yellow and the prominent features of the face are colored
a deep crimson hue.

Stepping closer and leaning towards the aperture of the fireplace, Hermione makes out the familiar
face incinerating in the fire, his round glasses undoubtedly giving his identity away.

"Hermione? You there?"

"Holy fuck, Harry!" she shrieks, dropping to her knees in front of the fire, her face already aching
with a tantamount smile that tugs her cheeks apart. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Well, you and I are due for a little chat, wouldn't you say?" Harry asks, his voice masked with the
crackling of the embers. "And I've always wanted to use the Floo Network like this. Hope I
appeared at a good time?"

"Absolutely," Hermione responds. "I've just been reading."

"Of course, you have," he says, his smile emulating brighter than the very heat of the flames.

Questions burst out of Hermione with fervor, desiring conversation with him more than anything
else. "How have you been? How's Hogwarts? How's Ginny? Tell me everything while I have you!"

"Things are well," Harry explains. "Ginny is off traveling with the Harpies most of the time, which
isn't actually much of an issue since I'm quite busy here. Teaching, supervising Quidditch matches,
chaperoning trips to Hogsmeade—now that things are slowing down for the holidays, though, we'll
hopefully have more time to relax and see one another."

"That sounds lovely," Hermione responds, settling herself down and clutching her knees to her
chest. She sinks into the content sentiment which Harry palpably exudes through the fire, wishing
for nothing more than to allow the cackling flames to engulf her in conversation.

"How are you? How's everything at the Ministry? How's the program coming along?"

Hermione sighs, running her fingers through her tangled curls and scratching the back of her head.
"It's... um... fine."

She hears Harry laugh in the fire, little sparks emitting out of his mouth as he does so. "Right, I've
gotten to know your mannerisms quite well over the last decade—well enough to know when
you're lying right through your teeth."

Hermione scoffs at Harry's ability to read her lies, even through the mask of an inferno. "Well..."
Hermione starts, biting her tongue as she hunts her mind for the right words.

"Go on. What's wrong?"

"Harry, there's so many things keeping me on edge. So many things about the program I've created
that I feel terrible about. So many people I feel like I can't trust."

"Like whom?"

"Have you heard of someone named Quincy Aberfield?"

"Well, he's your supervisor, right? That's what I've read in the papers."

"Yes, he is. But I have reservations about him. There's things that he's done to them that I fear are
ill-intentioned."

"Such as?"

"Harry... I think he's doing something truly awful to them."

The words spill out of her in a colossal rant. She explains the Location Beams, the Draught of
Peace, the use of magic against them, and Aberfield's blatant disregard for conducting the
rehabilitation program with any sensitivity. How he always threatens them with premade door tags
for their rooms at St. Mungo's, where they'd be tied to beds and forced to undergo violent
withdrawals.

How Aberfield constantly interrupts, undermines, and ignores her.

"I am frustrated with myself for not recognizing the signs," she says sullenly. "I'd worked with him
for months, and he was... kind. Helpful. Receptive to my ideas. How could I not have seen this
other side to him?"

"You just wanted to help. This isn't your fault."

"I was blinded by something," she explains. "I don't know what."

"Compassion."

Hermione scoffs. "On the contrary—I steam roll over anyone and everyone like no one's business.
How can compassion be driving my actions when all I do is force myself into situations which I
have no business being in?"

Harry laughs like her insinuation is ridiculous. "You ought to dispel that idea immediately."

She sighs, lifting her finger and pointing it at the lumps of coal, restructuring the pieces
surrounding Harry with the magic emulating from her digits.

"You're not a know-it-all, you don't have a hero complex, and you certainly aren't a steam roller.
Anymore."

Hermione croaks with a staggered laugh, feeling the influence of Harry's sweet words ring in her
mind.

"You are compassionate and caring. Whether you know it or not. All the things you've done for
them—when they sure as hell don't deserve it—illustrate that."

"They do deserve it," Hermione whispers.

"See? How can you possibly say you don't have compassion when you are probably one of the only
people in the world who genuinely wants to help them?"

Hermione sighs and relishes in Harry's reassuring words. "Hearing your voice again makes me so
happy. I'd love to see you soon. I'm going to be in Hogsmeade during the holidays for a bit—"

"Oh, brilliant! Where are you staying?"

"I'll just be there during the day," Hermione responds, tugging on a loose piece of thread hanging
from her sweater. "Aberfield and Kingsley want me to keep an eye on the group while they take a
break from the program."

"I see," Harry responds. "Well, why don't we meet for breakfast the day after next? There's a
lovely little bakery just next to Tomes and Scrolls. Can you be there at around a quarter to eleven?"

Hermione exhales contently at the prospect of finally seeing Harry after months of being apart,
sucked into their own worlds without a free moment to connect. "It's a plan."

"Brilliant. Look, I've got to run, now. You know the deal with Floo Powder—can't be here too
long. We'll talk more about everything over tea."

"That's wonderful. Thank you, Harry."

"Everything will be alright, okay?"

"Yeah."

She tries to convince herself of the statement, but the biting of her upper lip denotes otherwise.
Reveals the doubt she feels about the situation. About the safety of the Slytherins.

"It will be. You are the perfect person for this. Don't doubt yourself."

The perfect person for this.

"Thank you for believing in me."

"Always."
As Harry's face sinks back into the warmth of the coals, Hermione becomes a little colder with his
departure. She holds onto his words like a blanket over her heart, warming herself with words she's
been dying to hear.

When the glory of the war dawned on him, Harry raised Hermione without question. Named her
his equal without a second thought.

Harry always believed in her. Always valued her. And he made sure to show it.

So, if she could wish for anyone in the world to be proud of her, it wouldn't be any superior, any
boss, or any mentor that she'd come across. Not even the Minister of Magic himself.

It'd be Harry, without question.

Hermione feels the same sensation she underwent when dusk stretched its wings over the sky on
Halloween—scared shitless.

She apparates from London to Hogsmeade late the next night, and immediately a head rush chafes
the surface of her brain, brought on by significant distance between the two locations.

Merlin, she thinks to herself, tonight's apparition back home is going to be dreadful.

Clutching her jacket and crossing the flaps over her chest, Hermione wanders the desolate streets of
Hogsmeade. She remembers spending her Saturdays in the quaint little town with Harry and Ron,
wandering around in the warm sunlight even after snow would pile the sidewalks and streets.
They'd laugh and frolic around with jubilation, relishing in their youth and innocence.

Now, Hermione roams the streets with different intentions and altered perceptions of the world
around her.

For fuck's sake, she's meeting the group of Slytherins that tormented her over the past decade for
drinks and dancing. Altered perceptions don't even scratch the surface of her growth.

She turns her head left and right, searching for the Amortentia sign she remembers staring at with
such fear on Halloween.

Tonight, she seeks it out with a brave heart.

She remembers what Theo told her about their apartment being only a few doors down from the
pub-club hybrid; with natural deduction, Hermione passes the shops of Hogsmeade until her eyes
reach the outskirts of the town. When she sees the sign of Amortentia swaying pleasantly in the
brisk wind, she recognizes that she is on the right path.

In more ways than one, potentially.

She counts seven doors to the right of Amortentia, arriving at a building around five stories high.
It's defined by its run-down bricks and chipped façade, but the personality of the building screams
acceptance and intrigue.

Recalling Theo's instructions, Hermione removes her wand from inside the arm of her long sleeve
shirt, where she's always felt most comfortable harboring it whenever possible—glued to her
forearm, accessible with just a tug. She points it at the sky.

"Periculum," she mutters, and little red sparks shoot from her wand up into the air. They collide
with the atmosphere and explode in little fireworks, enough to garner the attention of several heads
in a third-story window of the building just a few moments later.

As she slips her wand back into its home within the arm of her sleeve, she notices in her peripheral
a body apparate just behind the front glass door. Hermione makes her way up the few steps of the
building and spots Theo through the window.

Heaving open the door as Hermione advances, he calls out, "Granger! Come inside—you must be
freezing."

She is. Her teeth chatter from being subjected to the cool December air. She'd taken Pansy's advice
and worn something a little more revealing, and now her bare legs are shuddering in tandem with
the wind.

Hermione suspects that her outfit still won't be enough to satisfy Pansy, but then again, Pansy had
offered to lend her a dress just in case.

She'd banked on that offer, in fact. Hoped that she'd be able to hunt through Pansy's closet for a fun
dress.

"Thanks," Hermione says as Theo guides her through the front door and into the apartment
building. She notices the white paint of the walls chipped in random spots, and with minimal
decorations in small lobby area, the building gives off a rather dull ambiance. But with the
Slytherins occupying it, Hermione is confident that the building sees its fair share of excitement.

"It's nothing exquisite," Theo comments as he catches Hermione observing the interior. "But it's
home. More of a home than anywhere else we've ever lived, for that matter."

Hermione smiles as she follows him to the staircase at the opposite end of the room.

"Careful coming up the stairs—they're a little steep. Need a hand?" Theo asks, extending his left
arm to Hermione as they stand at the bottom of the staircase.

"That would actually be great," Hermione says, and she latches her hand over his forearm to steady
herself.

Underneath his black Oxford shirt, Hermione can feel a surge of heat emanate from his skin,
stemming right from where his mark lies.

She ignores the sensation for the time being, not wanting to spoil the night with questions about his
mark. It's the last thing he needs to think about.

But as they continue up the second flight of stairs, Hermione accidentally jabs the front of her foot
into a step. As she does so, she grips Theo's arm just a little tighter to ensure that she doesn't trip
over herself.

Reacting to her stiffened clasp around his forearm, Theo seethes through his teeth and whispers,
"Ouch."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you—"

"Ahhh, no worries," Theo laughs. "Just a tight grip you've got. Good thing you had me to hang on
to."

"Yes," Hermione responds, nodding her head and masking her concern with a smile. "Lucky me."
They continue in silence, and Hermione's brain spins with questions and concerns. Alarmed by the
way Theo recoiled when she touched his arm, Hermione can't help but wonder whether the same
thing happening to Pansy is now happening to Theo.

Whether it's happening to them all.

As they exit the stairwell, Theo guides Hermione through a hallway to the right, back towards the
front of the building. He pauses right before the door, pivoting on his heels just as they reach the
entrance.

"We're just lingering right now inside, but we'll be heading out soon. Apologies if it's a little...
cramped in there."

"No worries."

He nods with an anxious smile and pushes the door open.

Hermione's eyes adjust to the scene before her, one that she certainly was not expecting.

Split into two groups—Daphne, Pansy, and Blaise on one couch, and Adrian and Draco on the
couch opposite—the Slytherins lounge and chat with one another plainly. The living room is clean
and smells of linen. Hermione had expected the smells to be more pungent, the atmosphere rinsed
with the scent of smoke or firewood. Instead, she's pleasantly surprised with the cleanliness of the
room and the fresh ambiance.

At the sound of the door squeaking open, all eyes dart to the door. Hermione grows conscious of
the unseemly fact that she is here. Standing in their doorway. Invading their area where they feel
liberated from the program.

She fears resentment, but those dreads are put to rest when Daphne gasps at the sight of her.

"Oh, Hermione! You're here!" Daphne squeaks, running over to Hermione and jumping into her
arms.

The sound of her name reverberates: Hermione.

Daphne called her Hermione.

Her name hangs in the air as an addition to the ambiance, a testament to the continuation of
building her relationship with each and every one of them, and a step closer to breaking down the
artificial barriers that forced them apart years ago.

With Hermione swaddled in her arms, Daphne rocks her side to side in a fit of merriment.

"Come in! Come in!" Daphne says as she releases her from the hug. Theo closes the door behind
them.

"Hey, Granger," Pansy says, hopping off the couch and stepping towards them. "Come on now,
coat off!"

Hermione apprehensively removes her winter coat, and Theo graciously takes it from her and
hangs it on a hook to the right of the door. He sidesteps in front of Hermione and steals a kiss from
Pansy before slipping into the bathroom on Hermione's right.

Feeling Pansy's eyes judge and contemplate her outfit, Hermione scrunches her face in
apprehension. She'd worn something more revealing than last time—a black, leather skirt, one that
has been hidden in the back of her closet for several years, and a tight-knit, scarlet sweater. Knee
high boots cover the bottom of her legs, leaving her thighs as the only part of her body exposed.

But as she gawks at Pansy's plum-colored bodycon dress and Daphne's forest green, lace, double-
piece skirt and blouse, Hermione realizes that she once again has it all wrong.

"It... It might not be right," Hermione mutters. "I don't have many clothes for clubbing."

Pansy clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "It's... I mean... it's cute..."

"It's a sweet outfit, but we can do sexier," Daphne says with a wink. "What about that cute little
black dress you have, Pans? The silky one with the tiny straps? It's divine, and I know it will look
absolutely stunning on Hermione."

Elated at hearing her name again, Hermione bids Daphne a small smile, yet she doesn't know
whether wearing something too revealing is the right direction for her.

But when she looks past Pansy and Daphne and catches the sullen blonde staring at her, his eyes
plastered on her bare thighs, something stirs within Hermione to accept the offer and see just how
far those eyes will take him.

"Yes, I think we ought to try something a little sexier." Pansy spins and smirks at Draco. "What do
you think, Malfoy?"

Draco leans back further into the couch and stretches his arms across the length of the back,
unresponsive.

Adrian playfully leans into Draco's opening against his shoulder, crosses his arms over his chest,
and pops his legs up onto the couch. "A sight for sore eyes, Granger." He looks up at Draco, who
sits on the couch, speechless.

His eyes return to Hermione: "This one thinks so as well."

"Adrian—"

"Your heart is beating like a fucking drum—"

"I could kill you right now."

Adrian raises his arms in submission and smirks at Hermione. "You look great as is, but I can only
imagine what Ms. Parkinson has in store for you."

"Oh, just you wait," Pansy says, gripping Hermione's wrist and tugging her towards her room on
the right. Daphne squeals and claps her hands as she follows closely behind.

Stumbling over her heels to her closet embedded into the furthest wall from the door, Pansy thrusts
the doors open and rummages through her outfits.

Hermione observes an overwhelming amount of dark clothing.

"I hope you're not offended that we want you to change," Daphne says.

"No, not at all," Hermione responds with a smile. "I just don't really have clothes for this occasion.
I don't normally—"
"Ah! Here it is!" Pansy pulls out a dress on a hanger and waves it in front of Hermione.

The material is shiny, reflecting against the one source of light etched into the ceiling of the room.
Pansy tosses it across the room, and Hermione catches it, feeling the silky and soft material of the
dress against her fingers. As she holds it up in front of her eyes, she realizes just how tiny the dress
is.

Her breath fastens in her chest as she ponders two things about the dress:

This dress is fucking tiny, and this dress is sure to rile Malfoy up.

"Oh, I don't know—" Hermione starts, letting the fabric hang loose in her explorative fingers.

"Just try it on?" Pansy asks hopefully. "It's so sexy. Come on—it'll look great on you. Really."

Hermione inhales deeply, which subsequently morphs into a nod. "Alright," she answers, shaking
her head and clenching her teeth in excitement and nervousness.

"Yes! Now, you have to pair it with these shoes." Pansy rummages through her closet and pulls out
a pair of black pumps, higher than the heels of the boots which she currently wears. Higher than
Hermione's used to wearing in general.

"Oh, wow, those are lovely," Hermione comments, stepping forward and receiving them
graciously. She inspects the size of the heels—they have to be four inches tall. But the wide base
of the heels reassures Hermione that they won't be impossible to walk in.

"If they're not your size, feel free to charm them to fit," Pansy says. "We also tend to charm the
shoes so that they feel a lot more comfortable than they are, so don't worry about your feet hurting
too much from dancing."

"That's ingenious."

"Yes, well, when you've been doing this for a while, you find little ways to make each evening a
bit easier than the last," Pansy explains.

"We'll let you get dressed," Daphne says.

Pansy and Daphne exit the room and close the door behind them, leaving Hermione to gawk at the
outfit before her.

She places the dress on the edge of Pansy and Theo's bed and begins to remove her clothes.
Stepping out of her skirt and tugging her boots off, Hermione undergoes a sensation she can't quite
comprehend.

On the one hand, she's terrified of what tonight harbors. She fears that she'll slip right into Draco's
trap yet again. On the other hand, maybe that's exactly what she wants—to play the game. To
tempt him, taunt him, drive him to his knees at the sight of her. Snatch his power right up in her fist
and flail it in front of him as he kneels in front of her, mesmerized by her effortless control over
him.

With that thought resting in her head, Hermione pulls her sweater over her head and sets it down on
the bed. Now loose without the tension of the long sleeve securing it in place, Hermione's wand
drops to the floor. She leans over to pick it up, twisting it between her fingers and pondering
whether or not she'll bring it with her.
She prefers to carry it everywhere she goes as a shield, a sense of security, something to ensure her
that she'll always be able to protect herself if she needs to.

Glancing down at the band of her underwear, Hermione resolves to slip the wand between the
lining of her knickers and the skin of her thigh. It rests vertically near the inside of her thigh; she
hopes that the dress will at least cover most of it.

Hermione lifts the dress up to her head and slides it over her lingerie, letting the satin fall perfectly
against her figure and rest comfortably on her waist. She has no need to charm the dress—it's a
perfect fit, hugging each pronounced curve of her body with immense flattery.

There's just one catch—her bra sticks out of the fabric like a sore thumb.

Something about unclasping the bra and ripping it off her skin liberates Hermione. She feels the
weight of restriction falter as she slides her arms out of the straps and holds the bra in front of her.
The top of the dress rests perfectly situated on her free breasts, accentuating the curves yet leaving
much to the imagination. She tosses the bra onto her sweater with a chuckle.

As she stands in the room and inspects herself in the small mirror hanging on the wall that is
shared with the living room, Hermione lets her fingers trail up and down her arms. She yearns to be
touched yet again by those strong hands of his—this time, though, against her bare skin and
without the boundaries of clothing holding her festering temptations ransom.

Sliding her feet into the pumps and clasping the straps closed across the top of her feet, Hermione
observes herself in the mirror once more, playing with her hair and creating a bountiful explosion
of her locks. She tosses her hair up and down, styling her waves freely and letting them flop upon
her bare shoulders.

She looks... incredible. She's never been one for flattering herself, but she can't deny the feeling of
excitement in her body as she stares at herself in the mirror.

Turning around and folding her previous clothes—the clothes that represent the old Hermione—
she delicately places the pieces in the corner of Pansy's room.

She takes a deep breath and assumes her confidence, twisting the handle of the door to the left and
pushing it open to step out into the living room once again.

As soon as she steps out, the clanking of her heels resounding against the wooden floor, the eyes of
the Slytherins dart towards her.

"Oh, Granger. You are going to give me a fucking heart attack," Adrian comments, slapping a hand
over his heart.

That comment is all she needs to garner the confidence to stretch her arms to her side in a moment
of presentation.

Daphne gasps lightly as she rises from the couch. "You look outstanding!"

"Absolutely," Blaise says with a smile. "You look great."

Hermione basks in the compliments, and then her eyes travel to meet Draco's across the room.

He just stares. Lounges back on the couch with his legs spread wide, staring at Hermione in an
outfit he never expected to see her wearing.
He stares, but not like other times.

With his mouth hanging open ever so slightly, Draco stares like he's attempting to cement the
image of Hermione in his mind. Like if he looks away for one second, he'll be deprived of the
oxygen he needs to survive.

The sound of Theo exiting the bathroom unhooks Draco's attention, and Hermione swivels her head
to the source of the noise coming from her left.

Theo stops in his tracks and widens his eyes. "Holy hell. You're looking great."

"You recognize that dress, don't you?" Pansy says cheekily.

Theo strides towards his soulmate and delicately kisses her cheek. "Of course. It's been on my floor
so many times—how can I forget?"

"Fucking hell, it also just hangs in your closet," Draco mutters.

"Don't you want to say anything nice?" Pansy asks, raising an eyebrow.

Draco turns back to Hermione and clears his throat. "Granger. You look..." he stutters, searching
his mind for a joke, a snappy remark, anything sarcastic to say.

But nothing comes out. He just stares. And gulps.

"Kneazle got your tongue?" Adrian asks with a hint of sarcasm.

"I've... seen her look better—"

Draco immediately regrets it. And Hermione can tell.

Everyone can tell.

"Oh, yes! Let's reflect on that, shall we?" Adrian asks, satirically itching his chin with his index
finger. "Well, there was the night of the Yule Ball—"

"Fuck's sake, let's just go, please?" Draco groans, standing up and marching towards the door.

Adrian stands and winks at Hermione, who purses her lips through a smile she can't contain.

The Yule Ball feels like ages ago. What turned out of be a frustrating evening for Hermione might
just have set a certain Slytherin's skin aflame with intrigue and desire.

And that insinuation is everything Hermione needs to roll back her shoulders, accentuate her figure,
and stand proudly among the group before her.

As everyone congregates towards the door, Hermione notices that no one carries a coat with them.
She looks at her bare arms and legs and deduces that without a coat, she will indefinitely freeze to
death. And they'll all do the same.

"Aren't you all wearing your coats?" she asks, wrapping her hands around her opposite arms as if to
preemptively warm her body.

"No need," Daphne says, locking arms with Hermione. "We're just going to cast a warming charm
around us while we walk. It's only a few doors down, too. We'll be completely insusceptible to the
chilly weather!"
"That's really smart," Hermione says with a smile, wishing that the world gave this group of
witches and wizards much more credit.

"Adrian, you have the bags?" Draco asks as he fiddles with the top button of his shirt, letting it
loose and tugging apart his lapels. Hermione gulps as his tattoos creep into her sight.

"Yessir," Adrian responds, teasingly saluting Draco.

"The dramatics on you," Draco says, shaking his head.

Adrian shrugs. "I can't help being the funniest person in this group."

"And we love you for it," Pansy says sweetly. "Now, let's go! Please!"

As they step out of the apartment, Hermione's mind wanders to whether she's placed her previous
clothes in a tidy enough position in the corner of Pansy's room.

The stroll to Amortentia is brief; they arrive within a minute of walking outside. Warmth clouds
their bare skin from shivering under the chilly night air, and Hermione feels an extra sense of
security with her arm clasped tightly through Daphne's. They scamper down the sidewalk like the
best of friends, Pansy flagging Hermione's right and smiling merrily with them.

When they enter the pub, Hermione recalls all the same fears she held on Halloween, but she
immediately shoves them down as the group marches through the pub. Something about the
confidence in their walk would've led Hermione to believe that they themselves owned the bloody
place.

She never thought she'd be comfortable with this group—yet here she is. Pouring into a clandestine
club with them a few days before Christmas.

A thought dawns over her: she's truly spending her holidays with the Slytherins.

"Bernard! Hey big guy!" Theo shouts as the group approaches the bouncer. He amicably places his
hand on the man's shoulder. "Listen, I need the bathroom again tonight for a few minutes. Can you
make that work?"

"You lot are like fucking dogs, you know that?" Bernard responds, raising an eyebrow and
laughing at the sight of the group before him.

"Oh, you love us," Pansy says sweetly, shaking her head and puckering her lips playfully.

Bernard groans, but the curve of his lips in a smile tells another story. He rolls his eyes.

"Right, head on in, you lot. Whoa—"

His eyes fall on Hermione, and she immediately recognizes him as the bouncer from Halloween.
She glances at the tattoos on his biceps and arms, cascading like waterfalls upon his skin.

"I remember you," he says. "It's been a while since you've been back, miss."

"Yes, well..." Hermione pauses. "Seemed better to come with some friends this time around."

"Ah, you mean these crazies?"

"I resent that term, Bernie," Adrian jokes, pointing his index finger at the bouncer.
"Yeah, yeah, off you go," Bernard says, gesturing them inside. "Stay safe tonight. Don't do
anything too fucking cracked, you hear? Otherwise, Titus will hear about it."

Theo blows air out of his mouth. "You know he doesn't care," he taunts through a grin.

"Is Titus in?" Draco asks.

"Should be downstairs in his usual spot," Bernard responds with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Snogging around with his little friend?" Blaise asks with a sly smile.

"As I'm sure everyone else is doing down there—and what you lot will also be doing, no question."

"You know us too well!" Daphne concedes as the group stumbles forward into the dark stairwell.

"I'll say it again—don't do anything too wild!"

"No promises!" Adrian sings back.

They descend the same dark staircase, and Hermione suddenly becomes very aware of the
pounding from the club below. It coincides with her heart, thumping against her chest at the same
beat as the bass of the music against her feet.

She descends the staircase slowly, treading delicately against the steps with her tall heels. Adrian
turns around and notices Hermione taking her time at the end of the line. He waits for her to reach
him and holds his hand out. Hermione sighs and accepts his hand. They plod down the stairs, the
heels of their shoes echoing through the chamber of the stairwell.

It's like a tunnel with a light beaming at the end of it, guiding them to a promised land, a haven,
somewhere they can uninhibit their confined desires.

"Too wild?" Hermione clarifies Bernard's words, her lips sliding into a mischievous smile.

Adrian snorts. "Oh, Granger. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."
 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes

tw // vivid description of drug use

Hermione wonders what it feels like to float on a cloud. Let the plush mix of water droplets and air
ferry her through the pale, cerulean sky. Succumb to the flight and transcendence of her body
above all other feelings and beings.

But as the group immediately convenes in the bathroom of Amortentia, thrusting the door closed
with a chorus of laughs and snickers, and Hermione watches closely as Adrian pulls a dime bag
chockfull of white powder out from the right pocket of his slacks, she realizes that it's not a cloud
she'll be floating on tonight—no, she'll be gripping the mane of a wild stallion, sliding down the
jagged edges of a golden lightning bolt, and maybe even dancing with the Devil himself in the hot
pit of Hell.

Her back is glued to the door. As much as her feet want to step forward, she finds the adhesive
hold of the door tugging her back, like she knows a step onward into the epicenter of the group will
represent the commencement of an unknowable and unforeseeable journey, one she can't possibly
plan or schematize but instead must dive into headfirst.

"You coming, Granger?" Blaise asks sweetly, turning towards her and extending his hand.

It's tempting. Oh, so tempting. She wants to burst forward and latch her hand around Blaise's,
keenly accept his invitation into their world of recreation and hedonism.

Instead, Hermione's anxiety tells her otherwise. Logic sheathes her mindset, the part of her brain
that controls her decisions. It vies for control—like it always does—harassing her frontal lobe with
pestering what ifs and what would this person think and how could you live with yourself if you go
through with this?

She's already stepped outside of her comfort zone today. Wearing Pansy's dress—without a bra, she
might add—corroborates that statement.

How much further Hermione's courage will take her is indeed a mystery, an enigmatic figment of
her conscience as she attempts to relax the strain in her shoulders, undoubtedly coursing down her
arms and triggering her hairs to stand erect amidst the chilling and tantalizing atmosphere of the
bathroom.

A gulp is all she can muster as the hungry eyes of the group stare at her questionably, patiently
awaiting her response to their summons, their enticing offer of venturing into another world.

She feels the heat of Draco's eyes on her, studying the bends and nooks of her figure underneath the
dress, and she wonders whether she'll feel his gaze tenfold under the effects of the drugs, just as he
explained it to her months ago—the heightened senses, the overarching feelings of sensitivity, and
the delicate quiver of her fingers.

She wants to feel them all. Truly, she does.

So why won't the soles of her heels fucking move?

Recognizing her apprehension, Adrian approaches her, his lovable smile appearing sweeter than
saccharine to Hermione. She eases her tension as Adrian stands just a foot away from her, softening
his voice to a match the sweetness of his expression. "It's really not that bad. I promise."

"A lot of people say that they don't even feel that much their first time doing it," Pansy offers, her
body appearing in Hermione's line of vision just behind Adrian's broad shoulders.

"Really?" Hermione asks, intrigued at the concept, captivated by the innerworkings of the very
particles that make up the cocaine before her.

Pansy nods. "It really just depends on the quality of it, though. Lucky for us, Adrian picked up this
batch earlier today."

"Made my little trip to Barnet and met with our lovely little friend in the alley behind our favorite
record store," Adrian describes with a smirk. "And he assured me that this batch is something else."

Blaise steps forward. "Would you be more comfortable if I ran a diagnostic over the drugs?" he
asks, the tone of his voice a little higher and softer than usual. "It's not something we usually do,
but if it'll help soothe your anxiety..."

"You're also not required to do this," Theo says reassuringly. "Really. There's no pressure."

Hermione bites her lower lip, not wanting to be a stick in the mud. Her head drops to gaze at the
floor, at the way the soles of her feet shift and contort under the pressure of the heels.

Adrian leans forward, using the side of his index finger to lift Hermione's chin up, creating a
moment of intense eye contact between them.

"Let's play our game for a moment," Adrian says, clearing his throat and gazing at Hermione with
sincerity in his glimmering jade eyes, so much so that she swears all her worries dissipate. She
doesn't even need to hear an explanation; any sound that Adrian emits stirs a feeling of security
within her, one that resembles the same way she sees Harry.

"We will not impose any illicit or foreboding actions upon you," Adrian starts, his lips slanting in a
mischievous smirk.

Hermione finds herself giggling, just like she always does around him.

"What we are going to ask, though, is that you try to relinquish your worries tonight. Just have fun.
However that looks. This—" Adrian holds the baggie in the palm of his hand, lifting it to occupy
the warm space between their unevenly leveled faces— "this just helps you have fun. Makes you
feel warm inside, like your muscles are bones are tanning under the perfect amount of sunshine.
And believe me, it makes dancing, singing, shouting, moving, and even just breathing feel like
fireworks."

Her eyes connect with Adrian's for a moment, then wander around his body to lock with Draco's.
He stares at her placidly, hands shoved into the pocket of his slacks as he leans against a stall. The
corner of his mouth raises in a smirk.

He practically speaks to her with his snarky gaze:

You won't do it.

It's almost as if Hermione can hear Draco say it. Over the pounding of the bass on the floor and the
ringing of the music filling her ears, Hermione can make out how Draco perceives her.

The game is afoot.

She smirks at him, relaying her message in her mind:

Won't I?

"Honestly, Granger, it's really not a big deal if you're uncomfortable—"

"I'll do it."

Adrian cheers mightily, simultaneously wrapping his arms around her waist, hoisting her into the
air, and spinning her with glee. "Oh, fuck yes, Granger!" He places her back down on the floor and
pulls away, clearing his throat and readjusting the lapels of his button-up.

"Just follow our lead, yeah?" Pansy affirms with a smile and a nod. "And if you don't want to
anymore, just say the word."

Hermione nods, and suddenly her feet are free from the adhesive grip of her qualms. They guide
her to follow the group to the large, granite countertop on the right side of the bathroom. She flags
behind them, observing as Draco drops to his knees, along with Theo and Pansy. Soon after,
Adrian rushes Draco's left, handing him the bag and patting his shoulder for good measure.
Hermione ebbs to the left of Blaise and Daphne, who tower behind the kneeling Slytherins and
watch with pleasure as the scene unfolds.

Stopping just above Adrian, Hermione inhales deeply as she watches Draco unlatch the seal of the
bag. She observes carefully as he tips the contents of the baggie out across the surface of the
countertop.

Instinctively, she licks her lips. Doesn't know why, but the sight of the powder contrasting against
the dark granite stirs the feeling of anticipation within her. Like her blood is screaming for it to
coalesce with the pure chemicals in front of her.

Adrian glances up at Hermione, noticing the way she intently stares at Draco's hand as it guides the
cocaine out of the bag. He scoots to the left, opening a space for Hermione to kneel and watch
more closely.

"Spot's yours if you want it," he offers with a smile.

Hermione smiles, placing her hand on Adrian's shoulder for support and she drops to her knees,
receiving a front-row seat to the playout of her future.

Setting the baggie down for a moment once the proper amount of cocaine is allocated, Draco digs
into his pockets and pulls out a leather wallet; he dips his fingers inside the slip and pulls out an
identification card, rough on the edges and worn from use.

As he shoves the wallet back into his pocket, Draco ever so slightly shifts his head to the left,
glancing at Hermione for just a brief moment. His eyes lift slightly to reach hers, and the wing of
his cherry lips rolls into a devilish grin.

Yes, she'd be dancing with the devil tonight.

Draco begins to separate the pile of cocaine into seven separate lines, all perfectly divided by the
careful maneuvering of his hand, as if the art of cutting up lines is something he's perfected, as if
it's something that outshines his once expert magical skills. It's like a testament to his amputation
from the wizarding world—as he cuts the cocaine with precision, Hermione wonders whether he
feels reminiscent about things like potions class, where he'd skillfully slice ingredients and smirk in
the quick completion of his assignments.

He uses the same techniques here as he did in that class, just for a wholly different purpose,
representing a completely different world.

Once the lines are cut and sculpted to perfection, Draco lifts the card to his face and scrutinizes the
edge, coated with tiny grains of cocaine. He swipes his finger against the edge, compiling the
insignificant yet indispensable amount of powder onto his finger. He briskly rubs it into his gums
and shoves the card back into his pocket.

From behind her, Hermione can hear Blaise shuffle through his pocket, pulling out a wad of
banknotes and distributing them to each member of the group. Hermione takes her willingly; she's
cognizant that they're supposed to roll the bills, but she doesn't know the strategy for doing so.

She turns her head to the left to watch as Adrian's nimble fingers spin the banknote into itself, and
suddenly the face of the Queen disappears behind the blue and white colors, and the bill becomes
like a straw. He rolls it tightly but ensures to leave enough room for a clear presence of a passage,
one where the cocaine can easily shoot up and meet its temporary home before it dissolves into
nothingness, a mirage of the night they'll all experience.

Hermione begins to roll hers the same way, and soon she's crafted her tube. And as everyone
begins to settle in their spots, preparing to snort the powder before them, undergo the
overwhelmingly pleasant sensations, Hermione feels her breath catch in her chest.

With a pat on her bare thigh from Adrian, she finds herself exhaling into bliss, all occurring before
she's even sniffed the substance that's supposed to do that very job.

"Check it out," Adrian says, holding the rolled banknote above his line and shoving the top just
inside his right nostril. "It's simple, okay? Just count to three."

To her right, she hears the ensemble of the others snorting their dose, then consequently pinching
the bridges of their noses as their eyes roll back, clench shut, and widen with thrill.

Her focus falls onto Draco, who knocks the cocaine back so effortlessly that it's like magic to
watch. He doesn't squirm, doesn't whimper, doesn't make a fucking sound—just inhales the
chemicals and lets them fester in his system.

"Watch me, okay?" Adrian instructs, and Hermione obliges as he swipes the banknote across the
counter, the white grains disappearing the further he presses forth. Suddenly, they're gone, lifted
into his nose with ease and sinking into his system like a knife slicing into warm butter. It's
effortless and enchanting.

He licks his finger, dabs his moist index digit against the remaining grains, and rubs them into his
gums in a similar fashion as Draco.

Hermione musters up every ounce of her courage and holds the banknote above the powder.

"So, just line it up and—"

She doesn't even heed Adrian's advice because she's too occupied inhaling the cocaine through the
banknote.
The moment it contacts the walls of her nose, she feels a slight burn. Nothing too painful, just a
sharp sensation that says yes, she is fucking doing this. She just snorted cocaine with the group of
Slytherins she's trying to rehabilitate.

Oh gods, why'd I... why'd I...

"Fucking badass!" Pansy shouts from the other side of Draco.

Hermione gasps slightly, knocking her head back to beg for fresh air. There's a faint chemical taste,
but it fades after a moment as she naturally wets her mouth. And there's an odd feeling in the back
of her mouth, like the sensations are trickling down and spreading across the roof of her mouth.

Maybe it's a placebo effect, but Hermione swears she can feel the insides of her nose grow numb.

"It should take a few minutes to settle," Adrian calmly explains, standing up and offering his hand
to Hermione.

As she recollects her bearings and cranes her neck to the side, Hermione notices another offering
hand to her right.

It's Draco's.

His hand lingers in the air, waiting for hers to mold against his, anticipating a spark upon contact,
as if Hermione's touch will somehow boost the effects of his high.

"Take my hand," Draco says, but it comes off as more of an order.

And she's not looking to disobey.

Her right hand reaches up and grasps his, and she suddenly returns to the night of Halloween,
evoking the thoughts and sensations of Draco's wild hands upon her body. Transported to that
moment, she stares into Draco's eyes as he guides her up, and quickly she begins to feel her heart
pound against her ribcage like it's dying to be free.

"Ready to go?" Blaise asks, rounding up Daphne and guiding her towards the door.

The group nods excitedly, and they quickly pile out of the bathroom and shove their way through
the crowd of dancing bodies. Securing a spot in the middle of the floor, Pansy and Daphne reach
for Hermione to join them.

She's tugged out of Draco's grip—certain she'll be back there later.

Minutes later, as Hermione is dancing with Daphne and Pansy, she begins to feel it.

Well, she feels something.

It could be the cocaine. Could be the chemicals triggering the dopamine in her brain and sending it
straight to her veins.

But it could also be her intimate thoughts and desires coming to fruition under the blinding heat of
the strobe lights, as if they're interrogating her for her secrets, coercing her to spill them in the
limelight.

Either way, Hermione finds herself dancing wildly, her arms waving in the hot air and her hips
swaying fluidly against the swarms of people around her.
It's just like Draco said—she can hear, see, smell, feel, and even taste everything around her. Her
tongue throbs in her mouth as she catches sweat from her temples. Her vision grows slightly hazy
as the lights dance against the ceiling, walls, bodies. The tips of her fingers tingle with anticipation
—want.

But what she really feels is bold, confident, and outstandingly courageous. Not that those aren't
already inherent traits of hers—they've simply been multiplied by the drugs, streaming through her
mind at double the pace.

The adrenaline in her body takes over; under the bright lights, the throbbing music, and the
intoxicating atmosphere of the club, Hermione finally lets herself fall privy to the ambiance.

She lets out a yell, saturated with emotional pleasure and electric flames.

Pansy and Daphne dance in front of her, coaxing her towards them with kittenish invitations, their
fingers curling and flicking towards themselves. Hermione obliges, and suddenly she's lodged in
between Pansy and Daphne, and they're dancing upon one another in total elation.

In front of their train, Hermione watches as the boys all dance with one another, their bodies
flowing with the sounds of the music. Even Draco—usually so stiff and taut, as if it's a personality
trait—lets the vibrations ebb his body back and forth, and Hermione can't help but wonder again
what it would feel like to be back in those arms.

Adrian gawks at the sight of the Hermione dancing with Pansy and Daphne. He throws his arms in
the air and shouts over the blaring music, "Ha-ha! You're wonderful, Granger!"

Hermione cheers and throws her head back, her arms reaching to the heavens like she's trying to
claw her way to bliss.

"Yes!" Adrian shouts again. "That's it! Go on, you brilliant little minx!"

"It's working, yes? Can you feel it?" Daphne yells into Hermione's ear.

"Yes!" Hermione cries back. "I can feel it!"

"Well done!" Pansy cries, and then they're all screaming yet again, their voices colliding with the
pounding echo of the music.

Hermione dances and dances for what feels like hours, though it's only been mere minutes since
she inhaled those drugs. Yet everything—even time itself—seems to slow down as she rolls her
neck in a circle and lets the air crash against her skin.

When she resettles her head in the center and gazes out of her periphery to the left, she spots a man
dancing several feet away.

He's eyeing her, staring her down and flicking his tongue across his lips as if to denote his
intentions.

She's certain that the drugs are working, because in a sudden burst of confidence driven by nothing
more than her desire to feel someone's body against hers, Hermione squeezes out of the middle of
Pansy and Daphne and staggers over her high heels towards him.

When Hermione reaches the man, she smiles. He's tall and dark, his skin like olive and his eyes cut
straight from stars. His curly locks rest across his forehead, damp with the secretions of temptation
that drew Hermione towards him in the first place.
"Aren't I a very lucky man," he coos, eyeing Hermione up and down and licking his lips at the
sight of her.

"Yes, you are," Hermione responds with total confidence, extending her hand and letting it rest on
his elbow.

"Dance with me."

Hermione inches towards his face, flicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Suddenly,
she's spinning around and thrusting her back against him, grinding against his compliant body. She
moves fluidly against him, letting her left arm creep its way up and wrap around his head, her
hands sinking into his locks and pushing the back of his head further towards her. The movement
coaxes him into her neck, and when he breathes upon her and begins to suck her skin lightly,
Hermione closes her eyes and tries to enjoy the sensations.

It's a comfortable dance, but it's not exciting.

Nothing like Halloween.

And when her eyes flutter open and she looks in front of her, she spots Draco in the crowd, several
feet away, staring her down.

She becomes very aware of the severity of his glare.

In an instant, the feeling of the man behind her becomes secondary. She knows his hands are
traveling up and down her body, but the only thing she can feel is the daggers shooting from
Draco's eyes, stabbing her square in the chest.

In a moment of conviction, Hermione decides to pick up the game where they left off weeks ago.
Decides it's time to revisit Draco's pressure points.

Because that's always given her a rush, and gods, to feel that under this already immense sensation
would be like fucking nirvana.

She falls deeper into the stranger's arms, her hips swaying more visibly against his lower half. And
she lets her mouth fall slack, denoting her pleasure and enjoyment.

All of which is fake, but it nevertheless sends Draco into a fit of silent rage.

All the while, her eyes remain glued to Draco's. She stares him right down, relishes in the anger
spreading across his face as she dances with and relinquishes herself to the touch of another person.

Then suddenly, Draco is yanking the arm of a woman to his right and throwing her in front of him.

And the woman is wholly receptive.

She begins to dance against him, and Draco's hands roam freely against her body.

Another sensation stirs in Hermione as she watches his hands cloak the woman's body: jealousy.

He's playing her right back.

Those hands should be on her.

Fucking bastard.
The rushing adrenaline in her body commands her to push further, do more, try anything she can to
get a reaction out of him. Solidify her rightful place as the one with the power.

That's what it's always been about, anyways.

She grips the stranger's head behind her and forces it against her neck; heeding her request, he
begins to lap his tongue against her beating pulse, like the taste of her skin is everything he needs
to breathe.

It's... the feeling isn't... as enjoyable...

But, for the purpose of putting on a show, Hermione throws her head back and moans.

When she returns to look at Draco, she sees that he's sucking the girl's neck as well.

But those eyes. They're still staring straight at Hermione.

Go further, a voice tells her.

Daringly, Hermione spins around and throws her arms over the man's shoulders, breaking eye
contact with Draco for just a few seconds so she can successfully maneuver the man around. She
switches positions as they twirl one-hundred and eighty degrees, and almost instantly she's pushing
her body back against his. As she settles her chin upon his shoulder and grips the back of his shirt
with her fingernails, she reconnects eye contact with Draco. And she tilts her neck to the side to
allow the stranger to kiss her neck even more.

The heat of her glare pierces through the strobe lights, the atmosphere, every fucking particle in
the club to reach Draco.

He instigates the next move—raises the stakes to stay alive in the game. He takes his hand and
places it up against the woman's throat, pressing his fingers ever so slightly into her skin. The
woman knocks her head back and turns it to the side to feverishly kiss his cheek, and all the while
Draco still holds his eye contact with Hermione.

Hermione digs her fingernails into the man's back, her bottom lip latching onto his shoulder and
dragging up in a sensual motion.

Draco runs his other hand up the side of the woman, ensuring that he feels every single bend and
curve of her body.

Hermione tugs the stranger's outside cheek, forcing his head towards her and allowing him to slip
his tongue into the cavity of her ear.

Draco tugs on his stranger's hair, exposing her bare neck and tracing his fingers up and down her
neck.

Hermione moans.

Draco grits his teeth.

Her next move is everything; driven by her tunnel-vision, she feels the light of victory loom so
close before her that she can practically taste it.

Hermione jerks the man to the side and drives her lips against his.

It's messy and chaotic, defined by nothing more than a desire to piss off her lifelong opponent.
Nevertheless, their lips join together in wet and fluid motions, and Hermione holds back her
displeasure with the sensation as she feverishly latches her mouth against his.

And when she opens her eyes and twists her head to the left, still kissing the man but
simultaneously searching for Draco's expression, all she can see is the girl he was dancing with
now standing alone.

Hermione pulls her lips away from the stranger and scours the crowd, searching for Draco in the
hopes that she can savor in her victory in front of him, watch as his expression fluctuates from
anger to distress as she forces him to relive the moment.

"What's wrong?" the man asks, fastening his hands tighter around Hermione's waist.

Hermione glances back at the man and scrunches her nose. "I have to go."

"Wait, what—"

Before he can finish, Hermione successfully wiggles out of his grasp and storms through the
crowd, searching for Draco.

She lets the palpitations of her heart carry her through the stations of immense sensations—her ears
receiving the music, her nose inhaling the odors of lust, and her eyes catching each strobe of light
as it strikes in front of her eyes. The taste of the stranger's mouth lingers on her tongue, and she
wishes for nothing more than to not only dispel that taste but replace it with another. Her head
pounds from a rush of adrenaline, and her skin sizzles with the desire for his hands.

Draco's hands.

She has an idea of where he's retreating to—it's a habit she's picked up on over the past few
months. When things get difficult, Draco evacuates to a place made for total privacy. It doesn't
even bother her that yet again, she's forcing her way into his moment of desired seclusion.

As she pushes through the crowd, she spots a patch of distinct blonde hair disappearing into the
bathroom.

"Malfoy!" she calls out, but the door is already closed by the time she says his name.

She reaches the door, and without hesitating—because she simply can't be bothered to think
straight anymore, not when her body is acting with a mind of its own—she thrusts it wide open.

And there he is, engaging in his usual sullen fest. He leans against the sink, his jaw clenched, and
the veins in his hands protruding out of his skin as he grips the side of the counter.

The door closes, and Draco's head leaps up.

"Why'd you run off?" Hermione asks satirically, a smirk topping off the sheer mien of victory.

"Fuck off," Draco says, leaning against the granite and ignoring her question.

"Are you mad because of what you saw?" She takes a step towards him—slow.

Draco scoffs. "That cocaine is making you too confident for your own good."

"Come on," she says, letting the tip of her tongue stick out between her teeth and touch the air,
sample the tension of the atmosphere on her taste buds. "You're mad because of what I did with
that guy."
She pauses to his right, placing her right hand on the counter next to his. Mustering up the
confidence within her, the cocaine being the conductor, Hermione leans over towards his ear.

When Hermione leans over and gently grazes his biceps with her chest, Draco's breath becomes
unsteady. He grips the edge of the countertop tighter, digging his nails into the granite, desperately
trying to ignore his emotions, dispel the dirty thoughts he harbors, and resist reaching out to touch
Hermione's bare skin. He shivers with a tension so undefinable he feels his brain turn to mush just
thinking about it.

Enhancing the confidence which the cocaine stirs in her, Hermione bows forward further into
Draco's arm, hovers her cherry lips right upon his ear, and sensually whispers, "What you wish I
would've done with you."

She doesn't even know where that sentence comes from. But she can see and feel Draco shake with
the promise of a reaction, and it causes Hermione to grin with victory.

Draco slowly twists his head to the right, gazing at Hermione with fire, lust, abject rage in his eyes.

"That's—"

"Don't deny it," she's quick to interrupt, intent of retaining the upper-hand, satisfied by the way his
lips quiver when she disturbs his line of thought. "It's written all over your face." She licks her lips,
bites her tongue, and cranes her neck to the side to truly give Draco an idea of the hold she has over
him. His eyes follow the gentle slope of her neck, then travel further south to glance briefly at the
crest between her breasts, visible beneath the silky material of her dress.

"Gods," she sighs, "It's so pathetically obvious."

"I'm warning you, don't push me—"

"Or what?" she asks through a staggered laugh, each beat hitting Draco's nerves like torrential rain
against a skylight. "You know, you threaten me quite a bit, but those threats are always rather
empty."

"Granger—"

"Are you ever really going to do anything?"

Draco chuckles, a nefarious grin growing on his face, and Hermione wonders whether she'll slip
from her position of power.

She's desperate to hold on.

"That cocaine is making you incredibly bold," he slurs in return, finally turning to face her. "I
wonder how far it will take your little courage."

"Far."

"Really?" he asks, pushing himself off of the counter and pacing one foot to his right, effectively
arranging himself right in front of Hermione. With a lustful step forward, Draco successfully traps
Hermione between his arms, his head hovering just above hers.

And just like that, the power struggle shifts. The atmosphere in the room morphs into one too thick
to breathe in. Hermione feels her chest leap forth, the poundings from her heart and gut working in
tandem as Draco inches forward just a little bit more. She's caught in the headlights, wedged
between the conflicting emotions regarding her deepest desires. And her gut is aching, tender with
the distant yet somehow alarmingly close gap between them.

Hermione doesn't think through her next action. She just does it, like the impulsive fuck she is.

In a fluid motion, she hikes her dress up just a few inches to gain access to the wand still notched
between the band of her underwear and her skin. Draco's eyes shoot down to observe the sight, and
when he realizes that she's hold a wand to him, he stumbles backwards.

Aiming her vine wood wand at Draco, she sneers. " Really."

He backs away but laughs simultaneously. "You pulling a wand on me, now? Are you scared of
me?"

"On the contrary. You're the one with fear in your eyes."

"You're seeing things," he attests, shaking his head slowly. "Been too much of a naughty girl
tonight with those drugs."

"Just finally letting loose and having a bit of fun, is all."

"Yeah? You're having fun?"

"I am."

The way Draco licks his lips—moistens them with the gloss of his clandestine temptations—
causes Hermione's knees to shake slightly. She holds the wand between her fingers as firmly as
possible, assuming all the strength she has left—all the strength that hasn't yet been tested by
Draco—to continue to stare him down, uncover his secrets with her eyes, peel back the layers, the
multiple idiosyncrasies, the fucking infinite stratums which characterize her enemy.

"You feeling angry, too?" Draco asks. "Want to get that frustration out?"

"Don't tempt me," she says through gritted teeth, almost wholly resolute on hexing him.

"Why? You certainly like it. Being tempted."

Hermione seethes through her teeth, feeling a rush of adrenaline pump through her body and inflate
her muscles. She's pissed. Furious. Desperate to get her anger out.

Craving to let him be the one to guide it out of her.

"You want to get that anger out? Channel it into something a little more productive?"

Yes.

"I want to hex the fuck out of you right now," she spits.

"Me and who else?"

She recoils in his diversion, and the contest for power continues between the two, a dance
choreographed perfectly for them and no one else. Nothing can compare—not in the slightest—to
the built-up and ever-growing tension which the two conceived years ago.

Everything that has been compiled and stored away into their boxes—the feelings, the memories,
the desired sensations—pours out before them through this evening's repartee.
"Come on," Draco says, "I have a game I think you'll enjoy. Let's see how much of a reaction I can
get out of you. Let's see whether you spit flames or daggers from that little mouth of yours."

The tension surges as the bass from the music outside seeps through the floor and up the soles of
their shoes.

"I'll say a name, and you tell me how much you want to hex them. How much you hate them. Let's
see just how long we can last before that anger spills out of you."

She inhales deeply through her nose, still slightly numb from the drugs but slowly becoming more
sensitized to the scents around her—the fucking pheromones coiling through each oxygen atom. It
suffocates her; she asphyxiates on the atmosphere.

But she doesn't care. She's undergone a withdrawal of her own—a secession from the ripostes she
so enjoys engaging in with Draco. Asphyxiate she will if it means continuing this banter
forevermore.

"Why don't we start with our friends from the Ministry," Draco says, pacing clockwise back
towards the sink, and Hermione stalks his movements with her wand still aimed at him. They land
in a line parallel to the sink and the stalls, Hermione's back facing the door that leads back to the
club. "Who would you love to hex over there?"

Hermione is quick to respond.

"All of them."

"Yeah? All of them?"

She heatedly nods.

"How about that fucking prick Aberfield? Remember all the things he did to us? Remember how
he put those trackers in us? Forced medicine down our throats without consent? Threatened us with
our own suites at St. Mungo's? Remember how he ignores you—the most brilliant witch of her age
—and treats you like his assistant every motherfucking day? You want to hex the shit out of him?"

"Yes," she seethes, thinking about everything he's done to them—everything he's done to her. All
the lies, the unethical actions, and the fucking patronization.

"Let that anger out," Draco instructs. "Go on. You've got the wand."

The old Hermione would worry about property damage, an authority figure finding her, or the
consequences of such aggressive and intemperate actions.

This Hermione—the one with cocaine dancing in her bloodstream and fire in her heart—sends a
jinx from the tip of her wand towards one of the sinks to her right. As the violet sparks collide with
the faucet, the metal combusts and shoots into the air under the pressure of the burst pipe. Water
spurts from the disconnected spout.

Hermione's eyes widen and her mouth hangs slack jawed.

Draco, on the other hand, blazingly widens his smile. "That felt good, didn't it?"

He's got her, she thinks. Fuck, he's got her right where he wants her.

"Now, what about our Healer, huh? What do you think of that fucking bitch?"
"I hate her," Hermione immediately answers, and then without even thinking she shoots another
spell at the sink. This time it collides with the second faucet, and the pipe bursts and water surges
from the uncovered nozzle like the gush of a fountain in the moment of a climactic torrent.

"Who else? Come on, I know there's more people. What about our bright Minister of Magic? The
oaf who won't listen to you? Who won't trust you, even after you two fought in a war together?
How do you feel about him?"

Hermione doesn't hate Kingsley. She doesn't.

But she says it anyways.

"I hate him!"

And she hurls another spell in the same direction, this time connecting with the granite countertop.
It cracks in half, like how an earthquake splits the earth with just a rumble. All it takes within
Hermione is a similar sensation to break through the threshold of her anger and wreak chaos on
anything in her way.

"Keep going!" Draco shouts over the colossal noises, the echoes of the water jetting from the
nozzles and colliding with the wall above them. "I know there's more people—more anger! Who
else? Doesn't even need to be a Ministry worker! Come on, dig deep! How about the fuckers that
started it all, huh?"

"I hate Voldemort!" Hermione cries out, and she shoots another spell at the countertop.

"Keep going!"

"Bellatrix! Dolohov! Mulciber! The Carrows! All of them!"

With each name, another burst of light emanates from her wand.

"Who else?"

Hermione groans at the way he's coercing her to show her aggressive side.

She glares him right in the eyes and screams, "I hate you!"

"Yeah? You hate me?"

"Yes! I hate you!"

"Say that again!"

"I hate how you treat me!"

"Keep going!"

"You make me so furious! Your attitude is the worst! And I... I hate how you have this power over
me! I hate what you're doing to me!"

"This is all you!" he yells back. "I'm simply helping you bring out that fire! But this is all your
anger!"

"You're coercing me! You're... You're—"

She suddenly realizes the mess she's caused in the bathroom—the water flowing over the floor, the
broken pieces of the countertop, and the disconnected metal from the sink.

Hermione begins to lower her wand, but Draco isn't keen on allowing the game to stop just yet.

He tsks and darts towards her. "Not so fast."

Draco's right hand reaches towards hers, and he vehemently wraps his hand around her fingers.
Swinging around to swathe her back with his chest, Draco recreates the picture they conceived on
Halloween. With his left arm snaking around Hermione's waist, his right hand lifting hers back up
in front of her, and his chin nestled on her right shoulder, Draco snatches the power right out from
under her.

And when he presses his torso against her backside, exhibiting no mercy against her all too
sensitized skin, Hermione lets out a gasp at the all too delicate and enhanced emotions festering
within her, scratching at the membrane of her skin to surface and materialize as goosebumps and
prone hairs.

"Keep going," he whispers in her ear, pressing up against her tighter, the outline of his figure all too
clear for Hermione to map out against her back. His broad muscles, defined chest, and smooth skin
glue to her back. "I want to feel your anger writhe through every inch of your body." His arm
tightens around her waist, and she undergoes a déjà vu more exciting and arousing than ever
before.

Using his left hand to push against her waist, Draco leads Hermione to turn a little to the left. His
fingers on hers, Draco latches tightly onto Hermione's hand, steadying the barely noticeable yet
still existing trembles that rush through her fingers. He guides her to point her wand at one of the
stalls.

Draco sucks in a breath through his teeth just beside her ear, and the sound alone drives her ever
closer to the apex of her patience.

In a matter of seconds, the magic from her wand blows the door off its hinges.

Draco yanks her back as the door flies towards the sink and collapses in the already accumulated
puddle of water on the floor.

He laughs slowly in her ear, the vibrations coinciding with Hermione's flutters. A smile creeps on
her face, one formed out of the exhilaration of the moment.

"That one was for me," Draco whispers. "Because you hate me."

Hermione begins to center herself again, and she twists her head to the right ever so slightly to
match his level. Their breaths coincide in the heat of the moment.

"I do hate you."

"Good. I hate you too. And you know who else I hate?"

Hermione shakes her head, enchanted by the look in his eyes as his face lingers barely inches away
from hers.

"That fucker you kissed."

Hermione's eyes widen. She feels the ghost of the man's lips against hers, but when Draco slides
his left hand up the center of her chest, his fingers dragging and tracing against her sternum, the
man's lips are gone, and all she can think about is how Draco is inches away from grazing her bare
breasts. One move to the left or right and she'd fall privy to anything he'd say.

"And do you want to know why?"

As Draco's fingers drop again and rest just below her chest, she exhales an assertive breath.

"Because I gave him something you wanted," she mutters.

"Precisely," he whispers, and then his hand is back to her stomach, his fingernails dragging against
the fabric. Even with the boundary of the dress, Hermione can feel every single thing he does,
every place he's touched, like he's drawing constellations on her, like he's trying to create the
perfect piece of art, the stroke of his fingers against her body a visual perfect enough to display in
any home, museum, or fucking palace if one pleases.

You're a little fucking tease, aren't you?

Those were his words that night. And they'd be her words tonight.

"Because I'm a tease," she echoes, the words spilling out of her mouth without her even
contemplating the implications.

With a laugh strong enough to act as Hermione's vice, Draco's left hand rises and slowly begins to
toy with the left strap of her dress, lifting it up and down and sliding his fingers across her
collarbone.

She can't help it. She whimpers as his silky fingers traverse beneath the band and down her chest,
trailing the area just above her bare breasts.

"Now you're getting it," he whispers in her ear, his hands now freely exploring her skin, unbound
by the obstacle of any fabric. Free to roam across her body as he pleases, just as her daydreams
expected. "And I bet you hate that girl, huh? The one whose body my hands were all over? Hm?"

He continues to trace her bare skin, and Hermione sings praises to every spirit on earth for forcing
her to wear this dress.

"You watched, and you got angry."

"And so did you."

He chuckles. "Yes," he slurs, gently placing his lips on the back of her ear. "I was angry. I am still
angry."

At the feeling of his lips puckering against her sensitized skin—a part of her body she craves more
exploration of—Hermione lets out a quiet moan. She lifts her free hand to her mouth, biting down
on the tips of her fingers to mask any further sound.

She's mortified at the sound, but it's music to Draco's ears, paramount to a fucking award-winning
soundtrack that retells the story of his life.

A life where's he's secretly pined for her. Desired her. Craved her. Required her.

"I'll be honest with you." He pauses. "Would you like that—would you like me to tell you the
truth? Let you in on a little secret of mine?"
Hermione vigorously nods, her verbal answer lodged in the back of her mouth. She can't speak,
can't think, can't fucking breathe with Draco's arms around her. She feels like she'll fall into
oblivion in any moment, sink into his embrace and morph into a puddle of total enamor.

"That girl felt nothing like you. Looks nothing like you. Not with this dress on. You don't know
how good you look wearing this simple piece of fabric." Draco drops his head and tilts it to the
side to place a kiss on Hermione's neck, sucking over the spots that the other man left.

"What are you—"

"And she tasted nothing like you do right now," he slurs, and his tongue gently massages the red
spots on her neck, claiming them as his own—not simply taking credit for them, but going so far as
to one-up the man who placed them there with his own marks, his own love bites, his own
representations of just how much he wants to taste and drown in her sweet skin.

"You still hate me?" he asks, breathing hot air over the moist parts of her neck, dampened only
moments ago through his doing.

She nods. "Yes."

"You hate the girl I was doing this to?"

"Mhm," Hermione moans.

Draco snickers. "Good. Then do as I say."

Suddenly, Draco spins Hermione around. She almost trips over her heels, but she's able to steady
herself with the sheer force of the universe on her side. He takes several steps back, and Hermione
grows cold without his touch.

Raising his hands up in the air as if he's under arrest, Draco instructs Hermione to do the following:
"Hit me. For that girl. Since you hate her. Release that anger and hit me with a spell, your fist,
whatever you want."

She just stands there, staring at him, her eyes hazy with the revoked euphoria of his touches.

"Come on, I know you want to hit me. Or hex me. So, do it."

Her wand is extended, hand is shaking, and her eyes are flaming with anger.

She wants to do it.

"Go on, hex me."

She's livid. Enraged that he's once again toyed with her, forced her to project her unbridled anger
on an innocent bathroom, and almost brought her to her knees when she was supposed to be the
one to do so. Her skin craves more and cries out for him as he stands a few feet away.

Hexing him doesn't seem like the worst idea.

"You are the fucking worst—"

"Do it."

"I really hate you right now—"

"Yeah? Are you mad that I touched that girl in the same way I touched you? Maybe even better?"
he asks a little louder.

"Fuck you!" she cries out, and her hand wraps tighter around her wand, but fucking hell it wishes
his was still latched onto hers to steady it.

"Come on," he says, inching closer to her again, and suddenly she feels like her guts are in her
throat. Draco presses his sternum into the tip of her wand, the sheer act bringing her quaking hand
to a pause as she stabilizes and centers the course of the magic. "Do it. Show me just how angry
you are. Show me just how much you hate me."

The hue of his silver eyes deepens for a moment, and Hermione swears she can see right through
him. As the crash of the water resounds behind her, and the bottom of her shoes become damp with
the flooding, Hermione insists that Draco Malfoy is staring at her in the most genuine way
possible.

He's undeniably turned on.

At her anger. He's turned on by it.

Before she can hurl a hex against his chest, the bathroom door swings open.

A voice with a thick Scottish accent yells, "What the fuck happened in here?"

Hermione spins on her heels. It's Titus, standing in the doorway, with the group surrounding him.

She quickly adjusts the strap on her dress that rests on her bicep, and then she glances at her wand,
unsure what to do with it, knowledgeable that she's clearly the one to blame for the mess.

She's shocked when Draco instinctively shields Hermione from Titus' rage.

"Titus—"

"What in Merlin's name have you done to my bathroom?" Titus shrieks, stepping inside and trotting
upon the overflowing water.

"Holy shit," Adrian shouts over the music, "What the hell did I miss!"

Suddenly, Hermione is sober. She's all too aware of the scene she's instigated, the damage she's
caused, and the implications she's unsealed from deep within her darkest desires.

Titus stomps through the water and charges at Draco. "Draco Malfoy, you have some explaining to
do—"

Hermione doesn't realize she's doing it until she actually does it, but she grips Draco's arm for
protection. Wraps her fingers around his elbow in a moment of shame and mortification.

"It was me! It was me!" Draco shouts, extending his free arm—the one Hermione isn't clinging
onto—to stop Titus in his tracks, implore him to not come any further. "This was my fault, my
mistake, my temper tantrum—"

"No, this was me!" Hermione concedes, but Draco twists his head sharply and stares down at her,
the same look painted in his eyes the day Aberfield tied him down to the chair. The same look that
admits his complacency in the matter.

He looks at her, and his eyes day, don't.

Don't?

How can she not take the blame for this? How can she stand here and allow Draco to be chastised,
reprimanded, and charged with her actions?

Suddenly, her vision clears, and she has a much better understanding of Draco and his eyes.

Whether he's angry or lustful, they're filled with fire, and are wholly capable of destroying her, in
good ways and bad ways.

When he's remorseful, they're filled to the brim with a tinge of shame, colored like the full moon on
a night it knows will stir nothing but anxiousness in the hearts of those who fear it.

She doesn't fear his eyes, but they nevertheless twinkle with a look of regret and wishful thinking.

If not tonight, then another night would suffice. Until then, Hermione is content in the knowledge
that she's finally able to read Draco's eyes a little clearer now. She hopes, in time, that they'll
succumb even further to speculation.
 Chapter 16

Just like that, the earth mercilessly pulls them apart once again.

While Titus engages in a heated conversation—a one-sided scold fest, more accurately—with
Draco, Hermione finds herself swathed in the arms of Adrian and Daphne, and she's slightly
shaking, trying to process and recover from the cataclysmic meltdown she underwent in the
bathroom of Amortentia earlier.

She's not this weak, not this easily rattled, but Hermione can't unsee the things she did in that cold
bathroom, can't swallow the sensual words she whispered, can't unbreathe the same iotas of the
erotic atmosphere she shared with Draco.

She doesn't want to, anyway.

She just wishes that it hadn't stopped so soon.

It's as if she's anticipating the end of a joke but instead is left in the midst of an unfinished
punchline and an eerie and embarrassing silence. Or she's waiting for an orchestra to deliver its
most breathtaking, final note of the performance, only for the violin players to drop their bows, the
trumpeters to lift their fingers off the valves, the guitarists to stop picking at the steel strings, and
the pianist to lift her foot from the pedal, thereby terminating the music before it even scrapes the
climax. And the reason people listen—the motivation that the showgoers have for dragging
themselves to a performance in the first place—becomes void with the ominous hush of the
ensemble. They want that ethereal moment, where their stomachs flip and transcend the tangible
world. But they don't reap their desire. Instead, they're left feeling empty and incomplete.

It's true. Hermione feels wholly unsatisfied. She craves more and covets that final string of music to
crash against her eardrum and launch her into bliss.

She feels eons apart from Draco, and he's only twenty feet away.

With a careful stare, Hermione watches as Titus reprimands Draco, lecturing him with verbose and
heated sentences. With the music continuously blaring and casting its all-encompassing wings over
the atmosphere of the club, Hermione is utterly incapable of deciphering anything they're
discussing. She can, however, perceive Draco's facial expressions when the emerald lights from
above gleam over his face. For those ephemeral moments, Hermione steals a peek at his most
authentic mien—his despondent, heartbreaking façade.

Her wand harbors the memory of the spells cast in the bathroom, and her hand is guilty of directing
the sparks and fashioning the damage. Yet Draco is the one who procures the blame, the bystander
who becomes the scapegoat.

"Granger, it's alright," Adrian says softly, carefully stroking her arm as a means of calming her
nerves, nerves which she feels sprouting up her arm and settling in the space just below her skin.
It's why she can feel everything so intensely in this moment—Adrian's hand, the lights, the fucking
air. Her hair stands upright, and goosebumps form in patches on her sensitized skin. She knows
these signs are testaments to how mortified she is with herself and how ashamed she feels about the
truth of the matter—that she was incapable of maintaining her composure when Draco was taunting
her, tempting her, seducing her.

"Don't worry about Draco," Daphne says reassuringly, lifting loose pieces of Hermione's hair from
her face and tucking them behind her ears. "Titus loves him like a son. He just wants what's best
for us."

Hermione nods but nonetheless feels entirely guilty about the situation. Her eyes course over the
sea of dancers in front of her, and then they're returning to Draco like they belong plastered on him
anyway, like the world will always guide her irises wherever he is. She observes as Titus slows his
frantic lecturing down, places his hand on Draco's shoulder, and slackens his anger. And Draco
nods, but he doesn't turn to look at Hermione.

Can't he feel her staring at him?

"Maybe we should go," Blaise suggests, and Hermione immediately feels even more guilty about
the fact that her outburst has spoiled the evening.

She jolts her head back to face the group. "I'm sorry," she says to them, shaking her head,
wondering how on earth she could let Draco drive her this far.

There's a chorus of it's not your fault, Granger, and you have nothing to be sorry for, Granger, and
oh, Granger, it's not a big deal that comes from the group, but Hermione still harbors remorse.

Suddenly, his presence clouds her senses, and she's spinning on her heels to gaze at his face a little
closer, seeing if those eyes still retain a sliver of accountability.

They do. They glimmer with a guilt-ridden sentiment, like silver knows it's more valuable than
bronze yet still not as prized as gold. Like the moon knows that it controls the tides, yet many
humans prefer the sun's beams; they favor the bright yellow luster it offers over the more glossy,
leaden glow which the moon propounds.

"Malfoy, I'm—"

"I'm staying to help clean the mess. You all should just go back home."

Home. Hermione doesn't know whether she can make it back to London. Because to apparate there
tonight and then back here in the morning for breakfast with Harry—

Oh fuck. Oh, fucking hell. Oh, hell on earth. She has to meet Harry in several hours. How can she
meet Harry in several hours when she's here, wearing a little black dress and heels in the middle of
a club and is coming down from a cocaine rush?

She suddenly becomes aware of an aching feeling in her body, as if just thinking about the drugs
triggers something within her. It's subtle and delicate, but it's centered in her head, stamped like an
expiration ticket that's ticking down the clock to her downfall, to the gloomy repercussion of the
drugs.

Could be a placebo effect of some sort. Could be the drugs reawakening and begging for round
two.

Theo leans towards Draco. "Should one of us stay and help—"

"No," Draco snaps, but it's not as aggressive as other times. It's a lighter reply, laced with the
awareness that it's not their mess to clean. "It's my fault, so I'll clean it. You all just go."

His jaw slackens when his eyes reach Hermione's again, and that's the only hint he yields to her
before turning around and sauntering towards the infamous door of the lavatory.
Is the cocaine still working? Because Hermione finds herself stepping forward and calling out to
him, "Do you need my wand so that you can clean faster?"

Draco stops in his tracks and slowly turns around. To Hermione's surprise, he bends over and lifts
the cuff of his black slacks to reveal his own wand, fastened to the side of his calf underneath the
strap of a thin, small holster.

She doesn't know why it shocks her—the fact that he carries his wand with him. She wonders if he
takes it everywhere he goes. Because it's there, tied to his ankle, practically embedded into his skin
like the tattoos.

"You're not the only one who feels safer with a wand on them at all times."

After delivering his cryptic message, Draco turns again and ambles to the bathroom, and Hermione
considers the implications of Draco's affection to his wand.

She discerns that she and Draco must live in the same realm of the universe—one where they're
constantly terrified of something reappearing, haunting them, threatening to destroy their lives. The
threat is all too palpable for them because the largest menace the wizarding world had ever seen
indisputably shaped their childhoods, their adolescence, and their teenage years. They were just
kids. Yet the peril they endured—regardless of which 'side' they found themselves serving—
yielded the same traumatic response.

The presence of their wands attached to their bodies is their only source of safety in an otherwise
unpredictable world.

Maybe, in time, they could find a way to rely on other shields for protection.

Hermione doesn't know how she winds up on the floor of the bathroom of their apartment, leaning
her flaccid limbs over an empty toilet, but it's where she finds herself a few hours later. Darkness
still sheathes the sky with its gloomy hue, yet Hermione is wide awake. She's conscious and alert
of a riotous hurricane generating in the pit of her stomach.

She's unacquainted with the aftereffects of drugs. Nausea shrouds her capacity to ruminate over the
repercussions of snorting cocaine. Her queasy stomach is likely a result of two things—the drugs
and the impassioned clash between her and Draco.

That's all she is capable of discerning at the moment, because she soon begins to feel the mesh of
bad decisions swirl in her gut, and then she's on her knees and leaning over the aperture of the
toilet, and she's sticking her head in the hole and gagging, but nothing comes out.

It's a painful affair, lurching forward and not emitting anything from the part of her body where the
pain is centered. It's like her insides are playing tricks on her, teasing her—but not in the good,
exciting way. Not in the soft touches of someone else's fingertips on her collarbone. This tease is
merciless, and it's her own fucking body betraying her.

Unsuccessful is dispelling anything from her body, Hermione falls back on her behind, her hands
gripping the edge of the basin to steady herself. Nothing is in her stomach, anyway. She's empty.

The porcelain bathtub to her left looks oh so comforting, so she shifts her weight and leans her back
against the white ceramic tub. It tingles against her bare skin like ice sticking to her back, but it
melts away in a moment as she sinks further against the surface. She leans her head back to stretch
her neck out. Her eyes flap open, and she stares at the showerhead hovering a little to her right. She
thinks about how welcoming a shower would be at the present moment.
Don't wake them up, she reasons with herself.

Adrian had offered to let Hermione sleep in his bed while he took the couch for the night. But
Hermione insisted that she sleep on the couch instead, using her obligation to get up rather early
the next day for breakfast with Harry as a pretext.

She also couldn't bear to share a room with Draco. The embarrassment of that would've been too
overwhelming to handle.

Adrian had laughed at her, assuming that she was joking about meeting someone in the morning.
But when Hermione tilted her head to the side, her innocent doe-eyes wondering why that premise
was so amusing to him, Adrian swallowed his cackle and nodded, simultaneously reveling in
Hermione's incorruptibility and naivety.

He'd given her a blanket, wished her the happiest dreams possible, and then went to bed.

She didn't dream—didn't even fall asleep.

And now she's in the bathroom. She must've stumbled here through the dark living room at some
point during the evening. She just doesn't remember. Probably because of the exhaustion.

"You okay?"

Hermione's eyes dart to her right. Adrian is already entering the bathroom, closing the door, and
bending his knees in front of her before she discerns who it is kneeling in front of her. He leans his
forearms against his thighs as he stoops down to reach her level, and when he tilts his head to the
right, Hermione feels the storm within subside slightly, like she's inching closer and closer to the
eye of the hurricane with every quintessential mannerism he exudes.

In response, she shakes her head slowly, cinching her eyes shut to avoid crying.

That's not what she needs right now. She doesn't need to cry about this.

"No." The words fall quietly from her chapped lips, and she fiddles with her fingers in her lap.

She's still wearing the dress. She doesn't know why she didn't change out of it when Daphne
offered her comfier clothes when they arrived back at the apartment. Something compelled her to
remain in the dress—maybe it's the power she harbors when she wears it that has labeled it a
comfort item. The thought of removing it seems too scary for Hermione, like the second it comes
off she'll lose the ethereal feelings from her encounter with Draco a few hours prior.

She'll take it off for breakfast with Harry, but she wishes to linger in its energy for a little longer.

"Is it your head? Your stomach?"

"Both," she answers. "I just can't sleep."

Adrian sighs and swivels his body around so that his back is leaning against the tub as well,
situating himself adjacent to Hermione.

Her eyes wander to glance at him. He wears his pajamas—that makes one of them—a grey t-shirt
and black sweatpants. Inches away from her right arm is his exposed bicep, and it swells against
the sleeve of his shirt as the perfect fit. His broad chest rises up and down as he inhales slowly, and
then Hermione's eyes travel to his face, and she can see the bags under his eyes, the hollow dip of
his cheekbones, and the neat lining of his eyelashes, long and silky, and—quite frankly—it's unfair
of him to hoard it all for himself.

She peeks at the mark on his left arm.

It's red and swollen, but not as much as Pansy's was from a few weeks ago. There are no welts, no
bumps, nothing to affirm that his mark is alive. It doesn't move an inch. She sighs in relief but
remains wary of the possibilities.

"That would be the cocaine that's keeping you from sleeping," he answers, staring straight forward,
his eyes plastered to the beige-colored wall.

Hermione becomes aware that she is gawking at his mark, so she quickly lifts her eyes to match his
line of vision. Out of her peripheral, though, she sees him twist his head ever so slightly to gaze at
her; she can feel the warmth of his eyes reheat her chilled skin.

"What comfortable pajamas you have on," he remarks cheekily.

She laughs, and an ounce of her pain dissipates at the joke. "Daphne offered me some clothes, but
for some reason I just can't seem to take this dress off."

"I see that the confidence side-effect hasn't worn off just yet."

Hermione chuckles again. Another ounce of pain, gone. "It has, trust me."

Adrian heeds her sentiment, and slowly his smile turns into a frown. He scratches his thigh, as if
he's trying to release the words itching in his throat through pinning his restlessness on another part
of his body.

"We shouldn't have pushed you to do that tonight."

Hermione's head jolts to meet his. His face, stoic and placid, and his lips, pursed and folded into
one another, unveil the shame that he feels about the evening.

Adrian clears his throat. "I shouldn't have pushed you so much."

She shakes her head. "I chose to do engage. You all were very comforting and supportive."

He nods, but Hermione discerns a part of him that still feels guilty.

"It's just... things like this... the drugs that we do... it's all a social endeavor. They're not to be done
alone, especially in an environment like that." He pauses and furrows his eyebrows, and Hermione
waits for the rest of his sentence, gazing at him like she's trying to plant flowers in his skin, nurture
a garden of daisies and sunflowers and poppies in his cheeks to bring him back to life.

"I never do them alone," he continues, nodding his head. "It's a social process. It's meant to be done
with a support system. And that's what we've always told each other. 'We're one another's support
system.' But sometimes—"

He falters for a moment, jabbing his tongue into his bottom lip. "I see Blaise and Daphne, and
Theo and Pansy... And they each have someone special. They have a person that will be there for
them when the drugs or alcohol hit a little too hard."

Hermione doesn't try to stop Adrian from permitting his innermost thoughts and contemplations to
roam free in the air. Words and sentiments roll off of his tongue like a coursing river, collecting
sticks and mud and plants in its treacherous journey downstream. Adrian says one thing and it
effortlessly leads to another. He reflects and redirects and exposes his feelings.

Hermione just shuts up and listens to him.

It's an easy thing, listening. She used to have a lot of trouble with that—still does, sometimes. But
with Adrian, silencing herself is simple. And it makes all the difference. If not her, then who would
do this for him?

"I guess I just wanted to prove to myself that I could be that person for someone, too. Because
taking care of Draco, is... is exhausting. And it feels like I'm failing at taking care of my person."
He leans back further against the tub and sighs, rubbing his hand over his face and allowing his
fingertips to drag his skin with them. "He's my best friend. My brother. And I'm failing him."

Hermione shakes her head. "You're not failing him. You're not. Malfoy is his own person. And it's
wonderful and very valiant of you to want to be there for him all the time. But you can't always
take care of him. You can't always save him from himself."

"I know," he concedes. "I've seen him self-destruct. I've witnessed him hit rock bottom. And every
single time, there's this voice in my head that says, 'You should've done more. You should've said
something. You should've stopped him.'"

"That's a heavy burden to force on yourself."

"Yeah. But he needs it."

"And what about you?"

Adrian doesn't respond, just stares at his lap. Studies his own fingers as they wrap around one
another.

"You need someone, too," Hermione asserts.

"I'm alright," Adrian responds, feigning a smile but conspicuously pleading for help through his
eyes, sunken and lost and puffy under the pressure of his self-ascribed responsibilities.

Hermione could cry.

Listening is so easy. Why won't anyone take the time to do it for them?

"Adrian—"

"Sheesh," he chuckles, and suddenly the color returns to his skin and he's laughing off his episode.
"That was... way more information than you were probably pining for. Although I guess I did owe
you some emotionally-charged conversation."

Hermione slopes her head in slight confusion.

"You did the drugs. I did the therapy session. You remember our promise, don't you?"

It's not a difficult memory to evoke. She remembers. The day you take me up on some drugs is the
day that I take you up on your advice about my situation. How does that sound, Granger?

True to her character, Hermione feels compelled to press on with their conversation. She desires to
help Adrian meander through his thoughts, his troubles, his very real and visceral fears about the
drugs, his friends, his own life.
But she knows it's a slow process. It can't be rushed, coerced, or forced. It must come about
organically and when they are ready.

If Adrian doesn't wish to speak any more about it tonight, she won't push him.

She lets his reflection linger in the air and seep into the oxygen, and she inhales it without question
and stores it in her memories for another time, another moment such as this one where they can
resume their conversation and come to understand one another better.

"So, how do you like your new room?" Adrian asks, already vaulting to a fresh topic. He gestures
to the rest of the bathroom with his hands stretched in front of him. "If you'd like, we can make
some renovations, but I'm thinking that your closet could be up against that wall—" he points to
the wall in front of them – "and your bed could be right behind us—" he shoots his thumb over his
shoulder to the bathtub – "and you even have a lovely little chair right here—" he leans over
Hermione and spanks the edge of the toilet with his hand – "where, oh, I don't know, you could
read? Daydream? Oh and, of course—" he points to the sink next to the toilet – "that could be your
kneazle's little bed—"

All the while, as Adrian is painting her a vivid picture of what her life could be like here, Hermione
laughs her arse off. She has to fasten her hand over her mouth to mask the outpouring giggles
because she desperately wants to avoid waking up the others. But, fuck's sake, Adrian is like a
walking comedy show, and she has a front row seat.

But a thought haunts her—the thought that those who are the funniest are often also the saddest.
Are fragmented in some way, desperate to channel their despondency into something more jovial
and ecstatic as a way to convince themselves that they are alright.

She plays along with Adrian's redirection of the conversation, asking a question of her own. "Is
Malfoy back yet?"

Adrian nods. "Got in half an hour after we did."

"And he's in bed?"

"Yeah, he's asleep."

"Lucky him."

Adrian leans his head towards Hermione and lowers his eyes, gazing at her with a cheeky grin. "Do
you want to talk about what happened in the bathroom?"

Hermione purses her lips. Fuck no. "It's Malfoy," she says with a snort, "he pushed my buttons."

"Yeah, he's good at that."

Hermione recalls all the little words, insinuations, and suggestions that Adrian has dropped over
the last few weeks about Draco. She wants to ask about them, but the bold levels in her body are
short-circuiting. She's expended all the energy she can tonight. Trying to disentangle the enigma
that is Draco Malfoy is not something she believes her brain can handle.

So, she asks a simple question: "Does he hate me?"

Adrian snorts and sighs loudly, lifting his arms like an eagle and wrapping them over the edge of
the bathtub, his left arm lingering just behind Hermione's back. "Come on. Subtlety isn't something
I'm particularly good at, and I do that on purpose."
It's half an answer. It affirms that Draco doesn't hate her.

But that makes the feeling neutral. Levels the playing field between them and nothing else.

Do his feelings tip the scale towards the other end, then?

"He's like... alright, check this out. I'm better with words than I am with similes, but I'm going to
give this a shot to prove to you how smart I really am." Adrian clears his throat and lifts his right
hand in front of him, flailing it around as he draws his comparison. "That guy is like... a painting
with a hidden meaning. He's got all these tattoos on his body like it's a fucking canvas, right? And
you think you can just look at the tattoos and discern exactly who is he from them. Well, deep
inside the frame—like, I'm talking inside the frame, like rip open the canvas to discover some
hidden treasure shit—there's a clue. A clue that helps unlock the rest of who he is. Once you
puncture—" he jabs his finger forward— "that hard exterior—the canvas, per my stunning simile
—you stumble upon this beautiful secret. A box of surreptitious life goals and opinions and
dreams. All of which make up who Draco Malfoy really is, not what the world forced him to be."

On a normal day, Hermione would be enamored with Adrian's poetic comparison. But her brain is
so drained and spent that she can barely appreciate it. She manages to croak an "I love that," before
her eyes begin to flutter open and shut.

Adrian notices this as Hermione yawns. "Yeah," he adds, "maybe a simpler comparison is that he's
like a piggy bank. You've just got to smash through the porcelain to get to the money."

Hermione smiles, but as fatigue creeps over her conscience, she finds her limbs morphing into jelly.
She's suddenly having much more trouble keeping her eyes open.

"I'm supposed to meet Harry in a few hours for breakfast," she admits, and then she's yawning
again and seconds away from succumbing to sleep, finally. Her head tips slightly, gravity coercing
her to rest her head on Adrian's shoulder.

Adrian chuckles. "Yeah, okay. We'll see about that one."

She's asleep moments later, the sound of Adrian humming like a respite from the world.

She wakes up on the couch swathed in a knitted blanket.

It's the sun that does it. It pours through the open blinds and into the living room, its rays sprouting
like tendrils and suffocating the room with luminosity.

Hermione's always been one to wake up early, but today she just wants to sleep forever. Let this
blanket envelop her in its warmth and drift away, floating on a stretch of the sun's rays.

Then, a headache kicks in. She shoots up from the couch and presses her hand to her temple,
rubbing and praying for it to go away. Brought on by her lack of sleep, the sudden burst of light
against her tired eyes, and the aftereffects of last night's endeavors, her headache starts in her
frontal lobe and then seeps into every other part of her brain, like a dreary mist desiring to fill the
vacuum of its container.

"Fuck," she groans, dropping her body back onto the couch and closing her eyes.

She's supposed to meet Harry. She's supposed to meet Harry in—

Her eyes shoot open and glance to her left, making contact with the television stand a few feet
away, just past the other navy couch. There's a watch with a titanium band and black head resting
atop the wood, and she can practically hear the little hands tick with every passing second.

Rolling over slightly, she reaches her hand to the floor and picks up her wand. She remembers
tossing it off the couch last night after looking at it, wishing that it didn't harbor the history of the
spells it had used.

She points it at the watch and sluggishly mutters, "Accio."

It zips through the air and lands on her lap. And when she looks at the time, her eyes widen.

10:42. Three minutes before she promised Harry that she'd meet him.

Profanities sputter in her brain as she jumps up from the couch, shoving the blanket off of her body
and throwing it back down onto a couch cushion.

She becomes aware of her outfit—the dress.

She considers transfiguring it, but she doesn't want to lose the dress, doesn't want it to become a
figment of the most anarchic and enjoyable night she's ever experienced. She wants to remember it
—keep it tangible and close.

Turning and glancing at the blanket on the couch, she flicks her wand at the knitted throw, and it
transfigures into a pair of jeans, a muted pink sweater, and a pair of sneakers. She grabs the jeans
and tugs them over her legs, notching the bronze button through its hole. And then she's hoisting
the dress off of her chest, and suddenly she's standing in the living room, bare-chested, no bra,
totally vulnerable and susceptible to anything or anyone.

She darts for the sweater and hastily throws it over her head. Her arms frantically search for the
sleeves and eventually slide into them, not without some difficulty. She tugs the hem of the
sweater down to rest just above the waistline of her jeans. Finally, she slips on her shoes and
checks the time again.

10:44.

Fucking hell, she's never late, she's never—

"Hermione?" a soft voice comes from behind her.

She spins around and sees Daphne leaning out of her door, her eyes half-closed like flowers just
before they bloom. Beneath those eyes, though, are purple bags that tow her face down. And her
hair is thrown up in a messy bun, some straight tendrils falling in the front and back in flits of gold
sunshine against her skin. Hermione can see that she's wearing a large shirt with no pants, and her
little legs quiver ever so slightly in the unfiltered air.

"Where are you going?" she whispers.

"I promised to meet Harry for some breakfast," Hermione responds with a trace of guilt, as if she's
abandoning them.

"Will you come back?" Daphne asks, her voice like honey even after she's just woken up.

Hermione inhales through her nose, considering Daphne's question. A part of her dreads staying
because of what happened with Draco—the way she acted, the things she could've done, and the
implications of the things she did do. But another part of her already feels welcome in this homey
apartment, surrounded by an unlikely group of friends.

"It's Christmas Eve. You should be with friends tonight," Daphne continues.

The days are like shooting stars for Hermione, flowing by without stopping, slipping through her
fingers in the way only light can. She'd overlooked the date—forgotten the importance of the
holiday in general. Melancholy grips her mind with the memories of Christmas Eve with her
family, her mother and father driving her to create holiday-themed images in the pristine blanket of
white powder in her front yard. She'd toil over making homemade hot chocolate with them because
her little legs could barely lift her high enough to peer into the saucepan of melted chocolate. And
then there was the feeling of excitement in bed as her parents would kiss her on each cheek,
promising presents and mince pies and Christmas crackers the next day.

Her Christmas Eves had been much more solemn since she'd obliviated them. They don't need to
know what has become of their daughter.

"I will come back," Hermione assures Daphne. "I'll just be gone a few hours."

A small smile creeps on Daphne's lean face. "Good. Just, you know, shoot up some sparks when
you come back. Or send your Patronus. I'll come grab you."

Hermione nods and smiles. "Thanks, Daphne."

"Enjoy your breakfast," she mutters, and then Hermione makes her way to the front door and lugs
her jacket over her back and her arms. She gives Daphne one last smile before exiting the
apartment and closing the door as quietly as possible.

Daphne is about to close her door as well when one across the apartment creaks open.

Draco sticks his head out of the door, his hair messy and his eyes almost fused together with
exhaustion.

"Where did she go?" Draco asks quietly, his voice hoarse with the dawning of his morning.

Daphne smiles sweetly at Draco. "She's meeting Potter for breakfast."

The name stirs a sour taste in his mouth, but he represses his feelings towards Potter and asks a
question he is dying to know the answer to: "Is she coming back?"

Daphne smiles and raises her eyebrows at Draco, reading him like a picture book. "Yes. Don't
worry. She's coming back."

The walk to the bakery is quicker than Hermione thought it would be. It's relatively near where the
Slytherins live, just a little further inside the town of Hogsmeade, back in the family-friendly
stretch of the area. She passes through crowds of families and children skipping around, snacking
on their treats from Honeydukes—treats they probably are only allowed to have on Christmas Eve
morning as a way for their parents to coerce them to relax for just a moment.

Hermione wonders why the parents would give their children more sugar if their goal is to calm
them down. All that does is enable them, give them a reason to be more agitated and hyper.

Fuck. The irony. The fucking irony of that.

She reaches the bakery a few minutes after she'd promised to meet him. Peering through the
window at the row of tables set on the left side of the bakery, arranged opposite to the stand of
pastries to the right, she sees him sitting three tables in, a spitting image of the boy she remembers
meeting on the Hogwarts Express. He has those same glasses nestled on top of his nose like they
were sculpted for his face. His brown hair falls in simple strands upon his forehead. And he sips
his tea delicately, tracing his fingers over a copy of the Daily Prophet in front of him, noticeably
deep in his reading.

Hermione catches sight of two pastries and another teacup already on the table in front of him.

She spots a cinnamon roll. Her favorite.

She wonders if he remembers the way she likes her tea.

Sidestepping towards the door and driving it open, Hermione steps inside the bakery and nods at
the employee behind the till. A little bell dings above her head, causing Harry to look excitedly at
the door.

The moment he sees her, he jumps from his seat, and his knee slams against the bottom of the
table, causing it to shake slightly. He simultaneously garners the attention of several other
breakfast goers. Gripping the circumference of the round table, he steadies the leg in the middle
and apologizes briskly to the person on his left, who had jumped and almost spilled their tea when
he heard the sound of Harry leaping out of his chair.

Hermione practically springs into his arms from ten feet away. She doesn't know whether the
pounding in her head comes from the morning after effect of her fall from bliss late last night, or
whether it's just because she's so bloody happy to see Harry. Either way, she embraces the pain for
the moment and somehow lets it drive her spirit into Harry's arms.

"Gods, Hermione! Several months away from you has been far too long."

She pulls away, her smile practically yanking her face apart. "I couldn't agree more."

He laughs nervously, that little exhale he emits when he's overwhelmed with so much joy that he
doesn't know how to show it. He gestures towards the table, and Hermione walks over and slides
between the bench fixed into the wall and the white marble table. Already salivating at the
cinnamon roll sitting right in front of her, Hermione glances up at Harry and waits for him to sit so
that she can sink her teeth in the warm pastry.

"Got that just for you," Harry says, pointing at the treat with a smile. "Although I don't know if it
will top the rolls at Hogwarts. Remember those?"

"How could I forget?" Hermione responds, and she smiles brightly at the memories of breakfast in
the Great Hall with her friends—Ron chowing down on his savory English breakfast, Harry
settling for a smaller version of the full breakfast, and Hermione opting for the sweeter options like
pastries and pies.

"They still serve them, you know. Occasionally I'll have one and think of you."

Her heart flutters. "Merlin, Harry, I've missed you."

"I've missed you too."

She takes a sip of her tea—milk and honey. Just how she likes it. He hadn't forgotten.

"How are things going with the program?" Harry asks, and Hermione is reminded of his desire to
jump into business whenever possible. Ron was often a distraction for him—not that Ron was
wrong for doing that, but it did deter from Harry's intrinsic personality—that being his habit of
cutting right to the point of things.

And when he asks the question, Hermione is shocked to not hear an intone of sarcasm or disdain
coupled with the inquiry. It's a genuine question, as if Harry can already sense just how important
they are to her.

"It's alright," Hermione responds, nodding and taking a sip of the tea. "I'm actually joining the
group for the holiday tonight, which will be rather nice."

"You've gotten rather close with them, then?"

"I think the program has brought us together in a deeper way than I thought possible."

Harry nods, listening intently, heeding her words.

Appreciative doesn't even begin to describe how she feels towards him for simply being present in
their conversation, respecting her thoughts and beliefs. He sits across from her, and his qualms and
suspicions about the Slytherins dissipate. He nods his head, retains eye contact with her, and
simply listens to the things she has to share. It's refreshing, to say the least, to have someone heed
her words.

Because she feels like she's drowning every time she addresses Aberfield or Bruiser, asks them a
question, or attempts to share her opinion or belief about something. And with a plethora of affairs
piling upon Kingsley's plate, it's as if he's completely wrapped up and busy with all those other
matters, placing the program on an insignificant level in comparison with his other business affairs.

But the program is not insignificant. It's life and death for the six of them.

"What about the things you were telling me? About your boss? Is he still treating them poorly?"

Hermione sighs. With all the time in the world, she could spew countless negative things about
Aberfield—let the insults burst out of her mouth like fiendfyre... like a dragon.

But she's on a schedule. The tantamount rant will have to wait.

"He's awful," Hermione admits, reaching for her cinnamon roll and picking off a little chunk of the
top, specifically a piece doused with the white icing. She lifts it to her tongue and chews on the
pastry between her teeth, and the heat of her mouth from the anger boiling inside of her melts the
dough, the cinnamon, and the icing into a sugary delight. "You remember what I told you? About
Aberfield's magic? His 'Location Beams,' and the Draught of Peace he's brewing?"

Harry nods. "Yes. I suspect you have suspicions about those things?"

"I think they've got to be connected somehow."

"Connected?" he asks, taking a sip of his tea.

Hermione nods. "I've thought about it. There's something very strange about that magic. I don't
know how to describe it, but it's incredibly unnerving."

"Those wheels in your head never stop turning, do they?"

Hermione shakes her head with a smile. "No. Never."

"Well, what do you think is happening?"

Hermione sighs, and it's the kind of sigh that she always emits right before she goes off on a
tangent. Her upper lip crooks, her eyebrows furrow, and her nose scrunches, all in anticipation of
the outburst she is about to undergo.

"For one, the placement of their Location Beams is suspicious. He's injected them right above their
Dark Marks. I don't know if he's done it as a mechanism to force them to face their choices,
because he certainly talks about that all the time. He's always nagging them about their past, their
mistakes, the way they've destroyed their bodies with drugs. And so every time they think about
the fact that they are being tracked, they are forced to look at their marks. I don't know how often
he sifts through the memories, or whether he looks at all, but it's all very sadistic. I just can't place
why he'd want to track them. Why he thinks that's a good way to get them to listen."

"Wow, that's—"

"And then there's the Draught of Peace," Hermione interrupts, her brain spinning like a water
wheel, filtering and sorting the water as if each particle holds a point that she wants to relay to
Harry. "Something is telling me that the potion isn't exactly what he's been saying it is. When I
offered to brew it with him, he feverishly declined, offering me some bullshit response about him
not wanting to bother me with such trivial things. But the odd thing is that I've been in his office.
I've seen his ingredients. They're on display. Everything checks out. There's nothing special or out
of place. I don't know how he could possibly be triggering their marks—"

Harry's eyes widen at Hermione's words. "Their marks?"

She nods. "Pansy came to me a few weeks ago complaining about her mark. And she showed me.
And it was... terrible. Her skin was swelling, welting, blistering..."

"Merlin," Harry mutters.

"I'm just... I just don't know what to do."

Harry reaches his hand across the table to grip Hermione's, and his warm touch eases her pain for a
moment. She thinks about the night in the tent where he drew her to dance with him. The rattling of
the song over the radio and the unsteady yet quintessential off-beat dancing changed her that night.
She wishes for nothing more than to feel that again—the power of a dance, a hand, a cheek pressed
against hers, soothing her anxiety and fears.

"Pansy came to you?" he clarifies. "She trusted you enough to approach you personally?"

Hermione nods. "It seems that way."

Harry nods and bites his lower lip. "How can I help?"

Hermione smiles in relief and squeezes Harry's hand a little tighter. His willingness to help her
eclipses all her other distresses. With Harry on her side, maybe she can finally convince Kingsley
of the malpractice occurring at the Ministry, all happening right under his nose. "Would you be
willing to do some research for me?"

Harry groans sarcastically and rolls his eyes, but in a moment he's back to a sweet smile. "Of
course. What about?"

"I need information about spell creation, dark magic—anything in that realm."
"You want me to make an infamous trip to the Restricted Section, I presume?"

Hermione giggles at the comment, more memories floating into her mind. "Yes. I'm sure this time
around, with you as a professor, it will be much easier to do so."

"Oh, considerably," Harry comments with a cheeky smile.

"I just need some more information about spell creation. What it entails, how it affects the witch or
wizard who creates the spell. Anything at all. Maybe the restricted section will have some
information about that, particularly information about dark magic."

"It certainly could. It's worth a shot looking."

When Hermione inhales through her nose to breathe in the aura of the moment, she can't help but
close her eyes revel in the smell of this bakery. Rejoice in the perception of a listening ear. With
Harry on her side, she could hopefully convince the Ministry of the misconduct and countless
transgressions spawned by their very employees.

"What did I do to deserve you, Harry?"

"It's the other way around," Harry says with a smile so soft it could end wars. "What did the world
do to deserve someone like you?"
 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"You're back."

Even with a coat and sweater swathing her tepid body, Hermione can still feel miniscule stones
configure on her arms at the resonance of Draco's voice. It's like satin, the sound scooping
underneath the fabric and brushing against her skin like a soft breeze.

Hermione suddenly feels guilty about the memory she used to summon her Patronus so that
Daphne could retrieve her from outside their apartment building.

Punching Draco. Third year. Right in the nose.

She doesn't know why it brought her so much joy—enough merriness to invoke her Patronus,
anyway. She considers that it is because she has an immense amount of trouble pinning Draco
down. But on that day, all of her frustration centered itself in her little fist, and the moment it
collided with his porcelain face, splitting open the skin on the bridge of his nose and drawing drops
of crimson blood, Hermione actually felt a moment of euphoria—a moment of clearness, like the
sun had pierced through the cloudy skies and shone right on her, bestowing power within her like
no other earthly force had ever done. An ephemeral moment, undoubtedly. But it charmed her
agitated state that day and created a moment of total bliss and power.

He'd been scared of her. A recent phenomenon, too.

And today, her Patronus was wholly acceptive of the memory. Hermione swore her little,
luminescent otter giggled at the memory as it swam through the air and seeped into the window of
their apartment.

Moments later, Daphne had apparated down and answered the front door.

Now, Hermione finds herself back in their snug and homey apartment.

"You're back." The words come from the space to her left. Hermione glances over to the origin of
the soft remark to see Draco standing in the kitchen. Separated from the living room by a wall with
an aperture in the middle, like a window to the happenings of the apartment, the kitchen is small
and cozy yet stocked with random assortments of food, drinks, and treats. With his back turned to
the stove and consequently facing the inside of the apartment, Draco pours hot water from a kettle
into a white teapot, decorated with red and yellow florets.

Hermione studies his appearance carefully. It is entirely changed from last night. Draco looks
unquestionably exhausted, with purple bags dragging down his eyes, gaunt cheeks, and an eerily
pale disposition. Were it not for his stunning black tattoos poking out from below his long-sleeve
shirt, Hermione would swear that she is staring at a ghost. And with his quivering fingers and
faintly chattering teeth, Draco looks like the midmorning is suffocating him. One more piercing
glare from the relentless sun's rays and he'd fall victim to his phantasmic façade.

She's seen it in the others—Daphne, in particular—but witnessing Draco's body undergo a period of
withdrawal is haunting, humbling, and interestingly purifying, as if the man she toyed with last
night is hidden somewhere beneath this walking apparition. To pull him out would be a challenge.
This shell of a body stirs trepidation in Hermione because it's a side to him that she hates seeing.
He looks like he did during sixth year—emaciated, tired, and withered.

Why hasn't he taken his drugs today? What's different?

"Yes," Hermione finally responds, nodding her head and removing her coat from her body. She
hangs it on one of the hooks to her left and adjusts the hem of her sweater, pulling it down to cover
any showing skin. It's a compulsory move above all else.

Draco watches her with his weak eyes. The silver augment tries to pierce her skin, but something
about the color is duller today, like it's undergone far too much pressure and stress.

Like it knows it will never outshine gold, no matter how hard it begs for the same luster.

"How are you feeling?" he asks with a cracked voice, turning around and placing the kettle back
onto the stove.

"I'm alright."

"That's... good."

There's a tension between them, but not like the other times. This strain in the air is characterized
by the stale remnants of the night before, the ever-awkward scraps of the moment they created in
the bathroom. They look at one another, not with rage, but with magnetic intrigue. To break eye
contact would send them both into a tempest of abandonment.

Always there to relieve the heavy air conglomerating between the two, Adrian pokes his head
around the arm of the couch adjacent to the television stand. He's lying on his back with his legs
stretched on the couch before him and feet propped on Blaise's lap, who tinkers with his wand,
casting insignificant charms into the air for fun.

"Hey, Granger! You're back!" Adrian cheers as he gazes at Hermione through his peripheral. He
shuts his book and places it gently on the floor next to the couch. Swinging his legs off of Blaise
and sitting upright, he points his index finger to the left corner of the apartment at the juncture
between the wall shared with the outside and the wall shared with Blaise and Daphne's bedroom.
"So... what do you think of our Christmas tree?"

Hermione's eyes follow the path of his finger to the corner. Nestled in the spot is a fir tree, decked
with green and red ornaments, white fairy lights, and strands of silver tinsel that weave throughout
the branches.

It all suddenly becomes very real to Hermione—she's spending Christmas with them. Adrian,
Daphne, Blaise, Theo, Pansy, and Draco. Of all people. She's celebrating this special holiday with a
new group of friends, but more importantly, with people she's grown to trust. Stemming from the
way they protected her last night, the trust Hermione feels comes even closer to light as she grasps
the reality of the circumstances.

She smiles at the physical sight of the tree, but her joyous expression grows even larger at the
camaraderie they've shown her.

"It's lovely," she comments, stepping forward to acquire a closer view. As Hermione inches closer
and closer to the physical representation of her delight, Daphne trickles around the room and skips
to join Blaise on the couch. She drops into the vacant spot next to him and curls up into his side
like a puzzle piece fitting into place. She nestles her head into his shoulder, and Blaise places a kiss
on the top of her head, tasting the sunshine that colonizes the strands of her golden hair.
"Pansy and Theo went out and got it this morning," Adrian explains, standing and turning to lean
over the couch to retrieve something from the television stand behind him. He picks up a star-
shaped tree topper with a solid gold and radiant hue. Crossing the room and joining Hermione on
her right side, Adrian clears his throat and holds the star out to her. "Want to do the finishing
touch?"

Behind them, Pansy and Theo emerge from their room, giggling and poking one another with their
teasing digits. Their eyes shoot up and illuminate when they see Hermione.

"You're back!" Theo exclaims, rotating his arms at his elbows to the side. "We waited for you to
put the star up."

"That's... really kind of you all," Hermione sighs. She looks down at the star in her hand, and her
fingers begin to trace the outline of the shape. She pricks the tip of her index finger against each
point of the star as if to channel its luminosity and admit it full access to smother her apprehensions
about the situation.

Approaching the tree, Hermione lifts onto her toes and stretches her right arm up to try and secure
the tree topper on the peak of the vertical branch. Her feet don't seem to lift her high enough,
though. She rests back on her heels and chuckles, slightly embarrassed but intent to try again. Back
on her toes in a moment, she reaches, stretches, distends her arm as far as it will go. But she just
can't seem to—

Suddenly, a small step ladder appears on the floor to her left out of an array of crimson sparks.

Hermione follows the path of the sparks behind her and looks through the aperture of the wall to
find Draco, clandestinely slipping his wand back into the pocket of his pants.

"Thanks," she says, nodding her head and offering a timid smile.

Draco nods back, his jaw contracting and tightening several times as he fights back a content
expression.

"Oh, Malfoy, you can do better than that," Adrian teases.

Hermione turns back to face Adrian, noticing the cheeky grin on his face. "No, the ladder's great,"
she insists, subsequently positioning her feet in front of the steps to begin her ascension.

Two things happen rather suddenly. First, the ladder disappears before she can take her first step.
Vanishes into thin air like it never existed in the first place. And then before Hermione can scold
the impetuous blonde behind her, she suddenly feels someone's hand—an all too familiar grip, soft
and warm and sensual—wrap around hers as it steadies the tree topper in her grip.

She smells him behind her. He emits fresh mint, so much so that the natural odor of the tree is
totally masked by his overwhelmingly addictive smell. Her brain runs in circles, replaying all the
moments they'd been in this exact position before.

But this instant is different. The other moments were driven by lust and hunger, propelled by the
game they'd so enjoyed playing with one another. This moment, however, harbors a sentimental
touch. It's a breath of fresh air, one that supplies an answer to Hermione's uncertainty about how
Draco truly feels about her.

He doesn't hate her. He doesn't. He can't.

"Much better," Adrian mutters under his breath, sitting on the edge of the back of the couch and
taking in the sight with crossed arms and a smug expression.

With his left hand placed delicately on her lower back and his right hand cupped around hers,
Draco guides Hermione's arm up to the top of the tree. Hermione's breath lodges in her throat in the
syrupy moment, syringed with sugar and honey and injected through their point of contact. And
Draco's presence somehow elongates her stance and reach. With her fingers curling around the
coiled, copper base of the tree topper, and with one final tug from Draco's hand, Hermione secures
the star on the top of the tree. It slopes a few inches to the right, but Draco assumes the
responsibility and tips the star over to center it.

They lower their hands, and Draco takes a step back. She delicately turns to face him.

"Looks great," he comments, his eyes glistening in a moment of pureness.

His fingertips linger on her skin like snow on a tree—inevitable that it melts away but comforting
and lovely while it remains.

"Care to help us with some other decorations, Hermione?" Blaise asks.

Like a forbidden word has just been uttered, the group immediately turns to face Blaise. The look
of surprise on his face is unquestionable. With his lips hanging a few inches apart and his eyes
glistening with the breakdown of a barrier, his expression reads tenderly shocked.

He stumbles over his words. "Just, uh, you know... We have a few more things to hang and... we
can use magic, if that is agreeable—" Blaise clears his throat. "Just a few decorations here and
there."

"You lot are dropping like flies, aren't you?" Adrian teases with a smirk. "Not me, though. I'm a
strong boy. I can hold out for a long time if I need to. In more ways than one, I might add."

"Here we go again," Theo mutters, plopping onto the couch in front of Adrian and rolling his eyes
with a grin.

"What?" Adrian asks, leaning over and punching Theo's shoulder lightly. "I'm lonely! I need a
companion! And Malfoy is being a git about accepting my offers. I've told him multiple times that
it'd be convenient for us to just suck it up and French a little—"

"Piss off," Draco groans with an elated smile, shoving Adrian's back playfully. Adrian snorts and
runs his tongue across his teeth, reveling in the moment before Draco grabs a pillow with his left
hand and slams it across the side of Adrian's face.

Adrian dramatically flails and flips Draco off with nothing but love. "Fuck me! I'm only joking! I
know you've got your own agenda that just doesn't involve me. I envy the person he fancies. A
lucky witch that one is, to have Draco Malfoy's ever-loving enamor and fondness—"

"Anyway!" Daphne interjects, lifting her arms to cease the conversation. "Let's finish decorating
and then get going, yeah? We're supposed to meet Titus for holiday drinks and sweets soon."

Hermione's face immediately tenses at the name.

She just destroyed his fucking bathroom last night, how the hell is she supposed to—

"Granger? You okay? You look like you've just seen a bloody dementor," Theo says, his body
twisted to lean his arm over the edge of the couch. He drops his chin onto his forearm and gazes at
Hermione with frank concern.
"Oh, I'm fine," Hermione lies through her teeth, shaking her head to cast away the troubling
thought. She smiles as a further sign of reassurance. "I'm more than happy to help with some other
decorations."

"Excellent!" Adrian cheers.

The six rise and disperse throughout the apartment, commencing the beginning of their decorating.
They begin to apply several adornments to the otherwise plain apartment.

Daphne approaches the wall connected to her bedroom, and with her wand she calls forth laurel
wreaths to hang in three-foot wide intervals.

Hermione is drawn to them. She approaches Daphne and watches as the wreaths blossom and grow
upon the walls.

"Would the laurel wreaths have anything to do with Daphne from Greek mythology?" Hermione
asks as Daphne conjures her third wreath.

"Mhm," Daphne answers through her curved, pursed lips. "A bit of a fucked-up anecdote, if you
ask me. But I like to think I was named after her. It's why I'm quite drawn to these types of
wreaths." She glances back at the others as they continue adorning the room. "We all get to have a
little trinket for the holidays represented somewhere in the apartment that signifies what we love.
This one's mine."

"Well, they're beautiful," Hermione says, and she watches as little golden ribbons slip out of
Daphne's wand and coil their way through the leaves, giving the wreaths a splash of effervescent
color. Symbols of victory yet remnants of the river nymph's troubled episode with Apollo, the
laurel wreaths which Daphne hangs upon the walls plant a question in Hermione's mind about who
Daphne is and how she wishes to see herself. She hopes one day to find out.

Hermione turns around and watches as the others add their own personal touches to the apartment.
Adrian transfigures the hue of the throw pillows to match the season—red and green, some with
patterns like snowflakes and reindeer, others with geometric designs.

Blaise summons several wax candles from thin air and guides them to the television stand. Once he
nestles them into low candle holders, he lights them with the flick of his wand, letting the smell
waft through the apartment. Hermione inhales a lovely, pine aroma, and wonders whether it is the
smell of the candles or simply the presence of the candles which shapes Blaise's appreciation of the
holiday.

Pansy and Theo work together to create a masterpiece, a mirage of wonder and beauty in their very
apartment. They generate a small, white cloud that hovers above the Christmas tree, and from the
vapor falls tiny flakes of snow. Most of the snowflakes settle on the thin prickles of the tree, but
those that miss continue to descend to the floor in an ethereal and gentle manner. Just before the
flurries hit the ground, they vanish into thin air, leaving the floor unscathed by the snow, the tree
glistening with authentic snowflakes, and Hermione in awe at their lovely charm.

Hermione treads carefully as she turns around and watches Draco in the kitchen. He takes a sip of
his tea from his maroon mug and simultaneously waves his wand in the air, pointing the hawthorn
at the ledge of the aperture. A cookie jar shaped like the skull of Jack Skellington (Hermione
remembers The Nightmare Before Christmas movie from her childhood all to well) wearing a red
and white Santa hat appears on the ridge of the opening. Upon witnessing Draco's upper lip curl in
satisfaction, Hermione too feels a smile and the pink tint of reverence encroach upon her face.
"Draco's favorite," Adrian sings with a smirk.

"Yes," Draco responds, not looking up from his tea. He raises his eyebrows as he sips the liquid,
steam rising from the mug and evaporating near his face. "And it's all I ever ask for during this
holiday, so let me have it."

"Will you stock it up with some of your lovely mince pies?" Daphne asks sweetly. She jumps
towards Hermione and leans in with a smile. "Draco makes the best mince pies."

"Really?" Hermione asks, reverting her line of vision back to Draco. "I love mince pies."

"Mother's recipe," Draco adds with a hint of despondency, and Hermione realizes that there might
be another level to Draco she will be tasked with unlocking. "I have many talents."

"Mhm," Adrian moans melodically. "He's a miracle worker with those nimble fingers and strong
hands—"

The group snorts at Adrian's description, as if the moments of teasing at Draco's expense never
cease to make them feel just a little bit happier.

"Right—on that note—we should leave to meet Titus," Blaise says, the remnants of his laughter
still coating his lush lips.

"Amortentia during the day is so uncanny," Daphne says to Hermione. "But we always spend the
holidays there with Titus. It's become tradition for us."

"He seems like a wonderful figure for you all to have," Hermione comments.

"He is," Daphne responds, nodding her head. "He really is. He's the one who owns this building,
actually. He lets us stay here for free—bless his heart for being so understanding and kind."

As the others swarm towards the door, tugging their coats from the hooks and slipping the sleeves
through their arms, Hermione suddenly feels a pang of nervousness settle in her stomach. She
hesitates stepping forward, afraid of facing Titus after destroying his bathroom.

"Daphne," Hermione whispers, "I feel really poorly about last night. Do you really think it's the
best idea if I come with you?"

"Oh, don't worry about that," Daphne says reassuringly. "Titus is harmless, really. And he adores
Draco, so he'd never be cruel to you—"

Daphne catches herself and smiles meekly. Another insinuation.

"Just, don't worry about it," she adds quickly, cinching her nose and nodding her head.

"You two songbirds finished gossiping?" Adrian asks, gliding his arms through the sleeves of his
wool coat and tugging the collar over his neck.

Daphne tuts at him. "Yes, yes, we're coming!"

As they pile out of the apartment and Daphne's hand squeezes around Hermione's, she feels
excitement stir in her heart and conquer her fear. The symbolism of the laurel wreaths which
Daphne so lovingly admires travels from her body to Hermione's, invigorating her spirit and
driving her to another victory—this time over her own harbored qualms and uncertainties.
"Helloooo? Titus? Your children are here!"

As the group patters down the infamous staircase of Amortentia and is greeted by the large steel
door, Adrian heaves the door wide open and gestures the group to enter before him. One by one,
each person files through the opening and steps into the venue.

Hermione is shocked by the sight. Accustomed to seeing the club in full swing in the peak of the
night, she is amazed at the transformation of the scene. It is bright and airy in the club, not stuffy
and crowded like the nights when she danced. The main lights blare down into the vacant room,
allowing Hermione to truly take in the interior of the club—the magenta loveseats, the mirrors, the
bar, the stage, and the dimmed signs lining the walls.

The dance floor that trembles and quakes under the mesh of the pounding of the bass and the feet
of the clubgoers is perfectly tranquil, like an unperturbed body of water just moments before a
pebble skips over its surface. As Hermione steps down from the platform with the help of Blaise's
hand, she feels the ripple effect of her feet as they contact the floor, as if it reawakens with the
touch of her foot, and as if each breath she took in this club seeps back into her brain the further she
enters and retraces her steps.

Her eyes fall upon the center of the dance floor, where Titus stands between two circular tables.
Drapes of purple cloth topped with drinks and treats cover the tables and fall majestically to the
floor. She sees cookies, pies, and pastries painted in Christmas colors and designs, and her mouth
waters at the sight.

"Titus," Theo says, his arms stretched to the side as he prances towards the club-owner, "You
shouldn't have!"

"Yeah, yeah," Titus responds as if he's heard the joke a million times before, waving his hand
sarcastically towards him with a bright smile. "Come on over, you lot. I've got plenty of treats and
drinks and—woah! Adrian! One at a time, yeah?"

Archetypally, Adrian compiles several cookies in his hand, iced with red frosting and speckled with
white sprinkles. He stuffs one into his mouth and fixes it between his teeth, letting half of the
cookie hang in the air and the other half in his mouth. He looks at Titus with doe eyes, blinking
rapidly like an impatient puppy.

Titus lifts his lips into an envisaged grin. "Right, I shouldn't have even bothered," he concedes.
"Salazar knows that you'd stuff your face with these for the rest of your life if you could."

Addressing Titus with the cookie crumbling in his mouth, Adrian delivers an incoherent response
that sounds something like, "You know I can't resist your cookies, Titus!"

"Well, I've also got my hot-buttered rum to help—"

"Oh, fuck yes!" Theo shouts, shooting his hand towards the batch of mugs filled to the brim with
caramel-tinted liquid and topped with whipped cream. He wraps his fingers around the handle and
lifts the mug to his mouth, sipping the drink with elation. When he lowers the mug, he's left with a
trail of whipped cream painted above his upper lip.

Pansy giggles and leans over, kissing Theo around his lips and sucking the whipped cream off of
his mouth. Her tongue dances across his skin and over his lips, and he returns the playful act with
his own staggered kisses. Pansy ends the sensual moment with a loud pucker, stroking her fingers
against his cheeks and winking at him.
"You kids are just as raunchy in broad daylight as you are in the late hours of the night, aren't
you?" Titus groans.

"Are you really still surprised?" Pansy retorts with a smirk, and Titus lifts his hands in submission.

"I suppose not."

Hermione deduces that the interactions between the group and Titus are built on trust and
protection. He supplies them with treats, drinks, a home, a place to enjoy their nights, and an
overall caring and attentive attitude. With a lack of mentor figures, it makes sense that the group
would levitate towards the man who provides them with shelter and love. The relationship they
share is decipherable—Titus truly cares about them.

"So, how's that program of yours going, then?" Titus asks, lifting a cookie to his mouth and
chomping down on the treat.

"Shit. Haven't you read about it in the papers?" Blaise asks.

"You know I don't waste my time with the fucking paper," Titus says. "Can't stand those bloody
tabloids. Never have, never will."

"Ms. Granger here is keeping us company over the holidays," Adrian adds, pointing towards
Hermione who stands awkwardly behind Draco.

Titus glances at Hermione and eyes her up and down.

She swears she sees Draco step slightly to his right, shielding Hermione just a little bit more from
Titus' eyesight.

"Ah," he says with a warm and cheeky smile, wagging his finger midair at her, "You're the little
hell-raiser from last night."

Hermione's cheeks flush with utter embarrassment. "I'm really sorry about that—"

Raising his hand in the air almost immediately, Titus silences Hermione. She fears the worst,
feeling grateful that Draco has generated a sort of barrier between them. She'd cling to his arm if
she could, but the sight of that would undoubtedly startle everyone in sight.

Titus, however, responds with tolerance. "No apologies necessary. It's spotless now thanks to this
instigator."

"Yeah, yeah," Draco mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

Hermione finds herself staring at the back of Draco's neck as he once again takes responsibility.
She studies the way his neck muscles contort in and out, like the ebb of waves cooperating with the
stable and unbroken pull of the tides. His body, even when it is tired, is stunning, sculpted like
marble and deserving of a pedestal.

"And you're the one helping with this program, yes?" Titus clarifies.

Hermione nods, fucking hating herself for it, wishing she wasn't contributing to this sorry excuse of
a rehab initiative.

Surprisingly, Titus extends his arm to Hermione and smiles softly. "Walk with me for a moment,
Ms. Granger?"
"And just where do you think you're taking our girl?" Theo asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Just for a tour and a conversation, yeah? Do I have your permission?"

"You do, but she better come back in one piece, or we all revolt. You hear?" Adrian jokingly
teases. "We're not afraid to pull a Louis the Sixteenth on you. Vive la France, Titus! Vive les
serpents!"

Titus scoffs and rolls his eyes at Adrian's antics and pitiful French accent.

"Yeah, you think the damage to the bathroom was appalling? I can promise you that we'll do worse
if she doesn't come back in one piece!" Blaise adds with a laugh.

Titus turns to Draco with an anticipatory grin. "Anything you'd like to add?"

Draco clears his throat. "It's not our threats you should be worried about. She's fully capable of
taking you out the second she smells trouble."

Hermione purses her lips as Draco's face turns slightly to glance at hers. His eyes find hers from
his peripheral, and as quickly as he locates them, he looks away.

"The dramatics on all of you," Titus groans. "Come for a tour, Ms. Granger?"

"Of course," she responds as she steps out from behind Draco. Titus offers his arm again, which
Hermione graciously latches onto. Several inches taller than her and with a lean build, Titus
gracefully guides her across the dance floor towards the wall where the infamous bathroom lies.
She fears that he'll take her back to that spot to, oh, she doesn't know, finish cleaning the mess she
made last night?

Instead, he continues to lead her down a hallway following the path of the wall to her left. Several
feet down, they arrive at a door etched into the the same wall as the bathroom. Titus gestures for
her to enter, and she does.

His office is small and clean. In the center rests a desk with stacks of loose papers and memos. The
walls are covered in photographs with clients and memories from what appear to be vacation spots
around the world. Hermione studies the pictures intently, glancing at the faces and places with
fascination.

Leaving the door wide open, Titus sweeps behind Hermione and settles into a chair behind his
desk. He lowers himself with a sigh and taps his fingers against the wooden top of the desk.

"Sit, Ms. Granger," he says warmly, motioning his arm to the empty chair in front of her.

She pulls the seat out from below the desk and sits, crossing her right leg over her left and securing
her fingers together in an attempt to stop them from shaking.

"I want to apologize again for last night—"

"Ah," he cuts her off, "It really is not a problem. Much worse has happened in that bathroom—
believe it or not."

Hermione exhales a sigh of relief, allowing the tension to trickle from her mouth and dissipate in
the air. The calm aura of Titus smothers her fears and opposedly generates a warm environment,
one where she feels herself sinking into the plush cushion of the seat.
"So, you were an acquaintance of theirs at Hogwarts, I presume?" Titus asks.

Hermione almost laughs at the comment, but she crushes her lips together in an attempt to retain
the pleasant atmosphere which they've just fostered.

"I wouldn't call it that," Hermione answers with a grain of salt.

Titus raises an eyebrow. "You all had some differences, then?"

"Some too difficult for us to see through, I'm afraid."

"You know," Titus starts, opening his drawer and lifting out a packet of cigarettes, "I hate that
bloody housing system at Hogwarts. It creates such division, if you ask me."

"I didn't know you went to Hogwarts," Hermione says as Titus removes a cigarette from the
packet, lodges it between his lips, and snaps his fingers to light a fire at the bud. As the end of the
cigarette blazes, Titus inhales the smoke and puffs occasionally, creating a fog around his mouth
that consequently disperses into the air.

"Oh, yes," he says with the cigarette lodged in his mouth. "I was a Slytherin." He removes the
cigarette and holds it between his index and middle finger, teetering it up and down as his hand
leans against his desk. "Quite an experience, actually. Went to school during the first war." He
shakes his head and clears his throat, inhaling another puff of the smoke. "What a fucking prick
that Voldemort was. Right on you for ending that fucker's life."

Hermione forces a smile, tainted with the knowledge that her efforts were secondary in that feat.
"That was Harry," she refutes, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, to my knowledge, you played a rather large role in the downfall of Voldemort. Don't sell
yourself short."

Hermione all of a sudden feels elated that someone is on her side—someone she barely fucking
knows, at that.

Another drag of the cigarette, another puff of the lingering smoke.

"When Voldemort disappeared the first time, I thought I would catch a fucking break. There were
classmates of mine who—I mean, bloody hell—they were disgusting. Some of them would just go
on and on about this Voldemort character—" Titus waves his cigarette in the air as he paints
Hermione a picture of his life at Hogwarts— "Well, I saw right through it. Fucking demagogue
bastard if I'd ever seen one. Now, some were more recluse about their views than others. They
stalked in the shadows as if they were just itching for their time to come out. Fucking psychopaths,
if you ask me. All of them."

"Do you know any of the original Death Eaters, then?" Hermione inquires, her curiosity taking
over and forcing the question out against her better judgement.

"Ah, no. Most of the fuckers I went to school with never took the mark. They didn't get close
enough to Voldemort. Suckers."

Another question, stemming from the same interest and—dare she say it, nosiness—escapes her
mouth without proper contemplation.

"Do you know how they were able to get the mark, then?"
Titus inhales a whiff of his cigarette, inhaling the smoke almost entirely.

"I don't mean to pry," she adds, lowering her head. "It's just... it's always been an enigma to me.
And I want to help them, but I think I need to understand their choices before I do so."

Titus nods and sucks in a gust of air through his teeth. "I've tried to understand myself—truly, I
have. Those kids... they're... they were just lost. Desperate for someone to see them, you know?"
He sighs, his eyes glazing over the spot where Hermione sits as if to bend the air and create a
mirage of the scene, one that he could watch unfold before his eyes to truly understand their
intentions.

Titus continues. "Look, I don't want to remove all the blame from them, yeah? They made
mistakes, made bad choices. And now, they'll live with that for the rest of their lives. But maybe if
someone had just been there for them..." He falters, and Hermione watches as his tongue jabs the
inside of his cheek, as if he's trying to stop himself from excusing their actions entirely. "Fucking
hell. They're still making bad choices. And I'm enabling it." Titus rubs his eyes with the heel of his
hands, careful not to swipe the lit cigarette near his face. "You must think poorly of me for
enabling them."

"What?" Hermione asks, shock resounding in her voice. "No, of course not. It's not that simple."

"If I can be honest with you, I'm rather ashamed of it. Even offering them rum is something that I
fear. They all have demons, and I'm feeding them."

The discourse reminds Hermione of what Adrian said to her in the bathroom the night before—
how he blames himself for the choices that others make simply because he feels the burden of
trying to stop it from happening further. A burden he should not have to bear for anyone but
himself.

"It really isn't that simple," Hermione insists, taking a deep breath. "Honestly, I have limited
knowledge on the topic of addiction. But I know that it's not something which they can easily
control. It's wired in their brains to be codependent on these things. The reality is that you are not
the one putting drugs in their hands. That was done a long time ago. By people who don't care for
them."

"I'm providing a setting, though," Titus admits. "A place where it's normalized."

"And are you chastising them for it? Rebuking them? Tearing them down? Causing them to feel
worse about themselves?"

"No," he mumbles. "I'd never do that."

"Then you're already doing better for them than the rest of the world."

With one last inhale of his cigarette, Titus inspects the shrunken bud in his hand. He twists it three
times in his fingers, and suddenly it dissolves into the air.

Hermione fiddles with her fingers and bites her lower lip. "To tell you the truth, I worry about
enabling them as well."

Titus glances at her, a twinkle in his eye affirming to Hermione his sincere care for the matter.
"Have you tried the drugs they use?"

She's hesitant, but she nods. "Yes. Last night, actually."

"Ah, that's why my bathroom was bloody destroyed," he remarks with a grin.

"It was stupid of me," she says with a sunken laugh. "I just wanted to try. I've always been so...
uptight. And, over the last few months, spending every day with them has created this bond
between us—this trust. I trusted them enough to try the drugs." Hermione pauses, the wheels in her
brain turning and guiding her to reach a conclusion. "That's the whole point of experimentation,
right? Do it with someone who you trust? I mean, that's why they do it together, and it's why they
do it here, right?"

"Mmm," Titus answers with a nod. "Yes. And experimenting is not the issue. It's the reliance that
damages you. No one judges you for experimenting. Truly. It feels good for the moment, yes. You
know that already. But once the high is done, it's hell. Those kids—" he points out the door –
"They're in Hell. And you can't help them if you're in Hell either."

Hermione nods, accepting Titus' words as completely true. Although endeavoring with the drugs
had been exhilarating, stimulating, and sensational beyond words, she knows the effects they could
have on her should she continue to indulge in them.

"They need someone like you to help them," Titus adds, leaning forward in his chair.

Hermione shakes her head and closes her eyes, forcing the salty tears to remain in the back of her
head where they belong. "I don't know if I'm well-equipped enough to handle something like this,"
she admits quietly, a hint of guilt in her voice. She feels like Adrian—like she's failing them, even
though she holds no control over the situation. "I know almost nothing about addiction."

"You seem to know quite a bit already just from being with them," Titus responds. "I don't mean to
place this burden on you because it certainly isn't yours to bear, but perhaps you can do some
research about the topic. If you are dedicated to helping them, then understanding the reasoning for
their codependence is key."

"I could do that," Hermione says, and she adds a mental reminder to do her research on muggle
drugs and addiction as soon as time allows for it.

"You certainly don't have to be the one to guide them out of their addiction. In fact, I think it'd be
beneficial if they were to see a real professional. But, in the meantime, they need someone to just
care about them. And that's where you come. That's where you clearly shine the brightest out of all
of us."

"I do?" Hermione asks, having trouble believing his words. She's only just met him, anyway. How
can he possibly know that she is the right person for this? How, after only a five-minute
conversation, can Titus wholeheartedly endorse his trust in Hermione?

"They need rehab soon," Titus sighs.

Hermione nods solemnly. "I know. Believe me—I know."

Before she is dragged back to their apartment, Hermione feels two sets of hands latch onto her arms
and tug her in the opposite direction. The culprits, Pansy and Theo, smile as they tow her down the
sidewalk of Hogsmeade, separating themselves from the group and altering their trajectory for the
afternoon.

"Where are you wandering off to?" Adrian asks, turning around and lifting his arms in the air in
perplexity.
"We're taking Granger to do some last-minute Christmas shopping!" Pansy replies, walking
backwards with Hermione's arm still locked in hers.

"Don't keep her too long!" Daphne calls out.

"We won't!" Theo says, and then they're dragging Hermione off into Hogsmeade and window-
shopping amidst the busy and hectic afternoon. Just as it was this morning, families continue to
shop and stroll through the town.

With Theo and Pansy on her sides, Hermione imagines them as a unit as well.

They make their way to a small holiday shop just a few blocks down. Stepping inside, the three of
them gaze at the sweets, the toys, the books, and the decorations lined up in the store, ready for
consumers to pick and choose their presentss.

"I'll be a few minutes," Pansy says, briskly kissing Theo on his rosy cheek and strolling deeper into
the store, stroking trinkets and objects with her nimble fingers as she passes by every table.

Hermione steals a glance at Theo, who watches Pansy wander off with immense adoration. She can
see it in his chocolate eyes—they glimmer like they're staring right at a diamond, at the most
precious jewel on earth. His chest lifts in one perfect breath, and he releases the air in another fluid
motion, like he's trying to send his love for her through the atmosphere so that it might eventually
reach her air. So that she might breathe it in and understand just how strong his feelings are.

Hermione doesn't know if she has the right to ask the question, but she does it anyway, figuring
that her gutsy attitude could carry itself in this setting as well.

"How long have you and Pansy been together?"

Theo smiles, as if Hermione has unlocked a memory in his conscious that he often returns to. As if
their story is one erected on the peak of love stories, towering over every other fable or fairytale.

"It was sixth year, when we took the marks." Theo clears his throat, licking his lips as the
memories wash over his mind. "She and I were both rather lonely, and it just sort of... happened.
We gravitated towards one another. It didn't mean much at first. It started out as just a way to
escape our choices, forget about everything else around us. It was... convenient. Honestly. But... I
remember one day we were eating breakfast in the Great Hall together. Just her and I. And the way
she played with food, the way she sighed, the way she breathed. The way her hair hugged her
cheeks and her eyes were shining against the reflection of those silver goblets. She was just so
beautiful. How did I not see it before, you know? Fucking hell, all of a sudden I felt like I was
drowning. Not in a bad way, though. I wanted to drown. I wanted to suffocate in everything that she
did. In her mannerisms. In her glow. In... everything."

As Theo explains his relationship with Pansy, Hermione watches as his face becomes more flushed
with color, kissed by the confirmation of genuine love. She'd seen similar looks between other
couples in her life, but the way Theo looks at Pansy is something she'd never witnessed. It's in his
glistening eyes and plush smile that Hermione realizes how much Theo loves her. How it's not just
infatuation that compels them towards one another, but a deep affection and a continual devotion
that sustains their love.

"Ever since then, we've been inseparable. She's my anchor. The most wonderful person in the
world. She's sharp and feisty and intense, but bloody hell she's brilliant, gorgeous, and the most
important person I have."
"She's lucky to have someone like you to say things like that about her," Hermione says.

Theo chuckles. "Now, I'm not as blatantly transparent as Adrian, but I'll tell you this. There's
someone out there who would say the same for you as well."

She feels the ghost of Draco all over her. The insinuations come back again and again, torturing her
unsatiated mind with more questions, more perplexities, and more uncertainties. Just when she
thinks that she has Draco all figured out, he slips between her fingers all over again, and she finds
herself back to square one, struggling to pin him down.

"I see," she whispers.

Theo shifts from his heels to his toes as he asks a question: "Are you going to help us?"

Hermione's eyes look up at Theo from the side. She swears that the corner of his eye is stained with
a tear that he is desperate to hold in.

"Yes. I am."

Theo nods and bites his lower lip. "We want you to have a good time with us, we really do. But at
the same time, we'll do anything to make sure you don't end up like us. Because there's a major
difference between indulging once or twice and full on being addicted, yeah?"

"Theo—"

"Just, please don't end up like us, okay? It's alright to experiment, but you should know that we'll
do everything to make sure you stay clean. You understand?"

Theo looks at Hermione with intense concentration, like he needs to hear her response in order to
breathe. Like any answer other than yes would undoubtedly throw him into a tempest of shame and
pity.

She nods. "Yes. I understand."

He continues, the words spilling out of him like showers from a cloud. "Because we need you. We
really need you. The most competent therapist in the world could tend to us, but it really wouldn't
matter because they wouldn't be you."

Hermione is shocked by his words, his candidness, and his dedication to keeping her as safe as
possible. It draws her heavily to him as she shifts slightly to the right, resting her arm against his as
a means of retaining the warm connection they have fostered in this moment. This moment, where
Pansy shops for Christmas gifts, and Theo placidly begs Hermione to stay clean. She'd have never
expected this exchange to occur between them, but the trajectory of her life has never been
stagnant. It ebbs and flows like the gyrations in the air, constantly bearing new challenges and
opportunities, new friends and experiences, and above all new lessons.

"It's just that you know us. You've seen us at our best, but you've also seen some of us at our worst.
You know us."

She has to ask about the mark. She has to.

"Theo," Hermione starts, feeling a knot configure in the pit of her stomach, "I really want to help
you all. So, I need to ask you something. Something that might seem strange. But I need you to
answer truthfully."
Theo nods. "Okay."

"Yesterday, I grabbed onto your left arm when I almost tripped walking up the stairs... and you
squirmed under my grasp... why did you do that?"

Theo takes a deep breath, attempting to control his shaky inhalation. But Hermione can feel the
reverberation of his anxiety.

When he answers in the way she suspected, she's both relieved and terrified.

"There's... something happening to my mark."

"Theo..."

"It was happening to Pansy's as well. And then it started to happen to mine. And I think it's
happening to the others, but they won't say anything about it. They've been purposely wearing long
sleeves, and—" He pauses, a soft grunt escaping his throat. "It's actually been feeling better today
than most days, but I'm... Granger... I'm really scared. I'm really fucking scared of what's going on.
Because we can't go through this again. We're already stuck with these fucking marks forever. I
don't know how much more pain my body can take at this point."

There they are. The tears. Hermione sees them clearly now, watering at the bottom of his lids and
driving his eyes open to feel the sweet release, to contact the atmosphere and settle on his olive
skin.

"I'm so sorry, Theo," Hermione says, internalizing the blame with every cell she has. "I'm so sorry I
didn't do anything to help you the day that Aberfield..."

She doesn't finish her sentence. It's too difficult for her to say.

The memory torments her.

Theo shakes his head and wipes away his tears. "This isn't your fault. Don't put this on yourself.
We're going to be okay. All of us. We just need you on our side. Please. Please be on our side."

"I am," she says reassuringly. "I swear, I am."

Hermione doesn't know how she ended up sleeping in Adrian's bed for the night, lying adjacent to
Draco Malfoy in the bed to her right.

Adrian had insisted yet again that she sleep in his bed while he take the couch. She'd vehemently
fought against it, swearing that the couch was just fine.

But Adrian, tenacious as ever, had other plans.

"Granger, will you please just take my bed? I'll sleep on the couch, I insist."

That's what he said to her. No insinuations, no games, no jokes. Just an honest offering from one
person to another in the name of comfort.

"I don't want to be trouble, Adrian."

"I wouldn't be offering it if it was trouble."

"That's..."
She remembers her words waning, unsure of how to proceed without floundering over impractical
and puerile excuses.

The truth is that Hermione wanted to share a room with Draco. She wanted to mask in his minty
scent, tango with the temptations of proximity, and sink in his mannerisms, all driven by the clear
presence of enchantment between them, enchantment that had surreptitiously festered within both
of them for years.

"And Draco doesn't bite," Adrian added with a naughty smirk. She remembers Draco visibly
tensing his jaw at Adrian's antics. "Isn't that right, Draco?"

"Not unless I'm provoked."

Hermione's limbs stiffened at the comment.

"Hmpfh. Alright. Well, draco dormiens nunquam titillandus," Adrian said with a wink.

Never tickle a sleeping dragon.

"The Hogwarts motto," Hermione sighed with a smile.

"Works well for this situation, if you ask me."

And then the discussion was terminated.

And now, she's in Adrian's bed, lying next to Draco, in the dark, almost asleep.

Almost.

Hermione craves sleep—requires the release from consciousness after her lack of dreaming last
night. As she tosses under Adrian's covers, shifting positions every minute or so, she becomes
irritated with her inability to close her eyes and drift off into a period of rest.

While darkness clouds her eyesight, every other sense is stimulated, allowing her to hear several
things very clearly. The soft breaths of Draco to her right keep her wide awake. He's several feet
away, but it's as if every breath is shared with hers, like the air is constantly filtering between them.

He sniffles constantly. Each little inhale into his nose pierces the silence of the room like a quiet
lightning strike, if ever there was such a thing.

And every small movement he makes is like an earthquake to her. It magnetizes her desire to twist
her head ever so slightly to look at him and test her stealthy night-vision.

In the dark, she can faintly perceive the outline of his body under his covers. And he's... shaking.
The covers ripple across the contours of his body, creating a haunting silhouette.

He shakes, yet the room is warm. His chills, Hermione deduces, must be brought on by something
else.

Is he still awake?

She raises her torso off of the mattress and rests against her right elbow, inspecting him with
greater intent and care.

Suddenly, Draco turns onto his back and glares at the ceiling.
"Granger, go to bed."

She stiffens as if she's been petrified.

Fucking hell, crawling into a hole sounds perfect right about now. Maybe launching herself in
front of a train, or out the window, or just anywhere else, would be better than this situation.

Hermione clears her throat and turns over onto her back. "Sorry, I just... Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Go to bed."

Hermione sighs, tugging the covers further over her chest to draw more heat.

Her mental capacity for more repartee has dwindled, but she can't stand speaking to Draco without
wanting... more. Without craving the sweet release of drowning in his words. Without wanting to
learn more about him, be close to him, make him feel... warm and valued.

"I just wanted to make sure that—"

"Didn't Adrian tell you not to poke a sleeping dragon?"

"Yes—"

"And what do you think you're doing at the moment?"

She gulps. "Poking a dragon."

"Precisely."

"But you're not sleeping."

"No. I'm not."

"So am I really poking a sleeping dragon if you're not sleeping?"

"Fucking hell, if you want to be a swot all the fucking time—"

Draco stops himself and sighs, much to Hermione's surprise.

"Just... go to bed. You need to sleep. I'm fine."

She sighs and rolls over to face the opposite wall.

"Right, then. Goodnight," she spurts, her cheeks red from the mortification of their conversation
and the way she plagued their pure air with her incessant questions and relentless curiosity.

There's a period of silence between them, and Hermione settles in the reality that Draco likely
won't reply to her farewell.

After several seconds, two melodious syllables escape his mouth in the most pleasant echo
possible. It reverberates in the air and seeps into her skin like the gentle kiss of amicability.

"Goodnight."

Hermione is asleep in moments, the promise of Christmas dawning on her subconscious as she
dreams of a gentle snowfall and a warm cup of tea straight from that red and yellow teapot.
Chapter End Notes

did someone say... character development?

love you all! thank you for reading! <3
 Chapter 18

Dreaming has always been difficult for Hermione.

It's the lack of control over her deepest, darkest thoughts amalgamated with the risk that her mind
takes when it succumbs to sleep that she fears the most. She fears it simply because she doesn't
understand it—shocking. Something she doesn't understand. That doesn't come around quite often,
but Hermione can admit that dreaming is something which she questions every single time she
closes her eyes.

Her imagination can run amok, take the moments from the previous day or from other eventful
days in her life, mesh them together in a congealed clusterfuck of situations and possibilities, and
lead her to question the world around her in ways she simply does not have the energy or mental
capacity to cope with or handle.

She hates the instability of dreaming, the phenomenon of teetering between consciousness and
unconsciousness, lucidity and insentience, eyes open and eyes closed. She supposes it has
something to do with her distaste for the ethereal, the unknown, the far-fetched realities available
in her head that bring about uncertain situations.

Uncertain situations that all center around the blonde lying in the bed adjacent to her.

Tonight, he's in her dreams, as if her brain has manifested her new reality and is intent on teasing
her with it. She sleeps, her brain velvety with the kiss of her slumber, but then suddenly he is there.
Wandering around her mind as if he fucking owns it.

They walk, shoulder to shoulder, somewhere unfamiliar to her. The ambiance feels oddly familiar,
but she does not immediately recognize the setting. In the dark of the night, with the luminescent
moon being the only source of luster, they walk in a garden. Draco guides her through a maze of
towering, green hedges, stone-carved fountains, and cobble-stoned pathways. They stumble upon
white peacocks grazing in open fields—Hermione wonders how the animals are able to withstand
the frigid cold weather.

She strangely feels at home. Like the path they are walking on is one they've been traveling for
years. They pave the trail with their soft footsteps, speaking only through hasty glances and soft
smiles.

It starts to snow in her dream. Little white flurries, all distinct yet perfect.

And as she tips her head back and spins on her heels to wonder at the sky above her, Hermione's
eyes subsequently fall upon a large, stone manor standing tall and proud in the near distance.

Lucidity creeps back into her brain. Like an alarm clock, she tells herself to wake up.

Hermione's eyes split open, effectively chasing away the puzzling dream. She rubs the sleep off of
her groggy eyes and stares at the ceiling for several seconds, adjusting to her return to
consciousness.

When she twists her head to the right to look at Draco's bed, she finds that he is not there. His duvet
is crumpled at the foot of his bed, his pillow abandoned with only the indentation of his head to
prove that he was once there, that this isn't all just a dream.

Hermione lifts her torso off of the mattress. Her eyebrows furrow as she searches the room for him.
But she's undoubtedly alone, and immediately she realizes that the room feels somewhat chilly
without him there. Like somehow just merely his presence warms her body, and without it she feels
just as cold as she did in the dream.

As her eyes turn back to gaze at his empty bed, Hermione notices through the window etched into
the wall that it is still pitch-black outside, save the white flurries that fall from the sky and coat the
windowsill.

Her eyesight still rather dull, Hermione discovers that her hearing is strong. And from out in the
living room, she perceives two voices speaking quietly. Their whispers are low and peaceful yet
still audible.

Curse her curiosity.

With the stealth of a mouse, Hermione swings her bare legs off of the side of the bed and tip toes
towards the door. She can see through the small opening between the door and the frame that the
light of the living room is turned on, glowing in an warm hue. She presses her hand against the wall
next to the door and leans her ear against the slit, listening to the muffled conversation.

"I don't think I can do it," she hears. "It's too hard."

"Not even through tomorrow?"

It is unquestionably Draco and Adrian beyond the door, both of their voices engrained in her mind.

"I don't think so," Draco continues, his voice hoarse and drowsy. "My anxiety is fucking killing
me."

"Alright, remember what we talked about, yeah? Deep breaths. Deep breaths—in and out."

"I'm trying. I'm trying."

Hermione's eyebrows crease as she attempts to decipher the conversation. She can feel her heart
thump against her ribcage; she knows it's wrong to eavesdrop. But she harbors so many
unanswered questions about Draco—questions she is apprehensive to ask him in fear of being
maliciously refuted and burned by his fiery words.

"You challenged yourself to hold out at least until the end of Christmas. You can do this. It's just
one day at a time."

"I'm not ready... I'm just not ready."

Hermione's suspicions are confirmed: Draco isn't taking his drugs. He's trying to withdraw.

"What about Granger?"

A beat, both in Hermione's heartbeat and in the air. The world ceases to turn on its axis when she
hears her name, trapping her in a vacuum of uncirculated air. She'll suffocate without hearing his
response.

"Don't—"

"Come on, Draco. She'd be so proud of you. It's one day at a time."

"I can't—"
"Alright, look. You've got me. You hear me? You've got me. I can try with you, yeah? Like last
time?"

Last time? Hermione thinks to herself.

"That was hell, Adrian."

"Yeah, well, Hell is better with a friend than by yourself."

There's a silence on the other side of the door. All Hermione can hear are her unsteady breaths,
expanding her diaphragm and dispelling from her mouth in smooth drafts. She waits for an answer,
for a breath, for anything to come from the other side. The reticence kills her, eats her alive from
the inside out. Her stomach churns with anticipation. She waits for his voice, his response, even a
groan, moan, grunt—something to confirm his presence.

"Okay. Another day."

She lets out her trapped breath.

"I'm proud of you, you hear me? They'd all be proud of you, too. She'd be proud of you."

Just like that, her breath catches in her throat yet again, because this isn't her conversation to be
listening to, this isn't her business, this isn't right.

Hermione pulls away from the door and climbs back into the bed, clutching the duvet and dragging
it over her body. She turns on her left shoulder and grips the bedding tightly, wanting to be
smothered by its warmth so that she can find sleep yet again.

A few moments later, the door opens. Her eyes delicately shift to watch Draco enter the room.
When he turns around to close the door, he holds the handle down tightly, careful not to let the
lock click. With the door closed, Draco sneaks back into his bed, slumps under the covers, and
sighs, the breath escaping his mouth sounding drained and shattered.

Hermione falls back asleep, unsure of what becomes of Draco once she finds herself dreaming of
strolling through perfect gardens yet again.

Hermione awakens to two different sensations—the translucent yet dulled rays of the sun piercing
through the window and the smell of tea lingering right beside her nose.

When her eyes flutter open, she's met with the steady flow of steam emitting from a maroon mug
on the wooden nightstand between her bed and Draco's bed.

His bed, which is empty yet again.

She sighs, lifting her torso off of the mattress and leaning against her right forearm. She peers over
the rim of the mug, inspecting the color of the tea—pale, infused with plenty of milk, just how she
likes it. Sticking out of the mug is the handle of a small, metal spoon. Hermione reaches her fingers
out to remove the utensil, and upon lifting it from the hot tea, she observes the remnants of thick
honey coating the bowl of the spoon.

She smiles and brings it to her mouth, sucking and licking the remaining honey off with her
tongue. Pushing the duvet off of her body, Hermione swipes her legs along the side of the bed and
sits on the edge. Her feet meet the hardwood floor, curling as a way to stretch and relieve tension.
She reaches for the mug and takes a sip of the tea—piping hot and concocted just to her liking.
A gentle and muted knock at the door draws her out of her morning daze.

"Granger? Are you awake?"

Hermione stands and faces the door, tightly clutching the handle of the mug with her fingers.
"Yes," she calls out, patting down and shaping her messy hair.

The door opens slowly, and Pansy pops her head inside. "Hey," she greets with a raspy voice, "Can
you come out? We've got a surprise for you."

Hermione smiles and nods, eyeing the pajamas which she borrowed from Daphne on her body. "Do
I need to change into something nicer?"

Pansy grins and shakes her head. "The outfit is great. You don't need anything else. Yet."

She winks and disappears from Hermione's vision, leaving the door slightly open. Hermione sighs
and prepares herself for the inevitable moment. She steps around Adrian's bed and reaches for the
handle, feeling it sizzle with the secrets from the night before. Biting her lip and casting a façade—
one that says she knows nothing about Draco or Adrian's endeavors for the day—Hermione pulls
the door open and emerges into the living room.

She's met with six pairs of eyes. On the couch beside the television stand sits Pansy and Theo.
Pansy's legs are intertwined with Theo's, her hand running through his espresso hair as she smiles
and pricks her nose against his. On the opposite couch, Blaise and Daphne sit together, Daphne's
legs curled up as she leans into Blaise's chest. Sitting in front of them on the ground and leaning
their backs against the bottom of the couch are Adrian and Draco.

They all sip on their tea and chat quietly amongst themselves, their dispositions cheery yet tinged
with a certain worn-out energy.

Blaise is the first to address Hermione when she exits her room. "Hey! Merry Christmas," he says
with a smile, lifting his right arm off the arm of the couch and dropping it back down with a light
thud.

Like she's discovered gems in a cave, Daphne's face lights with excitement, and she rushes off the
couch and into Hermione's arms. Careful not to spill the tea in the mug in her hand, Hermione
embraces Daphne with her left arm and holds the cup out to the side. Daphne smells like flowers
and lavender, and the scent journeys through Hermione's nostrils to draw her into a serene and
composed state.

"Happy Christmas!" Daphne exclaims with a grin as she pulls away from their hug.

"Happy Christmas, Daphne," Hermione responds.

"Come take a seat. We're going to open presents," Daphne insists, taking Hermione's hand in hers
and dragging her to the center of the room. Hermione holds onto the mug for dear life as the tea
sloshes in the pit of the mug.

Presents. Holy fuck, she's forgotten to get them presents.

"Oh, I... I haven't..." Hermione falters, her mouth flipping downwards in a frown as her lips quiver
with distress. "I've completely overlooked getting you all anything for Christmas—"

"Oh," Theo sarcastically groans, throwing his arms in the air in a phony sense of disappointment.
"That's it! Kick her out! I can't even bear to look at her." He turns his face away and sticks his hand
out, dramatically avoiding eye contact.

Hermione giggles quietly and shakes her head. "I'll make it up to you all, I promise."

Adrian tuts, and Hermione's eyes meet his on the floor. "Your presence is the perfect gift for all of
us." He turns to his left and pats Draco's knee. "Isn't that right, Malfoy?"

Draco glances at Hermione and licks his lips just before lifting his tea to his mouth. "Certainly," he
answers.

Hermione notices something—while the others drink from porcelain mugs, Draco drinks from a
paper cup. The way his cherry lips latch onto the rim of the cup and the way he stares at her while
sipping his tea sets off fireworks in her spine. Even more, the manner which his eyes speak to her
is both terrifying yet inviting.

"Alright, Hermione, close your eyes. We have your presents," Blaise says, rising from the couch
and wandering around the back towards the tree. Hermione closes her eyes and smiles, waiting
anxiously for the moment she can open them again.

"Alright... Open them!"

When she lifts her lids, Hermione's eyes fall upon two gifts on the couch where Blaise was sitting.
Replacing the spot where he once sat is a mug—red with bands of golden waves running around
the entire cup—and a small, white, fuzzy rectangular bed, around two feet wide and a foot long.

Adrian smiles brightly, twisting his back and patting the bed with his palm. "We got your little
kneazle a bed for when he comes to visit!" he cheers with a cheeky smile. "Now, there's no excuses
for not bringing him over to stay with us."

Hermione's voice trembles as she tries to speak. Her mouth hangs open in shock, happiness, bliss—
whatever emotion currently surges through her body in excess amounts. She could cry. She could
fucking cry at the gesture. At the complete shift in the way they treated her when she first saw them
a few months ago.

Between that day in Kingsley's office and today, something undoubtedly changed.

"I... you... this is..."

Hermione can barely utter the sentence. Her heart works double-time as it beats for each and every
one of them. She does everything in her realm to pull it together and deliver a courteous expression
of her gratitude.

"This is so wonderful," she mutters. "Thank you so much."

"Do you like the Gryffindor colors?" Pansy asks, pointing to the mug and raising her perfectly
sculpted eyebrows. "Picked it out myself yesterday. Thought you might appreciate some red and
gold in an otherwise green and silver environment. You're welcome." She winks.

It clicks. Not that it didn't before, but Hermione finally realizes whose mug she has in her hands.
She looks down at it, remembering the way he conjured the Christmas decorations with the same
mug in his hand.

With the realization that it's Draco's, Hermione lifts the cup to her mouth and takes a small sip,
savoring the way the china feels upon her lips.
"Daph," Pansy says, rising from Theo's lap and approaching the tree, "I've got your gift right here,
love." She bends behind the couch, and when she rises back up again, Hermione sees a cardboard
box with light pink wrapping paper sticking out of the lid. Tucking her hair behind her ear, Pansy
passes the gift to Daphne, who stands with Blaise next to the couch closest to the tree.

"Oh, Pans," Daphne says sweetly, taking the box in her hand, "Is it what I think it is?"

"Mhm," Pansy responds with a smile.

Her little fingers fumbling with the lid of the box, Daphne pulls the flap open and rummages
through the wrapping paper to reach her gift. Hermione's eyes briefly glance towards Theo, who
gestures her over with a nod of his head. He scoots to the right to make room for Hermione on the
couch next to him. She sits down and rests the mug upon her bare legs, letting the heat singe
against her skin as a source of great warmth.

Daphne gasps when she reaches her present. She pulls out a miniscule snow globe; the base is a
pear green color with little pink bows lining the middle and curling around the border. Inside the
snow globe, amidst the snow flurries and sparkles, stands the Eiffel Tower upon a green mound.

"I love it!" Daphne exclaims, wrapping her arms around Pansy's shoulders and kissing her head.
"Perfect for the collection. You're the best."

"I know," Pansy responds through a soft giggle. She treads back to the tree and pulls out more gifts.
"Alright, boys. Here are your gifts." She hands a small bag to Draco, Adrian, and Blaise, then
proceeds to plop down on the couch next to Theo again.

Hermione watches as the three pull out their gifts from the crimson bags.

Ash trays. All different colors—Blaise's clear, Adrian's jet black, and Draco's silver.

"They're customized with your initials," Pansy adds, raising her eyebrow in a cheeky smirk,
reveling in her touching addition to the presents.

"Woah!" Blaise exclaims. "These are great!"

"Yes, well," Pansy starts, shrugging her shoulders, "I am a woman of taste. Not to mention the best
gift-giver here." She turns to the left to sweetly gaze at Theo. "Your present is coming soon."

"Ah, I get another one?" Theo coos cheekily, dropping his head to kiss her neck briefly. "But you
already gave me a such a sweet gift this morning."

"Yes, and we heard it loud and clear, like usual," Draco mutters, playfully rolling his eyes and
sipping his tea. Hermione grins lightly without even thinking about it—the expression just appears
organically, like it's been itching to come out, burning to hear Draco's humor come to fruition.

"I haven't gotten my special Christmas gift from you, Draco," Adrian coos, tilting his head and
gazing at Draco with doe-eyes.

Draco scoffs. "Keep dreaming."

"Oh, fucking hell. I'm a man with needs," Adrian sighs, leaning back further into the plush couch
and taking a sip of his own tea. He pats Draco's knee twice, looks at Hermione, and winks.

Daphne chuckles and twirls her snow globe in her hand. "So," she interjects, her cheeks beaming
with utter enjoyment at the situation, "We'll leave in an hour, yeah?"
Hermione glances around the room as each of them nod. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere special," Theo answers, leaning towards Hermione with a mischievous grin. "Have
we let you down with our surprises yet, Granger?"

"No," she answers, shaking her head and smiling back at him.

Theo nods his head affirmatively. "Dress warm, bring that lovely, adventurous spirit of yours, and
you'll be just fine."

Just fine. Hermione loves the way Theo says it, like he's coaxing her into something both exciting
yet tame at the same time. She takes another sip of her tea, the honey trickling down her throat as a
means of subduing her apprehensions.

She's been doing that lately—learning to let go. Letting the people before her chip away at her
walls of anxiety and her compulsive need for control.

Her secret wish: allow Draco to break down the highest of them all.

Whenever Hermione is in public, she's usually met with smiles and nods of the head, as if the
whole wizarding world knows exactly who she is. As if her face is engrained in their minds as the
witch who saved them from demise.

On her walk through Hogsmeade today, huddled among the group of Slytherins, she feels the
complete opposite.

Every person that passes by them—old, middle age, even young—glares at them like they know of
their secrets. Like they know exactly who this group of people is simply by what they read in the
Daily Prophet or see on the outside or have heard from others.

Hermione hates how the world looks at them. It couldn't be more different from how she sees each
of them. Daphne, with her sweet eyes and compassionate spirit; Pansy, with her benevolent and
strong disposition; Blaise, with his inexorable dedication to loving and protecting each of his
friends; Theo, with his enormous heart and lovable smile; Adrian, with his cheery and sugary
personality, skilled at soothing everyone's anxious spirits when necessary; even Draco, with his
unexplainable need to protect Hermione, demonstrated by subtle sidesteps and glances with his
silver eyes, eyes that she could melt in if she just gave in. If he let her in.

If the world could let them in, then they'd see it to. They'd see this group how Hermione sees them.

Their shoes crunch on the snow as they tread even further into the outskirts of Hogsmeade, down
an all too familiar path to Hermione. Her shoulder is glued to Daphne's, their arms linked as they
giggle and chat on the walk. Daphne tells her about her love of snow globes, explaining that she
once loved to collect them from cities she's been to.

"When I left my family a few years ago to live with these crazies," she explains as they stride
through a bank of trees, "I left all of my snow globes behind. Who knows where they are now. I've
been trying to replace them ever since."

Finally, after several minutes of walking, Hermione sees it in the distance.

The Shrieking Shack. It looks just as foreboding and broken down as it did all those years ago. The
wooden panels and framework are chipped and flawed, the foundation hanging on by a thread.
Hermione wonders if the snow piling on top of the sloped roof will cause it to concave. She is
shocked that it still stands so tall to this day; she expected it to come crashing down years ago.

Once the group reaches the battered, wooden fence that bars them from going any closer, they plop
down onto the snow and exhale. Hermione sits next to Daphne, recognizing that she feels most
comfortable next to her, like Daphne is the friend she has always wanted. Letting her go would be
too painful to bear.

"We're lucky it snowed last night," Daphne says, playing with the snow atop her white mittens.
"It's always so much prettier and fun to be here after it snows."

Hermione nods, removing her gloves for the moment to caress the snow with her bare hands. She
scoops a bundle of flurries in her hand, letting the cold numb her palm for a moment. Turning her
hand over, the snow falls back onto the ground and dissolves into the pile. As quick as it numbs
her, the remnants of the snow melt from her hand, leaving a small puddle atop her freshly blushed
skin. With her finger, she traces circles in the snow, losing herself—giving her sole attention to the
phenomenon that rains from the sky so effortlessly.

With the sun peeking through the clouds in the sky, the snow meets a middle ground between
sticking to the earth and melting away. Hermione wishes to hold onto it a little longer—let the
natural wonders of the world captivate her for just a few moments more. She has so many
questions about them.

"I'd like to make a toast," Theo says, standing and removing a flask from his pocket and holding it
in the air. The others—save Draco and Adrian—remove flasks from their pockets and lift them up
as well.

Hermione notices Draco playing with something in his pocket. Her breath hitches as she
contemplates the item—she hopes more than anything that it's not cocaine. That he hasn't relapsed.
That he has the strength to hold out just a little longer, even though his face looks beyond fatigued
and exhausted.

"First," Theo starts, stretching his arms out, "Let's all pour out a drink for Aberfield and Bruiser.
And then pray that their houses catch on fucking fire."

The group laughs and cheers, including Hermione.

"Maybe our resident dragon can fly over and spew some flames?" Blaise asks, raising his eyebrows
at Draco.

Draco chuckles. "Don't tempt me."

"Alright, alright! This is my toast, let me finish!" Theo says dramatically, as if performing is his
forte. "In all seriousness, I'd like to toast Ms. Granger on this holiday." He tips his flask towards
her, and the heads of the others glance over at Hermione. They all smile. "For being a brave little
minx and joining us degenerates on this holiday. We're all really glad that you're here. And that
you're keeping us from wanting to off ourselves during those fucking seminars."

Another chorus of chuckles from the group resounds through Hermione's heart. She smiles warmly
at Theo.

"You're always welcome here," he continues, clearing his throat. "Even though we've had our
differences in the past—"

Theo sucks in his words and reevaluates his sentence. "Even though we've treated you with less
than respect, you should know that we all value you, your friendship, and above all, your help."
"Here, here," Adrian interjects, raising his hand in agreement.

"I swear, the waterworks are coming on," Pansy jokes, fanning her eyes with her hands.

Daphne waves an imaginary neckerchief in the air, while Blaise whistles, his fingers resting just
inside his lips and atop his tongue.

And Draco. He smiles weakly, still fiddling with something in his pocket.

Theo waves his hands to calm the rambunctious crowd. "Alright—look! I've got one last thing to
say, okay?"

They mutter among themselves, and Hermione laughs.

Theo smirks in a way that would surely make Jay Gatsby himself jealous of his charm, his swoon,
his captivating energy. "Last thing I'll say, Granger, is that now that we've gotten your kneazle a
comfortable little bed, we expect him to sleep over soon!"

The final straw—Hermione throws her head back and bursts into a fit of laughter along with the
rest of the group.

"Cheers to the kneazle!" Theo shouts, and then he's throwing his head back to take a swig from his
flask. He shakes his head as the liquor trickles down his throat, and he breathes warm air out into
the chilly atmosphere. "And Merry Christmas, you fuckers!"

The group praises him with cheers and whistles and claps, and Theo revels in the attention before
dropping back down next to Pansy and placing a kiss on her cheek.

They drink, joke, and roll around in the snow with one another. Hermione feels the happiness of
being with a group of friends swell within her—it'd been so long since she'd experienced this. Her
life had been consumed by work and responsibilities for the past few years, building her profile
and implementing important policy for the wizarding world.

But something about sitting with a group of people her age—her peers—drinking, laughing, and
just experiencing young adulthood in one of its most quintessential forms, brings about such peace
and joy within her. Aligned perfectly with the holiday, Christmas with the Slytherins is something
she'd never pictured would happen but couldn't be more grateful for at this moment.

Her mind wanders to the moments she was here with Ron and Harry. Those days seem so far
behind.

Hermione rises from the snow, excuses herself for just a moment, and treads towards the fence.
She leans her arms against the wood and inhales lightly, letting the atmosphere remind her of those
memories.

Then, something horrid crosses her mind.

He called her a mudblood here. In this very spot. Spat in her face and called her a slur.

"Here."

Hermione's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his voice.

She turns to the right to find Draco holding something out for her. It's a tiny, red tin. Before she can
ask what it is, Draco's fingers curl up slightly, and with the movement, the tin grows to its original
size—half a foot in diameter and decorated with mistletoe and ivy on the lid and around the base.

"Happy Christmas."

Hermione looks back up at Draco and raises an eyebrow.

"It's nothing sappy, okay?" he says, casting an almost lighthearted look down at her. "Just accept
the damn present and let it be."

Hermione takes the tin from Draco. She lifts the lid and peers inside to find several mince pies,
dusted with powdered sugar and etched with intricate designs in the pastry. The smell is fresh and
wonderful, seeping into her nose and pleasing her tastebuds.

"They look great," she says lightly. "Thank you."

Draco nods his head plainly.

"When did you have time to make them?" Hermione asks, wanting their conversation to continue
more than anything in the world. Wanting to bury herself in his velvety voice.

Clearing his throat, Draco answers, "Woke up early this morning to make them."

Hermione's eyebrows shoot up to denote her surprise.

He tuts at her and turns to face the Shrieking Shack. "Honestly, they don't take long to make.
Especially when I use magic."

"You use magic to cook?" Her fingers trace one of the pies and her mouth salivates at the fruity
scent of the mincemeat exuding from the pastry.

"Sometimes. It's how my mother taught me."

"Do you still use magic for a lot of things, then?" she presses, seeing just how far her questions will
take her.

His tongue jabs the inside of his cheek, and Hermione fears that she's struck some sort of nerve,
until Draco responds, "I try not to. But when it's useful, yes." Draco cocks his head as Hermione
continues to stare at the pies. "You can take one, you know?"

She gazes up at him and laughs. Her fingers wrap around one in the middle, and she lifts the pastry
to her mouth and takes a bite. The tastes explode in her mouth—the fruit, the spices, and the zest of
the flavors melt in the soft yet flaky pastry. The juicy mincemeat reminds her of Christmas
morning, when she'd leave similar pies out for Father Christmas to snack on as he delivered
presents. Draco's pies transport her back to those moments, instants when she was still... ordinary.

Not a witch, not a mudblood, not the bloody savior of the wizarding world. Simply Hermione
Granger. A little girl who loved Father Christmas and undeniably believed that he savored her
mince pies each holiday.

"They're delicious," Hermione says as she swallows the bite.

The side of Draco's lips curl in a soft smile. "I'm glad you like them."

Hermione notices Draco shiver slightly, like a gust of air creeps up his back without warning. But,
once again, there's no wind.
She reminds herself of the conversation last night. His body is agitated, antsy, and craving a
chemically induced influx of dopamine. His shivers are reflective of that.

She resolves to move on before her mind focuses on it too much.

"I love how you all come here to celebrate Christmas."

Draco laughs, as if she's unlocked a memory. "Fourth year after the Yule Ball was the first time.
We managed to sneak out of the castle, firewhiskey in hand, and make our way here. We sat,
chatted, drank." He looks down at Hermione, his chin grazing his shoulder due to their severe
height difference. "We tried coming back every year since, but things got more complicated at
Hogwarts. Ever since leaving and living so close, though, it's become a lot easier to do it. It's not
much, but it's nice."

"More than what I have."

Draco cocks an eyebrow at her, perplexed by her comment.

Hermione shakes her head. "Sorry, didn't mean to make this about myself."

"You don't see your family for the holidays?"

She clears her throat. He must not remember... must not know...

"I had to obliviate my parents before the war, and I haven't seen them since."

Draco purses his lips; when he releases them, Hermione can't help but stare at their lovely red tint
—moist, enticing, and favorably kissed by the chilly yet pure air.

"I haven't seen mine either. Not since my father got shipped to Azkaban."

"You've not gone back to the manor?" Hermione asks, and suddenly the images from her dream
flood her mind. She sucks in a breath as her mind travels further, placing her in Lucius' drawing
room, writhing on the cold floor, crying, screaming, begging for someone to help her—

"There's nothing there for me anymore," Draco says solemnly, sniffling lightly.

"Not even your mother?"

Draco draws in a sharp breath through his nose. "That's... complicated."

She sees it in his eyes—she's mentioned something that she shouldn't have. She's pushed him over
the edge again. Yet this time, rather than lash out on her, he shuts down completely, his face going
slack and his eyes finding the ground.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have prodded—"

"Enjoy the mince pies."

Draco turns and walks away.

"Wait, Malfoy—"

But he's already several feet away, heading straight for Daphne. When he reaches her, he bends
down, whispers something in her ear, and then continues to walk off. Daphne's expression shifts
from happy to concern; she kisses Blaise on the cheek, stands up, and rushes after Draco. Once she
catches up with him, she places her hand on his back and rubs it in circles. They disappear into the
path which they came through, and Hermione curses herself under her breath. Curses her curiosity,
the way she constantly prods and pries and meddles in other people's business without shame—

"What'd you say to set off the dragon, Granger?"

Adrian flags to her side, and she laughs for a brief moment.

"I asked something I probably shouldn't have." She rolls her eyes, purely at herself and no one else.
"It's a problem of mine—prying when I have no business doing so."

Adrian sighs—Merlin, how does that sound alone calm her nerves?

"Whatever it was, don't be too hard on yourself. Draco has a hard time dealing with things that
bring him pain."

"Yeah."

"But he's trying."

"I know."

"He just needs people who actually care about him."

"I do care," Hermione insists, looking into Adrian's eyes.

He smiles back at her. Another ounce of anxiety, gone. "Well, I know that. And he does too—deep
down. It's just hard for him to accept help because he knows that there will be pain that comes with
it. It's the pain that will come for all of us when we do finally accept help."

The withdrawal. The rehab.

"Have you tried withdrawing before?" she asks meekly.

Adrian laughs. "I'm trying at this moment. And so is he."

Hermione leans her shoulder against the wooden fence, turning to face Adrian. He mirrors her
actions, crossing his arms over his chest and one foot over the other.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

Adrian sighs, like he's preparing to deliver a speech—like broadcasting said speech would be the
easiest thing to do. He wouldn't even need marginal notes to read from; he could simply spew
everything that he feels in a medley of emotions and sentiments, like it's his millionth time
addressing a ginormous crowd. Adrian possesses that level of confidence—confidence that
Hermione admires.

Instead, he simply says, "Exhausted. Hungry. Hand me one of those pies, will you?"

She extends the tin towards Adrian, who picks a pie from the cluster and takes a giant bite. He
moans and rolls his eyes.

"Merlin, Malfoy is the best."

Maybe she could ask Adrian...

"It's his mother's recipe, right?"

Adrian wipes the side of his mouth with his long fingers, nodding slowly.

"I asked Malfoy a question about her, and he stormed off." Hermione looks down, tracing her foot
in the snow. "Did I do something wrong?"

Adrian sighs and steps forward, wrapping his arm around Hermione's shoulder and spinning her to
face the Shrieking Shack with him. He tugs her into his side in a warm embrace, and his fingers
dance on her left shoulder, caressing and tapping against her coat.

"You didn't do anything wrong. Things with Narcissa are... complicated." He takes his right index
finger and points it in the air, a contemplative look crossing his face. "Thwarted—that's a sexier
word." He looks down and winks at Hermione, who nods with yet another smile, another moment
of total delight. "It's best to not push that question with him just yet."

"I understand," Hermione answers, leaning closer into Adrian's side. In the spirit of the holiday,
infused with the breath of fresh air which Adrian has created for her, Hermione feels compelled to
express her utmost gratitude.

"Can I say something?"

"You're talking to the king of having absolutely no bloody filter. Have on, Granger."

Hermione peers up at Adrian, beaming at his flushed cheeks standing out against his pale skin in
the frigid air. "Thank you for everything. For the presents, the welcoming ambiance... For taking
care of me a few nights ago. For letting me join your..." She smirks at the next words: "Nightly
endeavors."

Adrian pleasantly laughs and tows Hermione in tighter. "We all want you here. Okay? You
understand?"

She nods, truly believing it.

And as Adrian places his chin atop her head and subsequently leans down to place a soft kiss on
her curls, Hermione succumbs to his words entirely. She lets them flow through her body and warm
her blood and bones.

Adrian tows her shoulder lightly, coaxing her to turn around. "Come on, let's join the others.
Otherwise, Malfoy is going to get the wrong idea and murder me in my sleep."

"Subtlety really isn't your thing, is it?"

"Oh no. No, no, no." He smiles. "Not when I'd do anything to make Malfoy happy."

"You think there's a way to make Malfoy happier?"

Adrian groans. "Gahhh! Are my words not getting through your frizzy hair to your ears?" he jokes,
placing his hands on both sides of her head and running his fingers through her espresso locks. "I
know the way he shows his affection isn't obvious. He just doesn't know how. Give him a chance,
though." Adrian points to the mince pies. "They're an olive branch. He won't always be
forthcoming about how he feels. But he's trying his best. Trust me."

Hermione nods, twisting her head at the sound of snow crunching from several feet away. She
watches as Daphne and Draco return. Daphne's arm is linked through Draco's, and she's chatting
away with her bubbly spirit. Draco smiles and nods occasionally, but his eyes remain fixed on the
ground.

When he finally does look up, he looks at her, as if the earth instinctively pulls their gaze into one.
But just as easily as their gaze connects, it's tugged away by something stronger.

Shame. Colored and displayed against his pink cheeks. Embarrassment. Confusion.

And the longing to not drag one another down in each other's traumas.

He ignored her for the rest of the day.

During walks through Hogsmeade, meals, teatime—Draco kept his eyes away from Hermione's.
Couldn't bear to stare into those ember irises for more than a few seconds without wanting to crash
and burn in her arms, relinquish himself to her, tell her how much he wishes he could change the
way things turned out.

And at night, when Draco crawled under his covers, he didn't whisper goodnight.

Hermione lies in Adrian's bed yet again, wishing her mind wasn't wired this way. Wishing that she
didn't have to spoil the silence with her incessant wondering.

But the quiet is too daunting, much like the way it sounds right before a battle. Right before wands
are raised in offense, spells are cast, and lives are lost. She hates the lack of sound right before a
fight because she knows it far too well. It lives in her mind like a broken record, replaying and
torturing her with the images of her dead peers. Especially in the silence, when all seems too
probable—like in her dreams—Hermione craves a sense of control.

"Are we going to have another silent night, then?"

Draco exhales into his pillow. "Oh, fuck's sake, Granger—"

"You can't keep ignoring me, you know," she pushes.

"Yes, I very much can. Watch."

Nothing more comes from his mouth as Draco turns in his bed, his back facing Hermione. She
groans, lifting herself from her supine position and hanging her legs off of the bed.

"You're very hot and cold," she continues, running her fingers through her curls.

"A lovely side effect of the drugs," she hears him mutter under his breath.

Hermione exhales. "Well, it's frustrating. Because I don't know where your head is at. And I have a
lot of questions that have come up during my stay here that I would like answered at some point."

"Because you just can't bear to leave things unsaid?"

"Precisely."

Draco turns on his back and stares at the ceiling, clasping his hands together and breathing in
deeply. Just when Hermione believes she might get somewhere with him, he says, "Go to sleep,
yeah?"

Her response just... comes out. Leaves her mouth and leaps into the air like a shooting star would.
"No."

Draco twists his head and furrows his eyebrows. "No?" he repeats.

"No. I don't want to go to sleep. I want to talk to you."

A scoff escapes his lips, and Hermione's body shudders slightly. She doesn't know what it is that
makes her feel so alive when she engages in a battle of wits with Draco. Maybe it's the rush of
adrenaline, the sense of normalcy, the fucking excitement and thrill of it all that has led her to seek
confrontation recently.

Either way, she's looking for it tonight. Something inside is pushing her to push him.

"You want to talk?" Draco taunts, sitting up in his bed and mirroring her actions. Hermione's eyes
fall on his tattoos, peeking out of his black t-shirt and coloring his arms with such intrigue that her
breath falters. She wants to pick them apart so badly.

Draco continues. "Fine. Let's talk. Go on, Doctor Granger. Pick me apart. See if you can decipher
exactly who I am with your questions and deductions."

Hermione prioritizes her questions. "Can I ask you about the drugs—"

"Fuck no. Next question."

Hermione inhales through her nose, centering herself, reminding herself that Draco isn't obligated
to tell her anything about him. She's lucky he's even agreeing to this. She'll take what she can get.

She goes down the list of questions in her mind and lands on one she feels is quite critical and time
sensitive.

"Can I ask about your mark?"

She can see his jaw tense in the dimmed lights. "What about it?"

"Does it hurt?"

"Does it hurt?"

Hermione shakes her head, realizing the framing of the question is abstruse. "Sorry, that came out
odd—"

"You've got a fucking pain kink or something? You want to hear all about the innerworkings of the
Dark Mark because—what—it turns on a switch in that brain of yours? The pain I feel is
something that you enjoy hearing about?"

She pauses, heeding the words that slipped out of his mouth in his response.

"Are you saying that you are, in fact, in pain?"

Draco presses his lips together and exhales out of his nose, digging his palms into his mattress and
lowering his head.

"Malfoy, I need to know if your mark is hurting."

"You don't need to know anything, really."

"I do if I'm ever going to be able to properly help you."

He scoffs. "Help. I've told you before that I resent that word."

"How else should I put it, then?" she asks, rolling her eyes. "Any other way sounds completely
condescending."

"Maybe because what you all are doing to us is condescending."

She can't fathom that being true. But, perhaps, she's too blinded by her goals and ambitions. Too
caught up in wanting to try new things that she is forgetting the entire reason for engineering this
program in the first place. "Why can't you see that my intentions are not corrupted? Why can't you
accept that I truly want to help you?"

"Because nobody really wants to help us!" he blurts out. "It's never been about help. People just
want to control us."

Hermione recoils, considering his words with a completely open mind.

She begins to hear him clearly, pushes the clouds out of her mind to allow the reality of the
situation to shine its rays upon her, illuminate her, help her understand exactly what it is that they
are going through.

"Everyone just wants to fucking control us. With the marks, the trackers, the potions, the meetings,
the lectures, the glares we get from ministry workers when we so much as walk around the atrium,
the corridors, the elevators. They all either want to control us, or they simply hate us, or both."

It's impossible to deny the accuracy of Draco's statement. She experienced it herself today as they
walked through Hogsmeade. The spiteful stares, the harsh whispers, even the fingers pointing at
them. The world looks at this group at hates them—nothing less.

"I don't want to control you," she says meekly, feeling as though tonight, Draco will snatch the
victory of the repartee.

"No. You're just contributing to the program that does."

Those words burn. Scorch her skin and seep into her bones. Her body grows hot with anger because
she knows that their suffering is partly her fault.

She follows his sentence with a statement she rarely uses: "You're right."

"Come again?"

"You're right. You're absolutely right. Things were so different in the beginning, but now..." She's
ashamed of herself. Ashamed and mortified that she let it get this far. "I shouldn't have let
Aberfield do all those things to you. I should've said something. The trackers. The Draught of
Peace. The militant means of controlling you. I should've done something. I stood there and
watched Aberfield do that to you because I was scared and confused. And I felt devalued and
helpless. But I still should've stopped him."

Draco stares at her, his eyes wide with bewilderment.

"But I also sense that deep down you want someone's help." She gulps, afraid that her next words
will once again drive him away. But she leaps into the unknown anyway, praying that Draco will
stick around long enough for them to talk a little longer, exchange air, feed one another's minds
with insights into their own. "I saw it that day. When you got the tracker implanted. I saw it in your
eyes. You wanted help."

"Granger—"

"And on the day that Aberfield cast you into the chair and tied ropes around your body. Stuffed
your mouth with a rag and bound you to that chair. I saw the same look in your eyes then as well.
You denied my help, but I know you wanted it—"

"Stop talking, please—"

"And every day during sixth year, when you'd walk the halls like a ghost, like a shadow of the
proud boy you once were. The boy who would vie for the spot of top student against me, would
tease me in the hallways for the way I look, would call me names and bully my friends and—dare I
fucking say it—bring some excitement to my day. That boy disappeared when you took the mark. I
wanted to help you then and I still want to help you now—"

"Shut your mouth—"

"Because you all deserve someone to give a shit about you—"

"For fuck's sake, stop—"

"I can't stop! Can't you see that I really do care about all of you—"

"Stop caring!" he exasperates, the tone in his voice frustrated and the volume dial turned louder.

She's not surprised that he yelled. She expected it to happen, actually.

What she doesn't expect is for the old Draco to come back—the one filled with so much fury and
illustrated with such menacing mannerisms that her skin crawls. His façade crumbles and
transforms before her, and suddenly he's the same man he was all those times in the bathroom, in
the corridors, in moments where—dare she thinks it—she was completely captivated by his
chilling energy.

Hermione observes intently as his fingers twitch on his thigh, his shoulders roll back, his knee
bounces, and he cracks his neck, as if the actions warm him up and bring out the bloodcurdling
creature within him.

"No one is asking you to care," he growls at her. "You've done enough."

"Malfoy—"

"You want to see what you and your fucking program have done to us?"

Draco sticks his left arm out to display his mark. Beneath the plethora of tattoos painted over his
skin, Hermione can still faintly make out the skull and snake design, taking up a large part of his
forearm but no longer holding the prime position. As her eyes glare at his arm, she notices fresh
scars from welts and blisters. Even in the dark room, Hermione's eyes are able to draw out a
swollen section of his skin—the skin surrounding his mark.

It is not as chilling as Pansy's was that day, but it's still representative of some unknown force
toying with his body.

"Want me to explain what's happening to you? Since you're just a fucking know-it-all, obsessed
with having all of your questions answered without remorse? Should I explain to you in detail how
a few months ago—right when that fucker injected us with trackers and poured shady potions
down our throats—this mark started to burn again? Even started to move?"

"I—" Hermione starts, her mouth hanging agape.

"You know, I fill my body with drugs. With alcohol. With whatever I can to numb this pain. But no
matter what, I still feel this fucking mark. Every day. I can drown in those things but nothing
—nothing—will ever end this pain. All I feel is fucking agony."

She doesn't know what possesses her to do this—maybe it's her feet, which seem to have a mind of
their own, or her heart, which practically jerks itself out of her chest in order to be close to him.
Whatever the force is, Hermione finds herself standing up and sauntering towards his bed. She sits
on his left side between him and his pillow, staring at his arm, inspecting the scars, the mark, the
tattoos. She can sense the way his body tenses when her knee brushes against his, and she finds
herself reaching her hand out to touch his arm gently.

When her fingers reach the mark, she gasps lightly. She can feel the elevated skin, the tepid
temperature of his mark, and the pulsing blood streaming through his arm. The presence of a
sinister movement is completely palpable.

She leaps into the unknown yet again, tugging Draco's arm into her lap and rubbing her index
finger against his skin.

"You once asked if I'd ever known what it felt like to watch something happen before my eyes that
I wish I could've stopped. That if there wasn't some external power looming over me, controlling
me, keeping me from doing the right thing, I would've put an end to a tragedy before it even
started."

Her eyes lift to meet Draco's.

"This," she says, pointing to the part of his arm where his tracker was infused. "This is it for me.
And I think..."

Hermione pauses, twisting her back away from him and bringing her left arm forward. Draco
forces himself to look away, but Hermione charms him with her soft words to glance at the scar on
her arm, just for a moment.

"I think this is it for you."

The scar that Bellatrix left stings against Draco's eyes. He looks away.

"Don't—"

"Look at it."

"I can't—"

"Please."

Moving his head just inches at a time, Draco finally summons enough courage to look at the scar
on her arm. It's faded, just like his, but he cringes at the way it is so horrifically etched into her
skin. He squirms and nervously itches his neck.

"I can't get rid of this pain, either. It's there. Forever." She breathes in deeply, letting her thoughts
roam free in the hopes that her shot, her intuition, her suspicion she's had since that day in the
bathroom, is not in the dark, but rather holds more truth than any other conclusion in the world.

"Sometimes, I think about this day and what would've happened if someone stopped Bellatrix," she
continues, her voice crumbling at the name of her assailant. "I think about Harry or Ron saving me
in some heroic way before it happens. But in the end..." Hermione's voice floats off as their eyes
connect, the stare turning deeper as she spills her innermost thoughts with him. "In the end, it's you
who I really wish saved me. Because you were standing right there."

Hermione swears his eyes are watering, like the moon when it is cast behind a rainstorm.

"And you just... looked away."

"Granger—"

"I wish you hadn't looked away. Just like you probably wish I hadn't when all those things
happened to you."

He closes his eyes and twitches his neck, trying to occlude. But he can't—a fact that is confirmed
by the way he groans in despair.

"Damnit," he whispers with a gentle voice, conjuring pebbles on her skin in the way his voice
reverberates in the tense bubble around them.

When Hermione pulls her left arm back to rest at her side, she is met with an action she never
dreamed Draco Malfoy would do for her. Something more outlandish than seducing her, dancing
with her, whispering lovely, sensual things in her ears in a clandestine club.

Draco reaches for Hermione's left arm and lifts it to his mouth, placing his lips upon her scar and
kissing it like it's the most precious thing in the world.

The soft pressure of his lips against her skin—against a part of her body that is more fragile and
sensitive than any other—sends shockwaves through her arm and straight to her chest, and she
feels his energy collide with her heart, and oh, it collides with such magnitude and pressure and
affection that she can barely maintain her breathing.

Her heart bursts forth, desperately vaulting over every obstacle to get to him.

Draco removes his lips from her skin and sets her arm down, his mouth open and his eyes wide
with shock.

"Go to sleep, now," he whispers, staring forward, avoiding eye contact. His legs shift to the right,
and the point of contact between their thighs disseminates.

Hermione stares at him, contemplating reaching forward and taking his cheek in her hand.

"Please," he begs, avoiding eye contact. "Go to sleep, Granger."

She deduces that she's stirred enough trouble for the night—dug a deep enough hole that it will
take a whole team of individuals to lift her out. Not wanting to push her luck, Hermione rises from
Draco's bed and walks to her own. She dives under the covers, unable to look back at him; with her
back facing his bed, Hermione lets out a shaky breath. And she hears Draco dip underneath his
covers behind her.

Her mind reels. And he can somehow sense it, because in the next moment, he whispers once
again, "Go to sleep."

She doesn't. She can't. How can she when her heart is racing this fast? When it feels like her blood
won't stop churning and streaming? When the imprint of Draco's lips on her mark stings with both
pleasure and trauma?

She can't sleep.

Neither can he.

They feel each other's heartbeats pulse through the floor and into their respective beds, and they
feel it through the invisible string tying their scars to one another.
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes

tw // drug use, mention of relapse and drug overdose, and detailed description of
cocaine

Detoxing has always been difficult for Draco.

It’s the unpredictability, the forfeiture of dopamine, and the tentative sense that he is going to crash
and burn any second. Like the wheel that steers his life is spinning uncontrollably, and he can’t
seem to grip it tight enough to prevent the leather binding from dangerously gliding through his
fingers. Like there’s simply no point to living if he lacks the chemical method to producing
happiness—not even that, but if he simply lacks comfort and ease.

That’s all he really needs. Something to bring him ease, to alleviate the pain and exhaustion coiling
like vines within his body, wrapping around his muscles, bones, nerves, and constricting his insides
to the point that he feels like he’s suffocating.

Draco fears detoxing because he fears death itself. He fears that his body will shut down and
wither away into a puddle of everything that he has brought upon himself.

Death Eater. Cocaine addict. Fucking asshole.

He fears the pain of it all, the inevitable torture that comes with relinquishing the high.

Because he’s been through too much agony already—enough to last a lifetime and more—and that
was before he became a fucking addict. And he thought that the drugs were supposed to thwart that
agony, numb it, make it all fade away with each line he sniffed. But they don’t. The drugs give him
a fleeting moment, ephemeral like the wind, temporary like a flash of lightning and a crash of
thunder, and in that one blissful period of time, the pain secedes to the drugs, the high, the
euphoria, the effervescent sensations and the tantalizing whispers of the air around him. And then
it departs all too quickly, and he’s alone again. Shaking. Unable to breathe from his fucking
anxiety.

Depressed. Fucking depressed.

So, the detox doesn’t work. It never does, really. It’s too dangerous, too real, too emotionally
draining for Draco to wrap his mind around.

Fucking typical.

He’s tried before, but always failed.

Because he’s weak. He’s fucking weak. And that’s the only reason. He’s spineless and pathetic
and weak-willed and so motherfucking brittle.

Or, at least, that’s the reason his mind tells him. It’s like a broken record, an endless symphony of
his countless failures echoing in an acoustically pristine amphitheater. The resonance crashes into
and harasses his already drained mind.
He can’t save anyone. Can’t do one good thing for others.

Not his friends, who all followed in his destructive footsteps that fateful day sixth year. Draco
sealed his destiny with that first sniff of cocaine a few weeks before carrying out that
motherfucker's task. And the others were like his shadow, dawdling near his footsteps and chasing
the same escape.

He can’t save his mother, who withers away in the manor like a dying flower with her own
personal vices, each one of her beautiful petals feathering to the ground and dissolving upon
contact, never to be restored again.

And he couldn’t save Granger, writhing on the floor of his father’s drawing room, begging for her
life as his cracked aunt used both her teeth and a dagger to slice her skin open, to lure blood like
she was fucking iron-deficient, and to instill such fear in Granger that she lay petrified and
unmoving on the floor, her eyes watering and her mouth hanging open like she was a moment
away from death—

No. No, no, no, no, no.

Haunt is an understatement. That memory brings him physical pain.

Draco felt her skin flutter when he pressed his lips to her scar just a few hours ago, but there
shouldn’t have been a fucking scar to kiss in the first place.

Insomnia holds him prisoner. Draco cinches his eyes shut, entreating the gods, Merlin, fucking
whoever is out there to bring him sleep.

He uses Granger’s soft breathing beside him as a mechanism for reaching his peace. Shuts his eyes
and takes in the light, airy sound of her exhales, sweet and warm and filled with such benevolence
that he would drown in them if possible—overdose on them, even.

What a fucked-up thought that is, Draco thinks to himself as he rolls to face the opposite wall. I’m
not going to overdose on Granger of all things.

Draco begs for sleep like he begs for other things in his life—voraciously and pitifully.

Hermione wakes up to his voice, raspy and low and stamped with the subtlety of dawn.

“Granger?”

Her eyes slowly flutter open, the sight of black fading behind the brightness of the room as she
readjusts to the sun peeking through the window and striking her face at the perfect angle. Lying
on her right shoulder and facing Draco’s bed, Hermione is surprised to find Draco kneeling next to
her bed holding a small, tan envelope in his hand.

“Here.”

Draco presents the letter, and Hermione sees her name inscribed on the center of the envelope in
dainty cursive. She sits up slowly, pushing the duvet off of her body and swerving her legs off the
bed.

“What’s this?” she asks, rubbing her eye with one palm and taking the letter in her other hand.

Finding himself too close to her, Draco stands and paces a few steps backwards, his legs bumping
against the side of his bed in the process.

“Dunno. An owl showed up a few minutes ago pecking at the window. Bloody woke me up.”

Hermione purses her lips and fiddles with the letter in her hand, turning it up and down to inspect
the delicate parchment further. “Sorry about that,” she whispers, and a covert smile slips across her
face at the thought of Draco answering her owl, opening the window to greet the bird, having to
read her name on the parchment and then subsequently decide how to wake her up. She doesn’t
know why it brings her delight, but she cannot deny the rapture of glee exploding in her heart.

She waits for a response to her apology but never receives one. Instead, Draco lifts his hand to
scratch the back of his head, attempting to tame his bed-soaked hair with his fingers. Hermione
takes a moment to study his face—the bags under his eyes are plum-colored and hollow with the
proof of a terrible night’s sleep, and his teeth sporadically drag across his cherry lips as if to pass
the time.

And of course, she can’t help but be amazed by his magnificent tattoos, poking out of the ends of
his black t-shirt and dyeing his skin with the intricacies and idiosyncrasies that make him who he
is. She spots a black snake spiraling around his right bicep, its tail resting at the top of his forearm,
body winding around his upper arm, and head hidden below the sleeve of his shirt. Lost in the
design as she studies the details of the scales, Hermione bites her lower lip. She forgets about the
letter in her hand for that moment.

Draco clears his throat. “Want some… tea?”

Hermione’s eyes lift to meet his, and she gently inhales as if to guide herself back from her
daydreams. Lifting her legs from the floor to cross them over one another upon the bed, Hermione
leans her elbows against her thighs and nods. “Yes, thanks.”

The edge of Draco’s lips lifts in a trying smile, and he saunters past her bed and out of the room,
leaving the door somewhat open in the process.

Hermione reverts her concentration to the letter in her hand. She twirls it over to lift the seal and
subsequently removes a small piece of paper from the envelope.

Inspecting the handwriting—cursive, refined, and neat against the blank paper—Hermione begins
to read:

Hermione,

I hate to interrupt your holiday with friends, but as Crookshanks’ sitter, I feel compelled to write
this letter to you! I want to first inform you that your charms around the apartment are working
brilliantly. Crookshanks’ bowls fill without flaw at his mealtimes, and I’ve taken care of all the
other necessary chores around your home.

You should know, however, that at night, Crookshanks tends to mewl quite loudly. He’s receptive
to my cuddles, but I suspect what he really wants is his mother back home.

Might you be able to come home for a few days to be with him? I’ve tried my best to cheer him up
with his toys and treats, but I suspect the true cause of his sadness is that you are not here with
him. I know you mentioned that ever since you reunited after the war, he’s been quite attached to
you.

Hope all has been well on your holiday.

Cho.

It was by some stroke of luck—dare she say it, fate—that Cho Chang resided in the same
apartment complex as Hermione in central London. They’d stumbled upon one another by accident
in the foyer of the building one summer day a year after parting from Hogwarts. She was
accompanied by her muggle fiancé who clearly knew about her magical abilities, as his first
question to Hermione was, Oh! Did you also go to the school for wizards? What’s your favorite
spell? Go on—let’s see something!

Cho cried when she hugged Hermione that day, likely as a manifestation and reminder of their
tumultuous yet deep relationship from the past. Cho had been an important part of Dumbledore’s
Army and a key figure in the war, so while tears are often hard to come by for Hermione, she too
admittedly let a salty drop slip from her eye that day.

She hadn’t seen her friends from Hogwarts in months. With the knowledge that Cho would be
living in the same complex as her, Hermione felt a source of safety now present in her life.

Not many things cause Hermione to cry. The news of Crookshanks, though, does summon a tear
from her eye. It breaks Hermione’s heart, tearing it through the slits of her ribs and slicing it into
pieces. After the war, she’d never left Crookshanks alone for more than a day at a time, fully intent
on reminding him that she wasn’t abandoning him again, and that their extensive time apart was
now over.

She has to go back for him.

In a way, she has to go back for herself, too.

Because as wonderful as this experience has been, she needs some time to process the
overwhelming feelings that are taking over her body and mind. Feelings that have only to do with
that impetuous, confusing, infuriating blonde. Every time she feels secure in the nature of their
relationship—we hate each other, we tolerate each other, we seduce each other—something shifts.
Some celestial power forces the tides to change course. And she's back to having absolutely no idea
where they stand, or what to do. It's how she feels now, with the trace of his lips still on her scar.

Dropping the letter in her lap and tucking her hair behind her ears, Hermione ruminates over what
she will say to everyone. While her heart unquestionably belongs to her companion, her kneazle,
her perpetual friend, it also has found a home here, in this cramped apartment and with an
unseemly group of friends.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging open. Draco enters the room while balancing
two cups of tea in one hand, his long fingers wrapped through both handles of the mugs. Kicking
the door half-shut with his foot, Draco approaches Hermione and hands her the red and gold mug.

Not wanting him to notice her single tear, Hermione briskly wipes her cheek and smiles.

“Thank you,” she says, accepting her new mug—the testament to her inclusion in the group.

Draco nods and sits on the side of his bed, taking a sip of his own drink and licking the remaining
liquid from his lips. “Everything alright?” he asks, extending his mug in her direction to indicate
the subject of his question.

Hermione takes a sip of her tea. The taste of honey explodes in her mouth, coating her tastebuds
with satisfaction.

“It’s Cho,” she starts, lifting the letter for a brief moment and then dropping it onto her lap yet
again. “She’s my neighbor, actually. And I’ve asked her to watch Crookshanks while I’m away.”

Subtly, and while biting the inside of his cheek, Draco flexes his right foot and rolls his ankle—the
same ankle that Crookshanks naughtily clawed on that day in the Great Hall.

Wonderful. I should add that moment to the Patronus memory bank, right next to punching him.

“She says that he’s been crying quite a bit since I’ve been gone,” Hermione continues, shifting in
the bed to properly face Draco. “She thinks that I should return for a few days to be with him.”

Draco gulps, masking his facial response with another swig of his drink. It’s a longer sip, and his
eyes ultimately find themselves glued to the ceiling as he tips his head back to allow the tea to roll
down his throat. When he finally drops his head and meets Hermione’s eyes, Draco takes a deep
breath through his nostrils, the exhale leaving his lips quietly.

And his fingers twitch against the porcelain mug, tapping the cup with anxiety.

Hermione awaits a response, but once again, she doesn’t receive one.

It’s as if silence defines their relationship and marks the method of their communication. Yet also,
in the moments when their repartee is vivacious and heated, their bond is just as strong, just as
right, just as accurate of a testament to how they view one another.

She tries to use his eyes to unearth his actual feelings. But the silver augment is dulled and empty,
as if both the withdrawal and the prospect of her leaving drains him of any energy.

Hermione opens her mouth again. “I think I should go back for a few days. Give you all some
space.”

Draco flares his nostrils and swipes his thumb against the tip of his nose, sniffing as his digit
passes across his skin. “Right,” he starts, his voice lower and tainted with exasperation, “You
should do that, then.”

Another sip of her tea. “I suppose I'll be going in a moment.”

Another sip of his tea. “Well, the others are outside if you’d like to say goodbye.”

Although it’s not the response she desired, it is close to the one she expected.

“Right,” Hermione sighs, “I’ll go say goodbye.”

As she rises from the bed and saunters to the door, Hermione detects Draco shifting in his bed.
Before stepping outside, she twists her head ever so slightly to the right, watching as Draco presses
his back against his headboard and pulls his knees up halfway to his chest. He drinks his tea and
gazes out the window, avoiding eye contact, confrontation, and desertion.

Wishing to not cause more of a rift, Hermione dips her hand into the space between the door and
the frame and steps into the living room.

She finds the others configured in a similar seating arrangement as yesterday morning, with Pansy
and Theo on the couch against their shared wall, and Daphne, Blaise, and Adrian resting on the
other. Upon hearing Hermione exit, they all glance in her direction and greet her with smiles
defined by the promise and excitement of the new day.

“Morning Granger,” Pansy says with a neutral grin. “Sleep alright?”

“Slept fine,” Hermione responds, situating herself on the arm of the couch just next to Pansy.

“Good, because we’ve got quite the day planned,” Theo starts, patting his hand against Pansy’s
bare knee. “Boxing Day sales are looking quite promising, and there's also supposed to be cheap
drinks at the Three Broomsticks today. Fancy a few butterbeers?”

Hermione's chest lifts with a deep breath as she gasps for a sliver of courage.

“That sounds really wonderful,” she starts, her fingers fidgeting in her lap, “But I unfortunately
have to head back home for a few days.”

Upon the news, the expressions of the Slytherins sink. Their once lively eyes fall victim to
desolation and loss as they consider Hermione’s absence.

She notices it especially in Adrian. There is something off about him today.

His typically vivacious eyes harbor the same hollow and heavy appearance as Draco’s did, like
they’ve recessed into their sockets without remorse. And his usually cheery and upbeat disposition
is replaced with something more exhausted and shattered—the pressure of his detox, the detox he
is currently undergoing with Draco.

Daphne disturbs Hermione’s assessment of Adrian’s condition with a soft, “Why?” She tilts her
head, stirring such guilt in Hermione that she could suffocate on Daphne’s saccharine disposition—
sugar in her veins, honey in her heart, and licorice upon her bones.

“I’ve just received a letter from my neighbor about Crookshanks. She thinks I need to return home
for a few days to take care of him. Apparently, he’s not been doing well.”

Blaise shifts off of the back of the couch and leans his elbows upon his thighs. “Of course. Your
poor kneazle—we’ve kept you for a few days too long, haven’t we?”

Hermione chuckles. “It’s no worries, really. I’ve got charms set up around the apartment to
accommodate his needs when I'm away. He’s quite independent as well—er, so I thought.”

“Clever witch you are,” Theo interjects, nodding his head and tapping his free fingers against the
back of the couch. “We understand if you need to head back home to take care of that lovely
kneazle for some time.”

“Is everything else okay?” Daphne asks, and Hermione senses that Daphne knows something, that
her eyes are flushed with the memory of Draco kissing her scar last night, their knees touching, and
their hearts beating in synchronous movements at their proximity.

But no, she can't possibly know. It's just Daphne being as sweet as ever.

“Everything is fine,” Hermione responds, but of course it’s not. Of course her mind is reeling. Of
course she’s trapped in a vacuum where all she can bloody think about is him.

No, everything isn’t fine.

Hermione’s heart, gut, mind—they all gravitate towards Draco. The invisible string morphs into a
rubber band that tugs and constricts, tugs and constricts, tugs and constricts, and Hermione can’t
help but give into the pull, succumb to the thrill of being jerked over and over again, and dance
with something so intriguing that the head rushes which she undergoes make all those years of
being a fucking prude worth it.
In those moments with Draco, she’s like a match, setting him aflame with everything he’s tried so
hard to rebuke.

And she enjoys it. As much as it confuses her, Hermione cannot help but be enraptured by their
intricate and dense relationship.

“Well, you’ll come back, right?” Daphne asks.

Hermione smiles at the group. “I’ll come back. Of course. Maybe even with Crookshanks. He’s got
to try out his new bed sometime.”

That comment harvests scattered chuckles from the group.

“I just need a few days,” Hermione admits. “There’s a bit of work I need to get done as well.”

“We understand,” Blaise responds. “You take your time.”

With a final sip of her tea, Hermione places her empty mug on her lap and offers yet another
reassuring smile. “I should get going. The sooner I get back to that cat, the sooner he’ll be a little
less anxious.”

“Do you need anything?” Pansy offers, her lips warping into a smirk as she delivers her next
question, soaked in friendly cheekiness. “How about a change of clothes?”

Hermione glances down at her skimpy pajamas—a measly t-shirt and shorts—and chuckles. “I
could just transfigure the clothes. You’ve already been quite generous with your wardrobe.”

Pansy winks. “Happy to help.”

“Oh, Merlin! That reminds me!” Daphne squeals, flexing her hands in the air as if she’s discovered
something of immense value. “Why don’t you take all the time you need and then join us again on
New Year’s Eve? It’s the most wonderful night of the year at Amortentia. Titus has the venue
decorated so beautifully, and everyone is supposed to dress in one of four colors—black, white,
silver, or gold. It's so well organized. You should see the way the lights reflect off of the dresses.
It’s such a blast! Will you come back then?”

Hermione considers the possibilities of the evening, recalling Halloween and the night before
Christmas Eve. Admittedly, she loved her times at Amortentia, even though they’ve been defined
by her rowdy encounters with Draco.

Merlin help her—she craves more.

“Absolutely,” Hermione responds. “I’ll come back then.” Shifting off of the couch and stepping
towards the kitchen, she lifts her mug in the air and adds, “I’ll just wash this quickly and head out.”

As if life has been breathed back into him, Adrian stands and saunters towards Hermione. “No
worries. I’ll take care of that.” He snatches the mug from her hand and winks. “You go home and
see that kneazle of yours.”

That twinkle in his eyes haunts her. And while Hermione snaps her fingers and transfigures her
pajamas into street clothes in the bathroom moments later, she can’t help but replay the half-
hearted and soft wink on Adrian’s face in her mind. The wink, laced with something other than the
usual glee he so effortlessly projects. It had been unnatural, forced upon his face as a means of
maintaining a façade and masking the irrefutable pain brought on by the unforgiving properties of
the detox.
After she changes her clothes from the loose pajamas into a pair of jeans and a sweater, she makes
her way out of the bathroom. A realization then settles upon her—her wand is still in Draco’s
room, resting atop the tin of mince pies on the nightstand.

Hermione sighs, preparing herself to face him again. She pushes the door open and steps inside the
room, finding Draco in the same position on his bed as before. His long fingers twirl in the air to
produce petty magic, little red sparks emitting from his pale digits in an array of geometric shapes.
He looks up at Hermione for a moment, barely produces a half-smile, and then continues to fiddle
with the magic.

Cautiously stepping through the room towards the nightstand, Hermione retrieves the tin of mince
pies and her wand.

And as her eyes briefly skim to the left, she sees a small bag of cocaine resting in plain sight on
Draco’s nightstand.

Fuck.

Must she always feel so inclined to overstep her boundaries? Honestly, Hermione wants nothing
more than to reach forward, snatch that bag of cocaine from his desk, and make it vanish into thin
air. But the fear of transgressing the confines he’s set, which would undoubtedly lead to him
shutting down more, seems inconducive.

So, Hermione turns to depart. And Draco still does not speak to her.

Fine. I’ll say something.

“I’ll be back on New Year’s Eve.”

Draco’s magic ceases for a moment as the slender fingers of his once active hand drop to wrap
around his mug, already held up by his left hand.

Hermione tries again.

“Thank you for the pies.”

He nods plainly, exhaustion clouding every part of his being.

Curse her for wanting to push more, wanting to say thank you for other things he’s done, wanting
to hug him, hold him, touch him one more time. Wanting to keep him from returning to the drugs
on his desk.

Instead, she gulps and says, “Take care, Malfoy.”

Her eyes search for his. Please, she thinks, just look at me. For a moment.

Nothing. Draco simply cannot bring himself to watch her leave.

Defeated, Hermione turns and exits the room, shutting the door and leaving Draco in darkness.

Several minutes pass where he soaks in silence, the only noise coming from his fingernails tapping
against the mug. He lets the sound consume his mind and his thoughts because his brain won’t stop
turning and spewing the thoughts he’s been trying for days to rebuke.

He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need the cocaine.
He might need it.

Suddenly, the door opens, and Daphne sneaks through the opening.

“Are you alright?” she asks, casually approaching his bed and sitting on the edge.

“Did she leave?” Draco asks, his tone bordering on impatience.

Daphne sighs and nods, reaching forward and placing her hand upon his. She rubs her thumb
against the back of his palm, hoping to alleviate his festering anger.

Knocking his head against the headboard, Draco huffs with exasperation.

“She made it all a little easier.”

Daphne’s heart can barely stand seeing Draco in this state.

“She made it easier for all of us. But you, especially. I know.”

Draco inhales through his nose, wishing that the air around him would purify him. Wishing that the
remnants of Granger in this room would seep into his bloodstream to make him feel warm again.

With her hand atop his, Daphne can feel Draco’s veins contort with stress and anxiousness.

“She was actually… helping,” Draco whispers, but he immediately hates that it comes out of his
mouth. Hates to admit that she dispelled some of the anxiety in him.

Bile rises in his throat. Fuck that word—help.

“Draco—”

Everything inside of him is suddenly replaced with anger.

“Of course she fucking left. Of course she did. Because why would she want to stay here with us?
Why, when her life is so fucking perfect, would she want to ruin it with the things we do?”

Daphne furrows her eyebrows, realizing what is about to happen.

He’s about to self-destruct, project his anger, relapse.

“Draco, you know that’s not how she feels—”

“It’s how everyone else feels,” he interrupts, rolling his eyes. “What makes her any different?”

Daphne glares at him. “You know what makes her different.”

“Do I?” he seethes, cracking his knuckles with his fingers.

Suddenly, the detox seems all too unimportant. The reason for trying to stay clean and healthy
evaporates into thin air. And the cocaine looks all too enticing.

“I can’t do it anymore.”

Swinging his legs off of the bed, Draco grabs the bag of cocaine and tugs the seal open. He kneels
before his nightstand and pours some of the powder out onto the wood. Pulling the drawer of his
stand wide open, he removes a card and a banknote, and he goes through the motions of creating
those beautiful white lines. He licks his lips in anticipation of the head rush, the high, the feeling of
normalcy—

“Wait, don’t—”

“Don’t argue with me,” Draco snaps, separating the powder into three adjacent lines. He rolls the
banknote in a tight coil, takes a deep breath, lines the paper with the cocaine, and snorts all three
lines in a row, each one more glorious than the last.

Thank Merlin.

He turns on his heels and leans his back against the nightstand, holding the card between his index
and middle finger. Daphne stares at him, tears swelling in her eyes as she realizes how she could've
done more. Could've said more. Could've stopped him.

“Don’t judge me, Daph,” Draco whispers, swiping his fingers against the edge of the card,
collecting the remnants of the cocaine, and rubbing it into his gums.

Daphne shakes her head, dropping to the ground and leaning against his bed, her legs crossing over
his.

“I will never judge you,” she whispers. “I just want to protect you.”

Draco presses his teeth against one another and reaches for the wand under his pillow. “Don’t
waste your energy on me. I’ve got nothing to detox for now.”

He places the hawthorn to his forehead and exhales.

“Accelero momentum.”

And under Daphne’s breath, she whispers, “Yourself. You can detox for yourself.”

But Draco can’t hear her, because he’s too busy letting the cocaine seep into his walls and infiltrate
his bloodstream, colonize him yet again, as if to say, You’re nobody else’s but mine.

Hermione apparates back to her apartment, emerging from the air in a twisted white mist and
landing on her feet in the middle of her living room.

And almost immediately, as if he senses her presence, Crookshanks mewls from the room behind
her.

Upon hearing the sound, Hermione places the tin of mince pies and wand on the coffee table in
front of her, and then she spins around and rushes towards the door to her bedroom. She barely
steps into the threshold when her kneazle leaps off of her bed and greets her with adoration,
threading through her legs and rubbing his orange fur onto her black jeans. He leaves traces of his
hair on the denim, as if to beg her to stay forever.

Heart pounding and hands shaking with anticipation, Hermione bends down and lifts Crookshanks
towards her chest, flipping him onto his back so that he lies in her comforting arms like a baby. He
stretches his paws forth and purrs as Hermione tickles his fluffy stomach and subsequently kisses
his nose.

It’s the warmth of his fur and the silky sound of his purrs that fetch relief in her heart. Crookshanks
sings in her arms like an angel, his sounds practically seeping through her skin and perforating her
aching heart. Hermione feels relieved to be back home yet regretful that she ever left him alone.
Had she known the implications of leaving him, she wouldn’t have ever done it in the first place.

It was Molly Weasley who housed Crookshanks during the war. She used to tell Hermione about
how much Crookshanks would cry at night, and no matter how much motherly love Molly gifted
to Crookshanks, he was never fully content.

Even the bloody kneazle harbored trauma from the war. How could she so plainly abandon him yet
again?

“Sorry, darling,” Hermione whispers into his crown, and she subsequently kisses him five times on
the top of his head. “You’ll come with me next time.”

As she turns on her heels to settle in the living room, Hermione glances at the floor of her
kitchenette to the left where Crookshanks’ food and water bowl reside. Confirming that the bowls
are filled to the brim with his food and water, Hermione sighs, relieved that her refilling charms
had worked on schedule.

She drops to the couch and lies horizontally, her legs swinging over the side and her feet resting
upon the arm of the chair. Coaxing Crookshanks to lie on her chest, Hermione maneuvers his body
so that his head faces hers—so that she can stare into those beady and adorable eyes for the rest of
the day. His tail falls up and down with pleasure, sporadically patting against her lower stomach as
a sign of delight. And he purrs some more, a testament to her homecoming.

She missed him—wished she hadn’t abandoned him.

Yet a similar feeling stirs within her conscience as she wonders how the Slytherins are handling her
departure.

Hermione knows that she needs a few days to collect her thoughts, understand what is happening
between her and members of that group, and just fucking breathe normally. Breathe without feeling
like she’ll suffocate on insinuations and impulsive actions and silver eyes that watch her with
passion and rage and everything in between… Can’t he just indicate which one he truly feels?
Because Hermione’s mind won’t stop spiraling, won’t cease its quest to uncover the traits and
anecdotes which define Draco Malfoy. His tattoos, his scars, his mannerisms, his fucking eyes.

A break. She needs a break. A moment to collect her thoughts.

It’s not that she is ungrateful or exhausted by the routine of the Slytherins. In fact, she finds an
immense amount of pleasure being with them in that apartment—all of them, each in individual
ways.

Ultimately, Hermione feels tugged between two worlds—the one she has always known, and the
one she is dying to explore further.

Her eyes travel to her bookshelf past her left shoulder, stacked with volumes on topics she
considers interesting and worthwhile. Nothing there—no book or periodical or large volume—
answers her plentiful questions about drugs. About cocaine. About addiction.

Sometimes, Hermione wishes she could just flick her wand in the air and have all the information
in the world susceptible to her fingertips and eyes. She’d soak in literature and dissertations and
reports if she could. Drown in paper that opens her up to the subjects of life which she has yet to
explore.

But magic is not always that straightforward or gracious. Madam Pince said that to her once while
she studied in the library. It simply cannot answer all of life’s questions and it cannot fix all of
life’s problems.

A trip to the public library would do her some good. She used to love spending time there as a
young girl. Hermione could search for books, articles, or any other resource that would answer her
relentless questions.

But as of now, as she peers down at Crookshanks lying so sweetly on her chest, his tail swiping
across her sweater like a pendulum and his tongue hanging just outside his mouth, Hermione
decides to postpone the trip. To instead lie with her kneazle and remind him how much she adores
him with vocal affirmations, occasional rubs, and love soaked kisses.

The library will be there. But for now, at this moment, Crookshanks needs her.

In a way, she needs him too.

Cocaine is a powerfully addictive stimulant made from the coca plant, indigenous to South
America. There are several methods for ingesting the drug, the most common being to snort the
fine, white powder through the nose or to rub it upon one’s gums. Two other methods include
dissolving it to be injected directly into the bloodstream by means of a needle or smoking it after it
has been processed into a rock crystal…

The drug works by increasing the level of dopamine in one’s brain. This is the principal reason for
the susceptible addiction that comes with overusing the drug. Frequent cocaine consumers rely on
the chemically induced levels of dopamine which the drug produces, thus creating a cycle of
frequent and strong doses…

There are short-term and long-term effects of sustained cocaine use. Short-term effects include high
levels of energy, alertness, hypersensitivity to sight, touch, taste, and sound, unpredictable
behavior, nausea, unsteady heartbeat, muscle twitches, and restlessness, among others…

Hermione’s breath hitches as her eyes glance over the short-term effects of cocaine use, all of
which sound too familiar.

Her curiosity had won out in the afternoon. Having soaked up all of her preliminary love,
Crookshanks had returned to his spot at the base of the couch, his paws clawing and tugging at the
basketweave rug on the hardwood floors. She’d entertained him by casting a lumos from the tip of
her wand and pointing the light at different areas around the apartment. Crookshanks darted around
the space, desperate to catch the light in his paws. Overtime, he’d grown wearied by the game and
plopped onto the rug for one of his many naps of the day.

And as Hermione tapped her fingers on her stomach, her mind constantly ruminating over the same
questions, she decided that a quick trip to the library would be acceptable.

She sits in the corner of the public library at one of six large tables, researching the drug on one of
the computers. Wholly unfamiliar with the new technology but adamantly working her way
through the equipment, Hermione scrolls through a webpage that details the complexities of
cocaine. With her head down and her actions clandestine, Hermione bites her lower lip as she
cautiously inspects her surroundings.

There aren’t many people in the library today, and she assumes it’s because of the shopping
holiday. Additionally, the configuration of the computers—four to a table, all nestled on their own
sides—effectively masks her potentially improper research. Were someone to stumble by and
witness what she is researching, they might come to the wrong idea of her intentions.
It’s why she’s chosen to sit in the corner, as mysterious and foreboding as it might look.

She resolves to erase the memory of the computer once she’s done… if she can navigate her way
around that.

How difficult can it be, really?

The short-term effects which she reads about sound exactly like how Draco described them to her
that day in the bathroom. Not only that, but they sound exactly like what she experienced.

The high levels of energy, the hypersensitivity to sensations, the unpredictable behavior—

Merlin, she thinks to herself, that explains the impulsive decisions I made that night.

It certainly could’ve been the drugs, but she considers that it also could’ve been something deeper.

Brushing that thought aside, Hermione continues scrolling down the webpage, using the oval
mouse to maneuver her way through the text. The arrow lands upon the next heading, and she
continues to read.

Withdrawal symptoms include fatigue—

Draco and Adrian.

—increased appetite—

Adrian, yesterday at the Shrieking Shack.

—insomnia—

Draco, unable to sleep.

She could hear him toss and turn in the night. Hermione knows he's not sleeping.

Her eyes continue further down, falling upon the subsequent heading. It sticks out in black, bold
letters, maximized in comparison to the other sections.

Cocaine Overdose: What to Do If a Loved One—

Her hand lifts from the mouse impulsively. The words stare her in the face like little leviathans,
baiting her with fear and anxiety.

A heavy pressure takes hold of her mind, then her chest, then her arms, and she feels like she can’t
move because she’s gazing at the word that she feared coming across: overdose.

But the glare of the computer screen beckons her to continue reading.

An overdose occurs when a person consumes too much of the drug. This can lead to very serious
effects such as difficulty breathing, high body temperatures, hallucinations, anxiety, seizures,
strokes, vomiting, heart attacks, and even death. The risks are increased when one mixes cocaine
with other substances, such as different drugs or alcohol...

If someone is having a seizure, do not forcibly restrain the individual. Instead, they should be
positioned on their side, and all objects and potential threats around them should be removed
immediately. Cold compresses on their body, particularly on their forehead, neck, and wrists, will
help reduce body temperature...
Ideally, one should contact emergency services if they witness someone experiencing an overdose.
Restoring blood flow to the heart and brain is typically the first step, but there are a range of
medications and fluids that can be administered by hospitals that can reverse the effects of the
overdose—

Reading further proves too difficult. Because now she’s scared and confused.

But she’s informed and conscious as well.

The arrow guided by the mouse glides to the red ‘x’ on the corner of the webpage, and when her
index finger clicks down on the mouse, the webpage closes, leaving her to stare at the landscape
background—tumbling hills against a pure, blue sky. Examining her surroundings one more time,
Hermione discreetly removes her wand from inside her sleeve and aims it at the computer.

Admittedly, she doesn’t know how to clear the history of her searches. Her fascination yet
ignorance of muggle technology manifests itself the moment she shrugs, waves her wand, and
mutters, “Deletrius.”

A mistake. Rather than the search history being deleted, the colossal computer itself vanishes into
thin air.

Startled, Hermione jumps back in her seat and gasps, yet again inspecting her surroundings to
ensure that nobody saw her.

She’s lucky that the few library goers are all quite focused on their work, because none of them
seem to notice that a whole computer has just disappeared in a cloud of white smoke.

“Fuck!” she mutters, and then she’s reaching for her coat on the back of the chair and sheathing her
body with it, her arms frantically slipping through the sleeves. She scurries towards the exit,
nodding plainly at the old man behind the welcome desk. He returns a kind smile, which soothes
Hermione’s nerves because—fucking hell, she’s just fucking sent one of his computers into the
ether world.

As Hermione pushes the doors of the library open and steps out into the brisk wind of a December
day, she thinks about how the wind hits her face with ferocity and purpose. While she undoubtedly
feels it knock against her face, she recognizes that it’s just not as strong of a sensation as when she
was riding the high of her cocaine-induced evening.

She’d by lying if she said that she didn’t want to try again. Feel everything around her so clearly.
Experience bliss and excitement with a group she trusts.

Even after reading what she read... she just... it just felt... amazing.

Maybe, once more, she could do it. With the proper knowledge of risks in her mind, she could at
least make a completely informed decision.

And then the wind upon her face would feel more like a wave of bliss crashing over her, and
Draco’s hands… they could feel like a rip of euphoria through her body.

It appears, as Hermione lies in her bed later that night with Crookshanks draped between her arms,
that the tug on the invisible string persists.

Her chest tightens and constricts as if being tugged by that cord, and so Hermione rolls onto her
back to find the air she seems to be lacking. But when she inhales through her nose, breathing in
the scent of the room, she realizes that the air is not as satisfying, not as satiating, and not as
pleasurable as the ambiance in that shabby yet homey apartment.

It’s the lack of company, and a mint deficiency.

Rolling her head to the right, Hermione expects to see Draco lying on a bed next to her. But she’s
met with a bare wall, impenetrable and obstructive. Like a projector displaying her clandestinely
desired location, Hermione’s mind fashions the image of Draco lying in a bed next to her, his chest
lifting up and down with every sweet breath that passes his lips, and his arms impulsively and
occasionally tugging the covers further over his chest.

It’s those little mannerisms that say everything about him. The miniscule moments where he
reveals something about himself. He breathes like his chest is begging him to—like he’s forgotten
how to do so properly and has to relearn. And he grips the ends of his covers like they’re his only
method of protection when the unpredictability of the night arrives. His walls fall when
vulnerability slips its way into her vision.

And if she could just stare into those silver eyes again, inspect his tattoos with purpose, uncover
just a little bit more about him, then maybe she could penetrate that fortification entirely. Take a
drill to the bricks and pierce through his defenses. If she could just touch him—

Crookshanks shifts slightly out of Hermione’s arms and settles a foot away from her.

She realizes that she’s holding her breath.

Breathe out.

She does, and what comes out is not her breath, but instead it is the last remaining trace of him.

Because the part of her skin that he kissed—her scar, pale and raised slightly upon her forearm—
grows dry again, the trace of his lips evaporating like his lips were never there in the first place.

But his lips were there. She didn’t imagine anything about that night, that interaction, that
astonishing moment.

Draco kissed her scar.

Nobody had ever done something remotely like that for her.

Once, during her eighth year, Ron was there to clean her scar when it unexpectedly began to bleed.
He applied a damp rag against her sensitive skin and told her that everything would be alright.

And ever since that day in the manor, Harry would tread ever so carefully around Hermione’s arm,
careful not to grip her too tightly or accidentally brush past her left forearm. She felt like porcelain
around him.

She’s strong. Very strong. And Harry knows that. And Hermione knows that Harry knows that. It’s
just that he would do anything to protect her after everything she did for him. And so he was
always careful when touching Hermione.

But Draco Malfoy had put his lips on her skin and kissed the poison, the memory, the pain. He
sucked out the agony and inhaled it for himself.

So while the image of him leaning over to kiss her scar remains engrained in her memory,
Hermione can’t help but feel the physical remnants of his touch slip away with every second she is
not near him.

Draco feels it too.

He lies awake at night, his heart practically ripping out of his chest, simply because he feels her
slipping away.

But he shouldn’t feel so weak. He’s returned to the drugs. His body is working with the chemicals
to generate a fog, a daze, a murky cloud around his darkest desires, shoved deep into his
subconscious.

So how the fuck is it that this thin string is able to penetrate that fog so easily?

The drugs were supposed to… hinder these fucking feelings…

Yet they seem to have doubled—tripled the secretive emotions.

You did this to yourself is all that echoes in his mind.

I know, he responds silently. I fucking know.

He drowns himself in loathsome self-pity, letting the voice in his mind chastise his actions, his
mistakes, his whole being. Because he could have been stronger. He could have said no. He could
have just walked through life without the need to indulge.

But he was fucking weak back then. And he’s still weak, now.

Draco couldn’t remember what it was like to naturally produce dopamine in his brain until he
detoxed around her. Until he handed her a tin of mince pies, helped her place a star on a fir tree,
and kissed the scar on her forearm.

And now that she’s gone, and there’s no skin to worship, no small amounts of concealed yet
discernable instances of affection to offer, and no possible way to achieve fulfillment, there’s
simply no reason, motivation, or purpose to detox.

If not for her, then for who?

Draco closes his eyes.

For myself?

Hah! You’re too fucking weak for that. You'll never be strong enough to detox for yourself.

In time, sleep replaces Draco’s destructive thoughts, but the release is still only temporary. And
when he rises in the morning and makes tea for one instead of two, Draco will undoubtedly find
himself victim once again to the cruel reality of his life and the constant basis of his seemingly
everlasting addiction.

His fear of pain, abandonment, and death.

Death, which looms over him as an unavoidable part of his life—of all life.

It just so happens that he is closer to it than others.

Can she sense that reality? Does she know how close he is to letting the sweet release of
nothingness hold him hostage, torture him, and then bring his beating heart, his blood flow, and the
transmission of emotions to an indefinite halt?

It’s all too hard.

Draining.

Pointless.

Exhaustion eventually coaxes him to sleep, but Draco fails to dream.

That proves much too difficult as well.

 Chapter 20

When does time have the most meaning?

Is it when every second fleets by unremorsefully, drowning its victim in a never-ending gyration of
ungraspable moments? When one doesn't comprehend that it is even moving in the first place
because it bolts before them faster than a shooting star? Or is it when eternity is just an arm's reach
away, and one only needs to wiggle their fingers an inch further to snatch that patch of time for
themselves? Impede the beat of the universe's heart and conquer the continuum that governs their
life?

Is it when one feels the looming presence of time the most, like two tectonic plate scraping past
one another and instigating a tremor so palpable that it's as if the earth physically speaks to its
patrons, or when one feels its presence the least, like an atom, invisible in nature but grand in role,
brushing past someone's skin?

Time is, unquestionably, a complex miracle.

It is too fast, too slow, too present, too absent. It ebbs and bestows both chaos and security. It's
paradoxical in nature yet objective in reality.

When shared with others, time can feel like a gift from heaven, a reward for superb behavior, or a
tin full of sweet mince pies, soft in one's hands and warm upon one's tongue.

And yet, time can also wear on the brain in such calamitous fashions that sometimes all one can
muster up enough energy to do is stare at the ceiling and count down the seconds in her mind until
the minute, hour, then day finally ends. She'll inhale, exhale, and pray for the seconds to cease their
intrinsic role.

But time will never stop moving; how can it?

Asking time to stop moving is like asking the earth to stop rotating, the sun to stop providing
warmth, and the moon to stop pushing and pulling the tides. These phenomena are ebbed into the
order of the universe—to stop would lead to nihilism.

True to her nature, Hermione wants it both ways.

To catch her breath—that is her first request. And then it's to slow time down long enough that she
can properly loosen the tension in her shoulders and neck, sleep in a room where his scent doesn't
fill the air, expunge him from her mind long enough that she can take another breath. Then, repeat
the process.

But if time stops—if she breaks the continuum and falls placidly into the void—then she'll never
make it back to Hogsmeade. She'll be forced to live out her days in this bed, staring at the wall,
longing for her friends, and wondering why she ever wanted to purge him from her mind in the first
place.

She's exhausted. Trapped. A prisoner to time and its nefarious game.

And time is ruthless. It tauntingly ticks through the clock on her nightstand, echoing in her head as
a cruel reminder of its dominion over her and the rest of the world.

Hermione cannot save everyone. She'll try, but she's just one fucking person.
Hermione just needs five days.

But five days feels like forever to Draco.

For him, no matter how far he stretches his fingers into the void, he cannot seem to grasp time and
control it for himself. Can't make the days go by any faster. Can't coax her back in the blink of an
eye.

And so, he suffers in the same way—a prisoner to time.

When does time have the most meaning?

Is it when it moves too fast or too slow?

Hermione would say it's when it moves too fast.

Draco would say it's when it moves too slow.

And yet, time ubiquitously connects them in its wayward nature, tugging them along exactly as the
world intended.
 Chapter 21
Chapter Notes

tw // drug use, mild violence

She escapes time's prison on the 31st of December.

It's in the moment just after dawn greets London and Crookshanks leaps onto the windowsill of her
bedroom and paws at a bird outside of the window that Hermione suddenly feels the exact same
sentiment as her kneazle—it's time to move beyond these monotonous walls.

She resolves to send her patronus to Daphne to inform her of her wish to return to Hogsmeade.
They'd planned on reconvening on this day anyways, but Hermione feels inclined to warn them of
her return beforehand. It seems most courteous and sensitive.

Leaning across her bed, Hermione reaches for the wand lying on her nightstand. It's in plain sight,
just how she prefers it to be. Convenient and handy. Available in the blink of an eye, should she
need it.

She sighs, gazing at the variety of objects cluttering the surface of the table—several books, a
golden lamp, a box of tissues, a clock, a small succulent, and a glass of water.

Not tea. Not in a red mug. Not with her favorite, sweet ingredients. Not with the ghost of his
fingertips lining the porcelain handle.

Just a tall glass of water, the liquid clear and pure and untouched.

Hermione drags her lower lip beneath her teeth, and a tense feeling grows in the center of her
stomach, like a rope tightening around her torso. It contracts, and her heart chases the pressure, the
longing, the inclination to go back.

She rubs her temple with the palm of her free hand, and with her wand in the other, she effortlessly
conjures her bright, little otter. He spurs from the wand in a cloud of white and blue mist, twirling
in the air for a moment before hovering in front of Hermione.

"Ask Daphne Greengrass it it'd be alright for me to come back in a few hours."

The patronus cartwheels in the air, painting it with the trail of his magic. And then he soars across
the room and bleeds out of the window, and Crookshanks' eyes dart to catch the sight of the magic
before the charm hits the sun's rays, becomes invisible, and amalgamates with the sky itself.

Hermione sighs in relief as she leans back into her pillow, dropping her wand at the foot of her bed
and awaiting Daphne's response.

In minutes, Daphne's patronus comes before Hermione.

A swan, with a wingspan enviable to all other birds, appears upon Hermione's bed. Her wings flap
and her elongated neck cranes at the termination of her long flight.
As lovely as Hermione remembers them to be, Daphne's words come from the patronus.

Hermione,

We've missed you so much. Come back whenever you're ready.

At the expiry of the message, the swan fades away into the same blue and white mist.

Hermione leaps from under the covers of the bed, her heart practically springing out of her chest.
The thumps from her chest shoot through her body and to her feet, which drag her effortlessly to
her closet on the wall opposite of her door. She tears through her clothes with a goal in mind,
searching for a sweater, a t-shirt, a blouse—something that she doesn't need. An article of clothing
that could serve as a blank canvas for a proper outfit for the evening.

Because with the time she's been given to reflect and relax, she's also replayed Daphne's words in
her head about the expected New Year's Eve attire—black, white, silver, or gold.

Gold. Easily the most intriguing of colors to Hermione, what with the way it will undoubtedly
complement her skin, her hair, and her eyes.

Mid-search, her fingers settle upon a dense blouse, stuffy and outdated and not representative of
who Hermione wishes to be anymore. Yanking it off of the hanger and tossing it onto her bed,
Hermione clicks her tongue rhythmically and imagines the outfit she wishes to create. She reaches
for her wand and aims it at the blouse.

Red sparks shoot from her wand and surround the blouse in the electrifying magic. The blouse
twists in the air and transfigures in moments into her desired dress. It's gold to match her eyes and
insides. The fabric is shiny, silky, and soft to the touch.

Hermione gulps and leans forward, trailing her fingers over the fabric, begging the dress to anoint
her with the same confidence as that black one did.

She returns to the closet to pull out a small duffel bag. She doesn't know how long she'll stay
around this time, so she resolves to pack enough clothes for three days—it's how much longer they
have until they have to return to F.D.E.R.E. meetings.

That'd be enough—for now. Should things change, her apartment is only an apparition away.

The last thing missing for her trip back to Hogsmeade is the kneazle perched on her windowsill.
Crookshanks' tail pats against the base of the ledge with contentment as he basks in the warmth of
the sun.

He'll have the same place there, undoubtedly. A spot on the carpet to lounge in the sun. A fuzzy
and soft bed to rest upon while he sleeps. A group of people who will give him nothing but
attention.

It'll be different, unfamiliar, and confusing, but the love that will surround him will be enough.

Hermione knows—it's already been enough for her.

Oddly enough, Crookshanks does not have an issue with apparating.

Wound tightly in Hermione's arms, the kneazle doesn't mutter a sound as Hermione closes her eyes
and lets the air spin them into nonexistence and subsequently spit them back out into the new
location.

She notices that it smells fresh, like the cobblestone sidewalks are greeting her with open and
welcome arms. Like she's been gone for too long, and the scent suddenly hits her nostrils and
reminds her of her acceptance here.

Hermione's eyes scale up the apartment building until she reaches their window, three floors up,
curtains drawn wide open. Balancing Crookshanks in her left arm, Hermione reaches into her right
coat pocket to remove her wand. She flicks it in the air, and the otter reappears, and as if it's in his
nature at this point, he swims through the sky and enters that window.

And moments later, eons faster than her patronus, Daphne appears in the foyer of the apartment.
She throws the front door open with total elation, and her glimmering smile is as wide as the sun as
she sprints down the stairs to greet Hermione.

"Hermione!" she squeals, her voice cracking at the last syllable, and then she's jumping into
Hermione's arms, wrapping her in a hug, and swinging her back and forth with gleeful laughs.
Somehow unbothered by her presence, Crookshanks barely shifts in Hermione's arms as Daphne
pushes up against him. In fact, he purrs at the warmth he finds himself in, as if he too feels the love
coming from her touch.

Daphne pulls away, gripping Hermione's shoulder and laughing with relief. Her eyes drop to
Crookshanks lying stoically in Hermione's arms.

"Forgive me," she coos, using the side of her finger to gently stroke Crookshanks' head. "Didn't
mean to hurt you, darling! I'm just so excited to see your mummy again! Oh, Merlin, he's such a
sweetheart! Look at those adorable eyes, and that funny little smile, and—oh my goodness—he is
just divine!"

Hermione giggles. "I'm sure he'd appreciate that compliment. Twelve years has never looked better
on a kneazle, if you ask me."

"Oh, unquestionably," Daphne responds through a laugh. "The others will be thrilled to see him.
Come on—" she reaches for the bag slung over Hermione's shoulder, swings it over her own, and
then reaches for Hermione's free hand and locks their fingers—"let's get you inside!"

They stride up the stone stairs, enter the building, and start up the narrow staircase. Crookshanks
cranes his head in Hermione's arms, inspecting the new surroundings with keen perception. His tall
ears flick back and forth.

Hermione clears her throat as the two turn the corner, the door to their apartment in plain sight.

"How have things been?" she asks tentatively, as if she already knows the answer.

Daphne sighs and forces a smile. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words form. Hermione can
practically sense the wheels in Daphne's mind turn with desperation as she attempts to find the
right words, but it's to no avail.

After a few moments, Daphne smiles yet again. "They're going to be better now that you're back."

Guilt surges like a tornado through Hermione's body.

She needed those few days. She keeps reminding herself of that fact. But the choice to leave had
haunted her every moment she was away. And she simply cannot fathom the emotional toll it took
on them, either. Every moment spent away—however much she needed it—was painful for them
all.

Hermione reaches for Daphne's arm before she opens the door.

"I'm sorry that I left."

Daphne retracts her arm from the knob, and her mouth falls into the shape of an 'o.' She returns the
touch, stroking her fingers over Hermione's arm. "No," she insists, shaking her head, "There's
nothing to apologize for. Absolutely nothing. You did what was best for you. Everyone
understands." She takes a deep breath and exhales soundly. "We're just glad that you came back."

Hermione sighs in relief. "Me too."

When Daphne opens the door, it feels like Hermione is stepping into a field of flowers on the first
day of spring. As if the snow has melted and the sun has shone upon the apartment, each person
twists their heads to greet Hermione, their sullen expressions thawing and fading beneath the pastel
beams of the sun. Banished and replaced with sprouting flowers in their smiles.

Well, most of their smiles.

Hermione's eyes instinctively fall on him, as they always have. Draco sits in the same lackadaisical
and unbothered pose, his arms spanning across the back of the couch and his legs spread wide in
front of him. His right knee bounces anxiously and only seems to speed up when he turns to gaze at
Hermione.

Across from Draco sits Theo and Pansy, wrapped in one another's arms. Yet when he sees
Hermione, Theo jumps from the couch, balls his fists, and shakes his hands in the air triumphantly.

"The kneazle!" he cries out to the ceiling, and then he's gliding to where Hermione stands just
within their apartment.

"Oh, and what is Hermione? Chopped liver?" Daphne retorts, shutting the door and crossing her
arms over her chest.

Theo tsks as he finds a spot next to Hermione. "Ah, Granger knows we adore her presence, but—
come on—I've been waiting to meet this little guy for forever!"

There's a look of fear and confusion in Crookshanks' eyes, one that illustrates his puzzlement with
the new sensations, the new environment, and the strange people around him. But when Theo lifts
his fingers to the kneazle's nose and allows him to become familiar with his scent, Crookshanks
willingly extends his head towards Theo's hand. With immense delicacy, Theo scratches the soft
crown of Crookshanks' head with his fingertips.

A purr—Crookshanks emits a soft purr, and it's followed by him sticking out his tongue ever so
slightly, just enough so that the pink tip rests between his lips.

Theo melts.

"Oh, come on, he is the best," he sighs. Although totally enchanted by the kneazle, Theo lifts his
face to gaze at Hermione. His chocolate eyes shine with gratitude, and he places his free hand upon
her shoulder. "Welcome back."

Hermione requites his appreciation with a smile and nod. "Thanks. It's wonderful to be back."
The others follow. Pansy jumps from the couch and greets Crookshanks while latching her arm
around Theo, and they both coo and grin at the kneazle together.

Blaise joins the crowd and offers his share of caressing the orange fur. The smile that materializes
on his face when his broad hand strokes the kneazle's back is so bright, so large, so kind, that
Hermione considers the possibility that this kneazle—this simple yet adorable addition to the
dynamic—is successfully dismantling the tough façade that Blaise often wears.

It's as if Crookshanks has single-handedly reminded him of another reason to be happy.

Remember this when it hurts.

Like a little prince, waited on day and night without question, Crookshanks purrs and relishes in
the attention he receives. His tail unremittingly thumps against Hermione's arm with total elation.

Patting Draco's leg and rising from the couch, Adrian tiptoes towards the crowd and pushes
through his friends. He snickers, the laugh echoing in his throat as he stretches his arms forth and
wiggles his fingers. "Alright, stop hogging the kneazle," he jokes. "Hand him over. Sharing is
caring."

Hermione laughs as she passes Crookshanks to Adrian. He receives the kneazle in his arms and
cradles him like a baby, swinging him back and forth and softly tickling his peach stomach. And
when Crookshanks' head dives into Adrian's chest—a sure sign of his comfort and love—
Hermione's knees buckle.

"Now that's a sight for sore eyes," Blaise comments.

"Fuck's sake, I don't think I've ever been this happy to see a kneazle," Adrian sighs, his fingers
continuously tickling Crookshanks' belly. "Except for when he clawed Draco's leg in the Great
Hall. Damn, that was funny."

The group laughs, a melodious sound to Hermione's ears. They all turn to grin at Draco, who
remains lounged on the couch in the same position as before. He rolls his eyes and huffs
indignantly.

Daphne pouts her lips at him. "Come on, sourpuss. Come say hi. He's a sweetheart!"

Draco scoffs. "I'll pass. That thing is going to claw my head off if I get anywhere near it."

"All the more reason," Pansy mutters under her breath with a devilish smirk.

"Yeah, that's fucking hilarious," Draco mutters with an eye-roll.

Adrian tuts and turns to face Draco. "Come on," he entreats, bouncing the kneazle in his arms and
squishing their faces together. He puckers his lips, says, "he's harmless," and then places his
forehead on top of Crookshanks' head. "Aren't you?"

"Harmless? Oh, please—"

"Just stand near him for a moment so he can get used to your scent," Daphne insists, skipping
towards Draco. She takes his wrists in her small hands and hauls him up from the couch, and he
dramatically groans as he finds his footing and stands. He subsequently complains under his
breath, but Daphne is quick to counter his indignation with a hearty push towards the group.

"Alright, alright, Daph," he insists, waving his hands in the air and slapping them onto his thighs.
With a snarl of his lips and a roll of his moonbeam eyes, Draco willingly takes a step forward.

"Whoa, slow steps man," Adrian teases, sticking out his tongue in a moment of playful mockery.

"Ha."

He continues his cautious and trepid steps, completely avoiding Hermione's eye contact the entire
time. When he finally reaches Crookshanks, who lies dormant and peaceful in Adrian's arms,
Draco leans down and stretches his face towards the kneazle.

"Remember me?" he grimaces.

Upon hearing his voice, Crookshanks' tail ceases its thumping against Adrian's arms—a sign of
neutrality, impartiality, and evaluation. His beady eyes study Draco, and his ears stick up.

Draco clenches his jaw. "I think it still hates me."

Daphne scoffs from behind Draco. "Just, here—"

She takes his hand and forces it forward to hover right in front of Crookshanks' nose. The kneazle
flares his nostrils and sniffs with attentiveness, and Hermione holds her breath.

And then, a miracle occurs.

Worlds collide and converge into one as Crookshanks leans his head forward and nuzzles himself
into Draco's hand.

"Well, would you look at that," Theo teases, biting his lower lip and wrapping his arm around
Pansy's shoulder. "Looks like someone doesn't hold grudges."

Draco shoots him a curt look, slicing his ridiculous comment with the hot glare. But his fingers,
treading carefully over Crookshanks' fur, tell a different story. Traveling from the crown of his
head, Draco's fingers find a place behind Crookshanks' long ear, and then his thumb slides across
the kneazle's soft cheek several times.

Hermione swears that the corner of Draco's lips rises in a smile—just a millimeter high, and no
more than that. But that miniscule and practically invisible action speaks volumes.

"Oh, I see that smile," Blaise laughs. "You can't hide that lovely little expression."

Suddenly, Draco's expression fades.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he groans, retracting his hand and obnoxiously wiping it
against his grey joggers.

Adrian rolls his eyes. "Come on. Loosen up—"

"I'm going to shower," Draco interrupts, turning on his heels and storming towards his room. The
sound of the door being shoved open and slammed shut reverberates in Hermione's mind like it
would in a hollow cave, a reminder of the challenges with being back. She bites her lip, holding in
her emotions and proclivities that all have to do with caring for Draco Malfoy.

She can't not care. It's simply not how her heart operates. It beats like a rock upon waves, skipping
and cutting against each ripple with the goal of traveling as far as possible. But it's like the
strongest part of the wave swallows it whole, drawing it to a stagnant rest at the seafloor. And there
it remains, abandoned and desolate with the failure of drifting to that island, that paradise, that
nirvana that her heart wishes she could reach. Reach with him.

As the others retreat to the couches, Hermione's hand meets Adrian's arm. Coaxed by her touch, he
turns back around and raises an eyebrow, still petting Crookshanks as if it's second nature.

"Is everything okay?" Hermione mouths in an almost silent whisper.

Grasping her insinuations loud and clear, Adrian smiles and winks. "Don't fret, Granger.
Everything will be alright."

Everything will be alright.

The words ring empty simply because they are so broad, void of any substance and reassurance.
And although Adrian's words customarily soothe Hermione's anxiety, she can't help but feel uneasy
about the way Draco acts, walks, even looks at her.

He's not the same Draco that kissed her scar.

But that's what's so complicated about this—he's always changing.

She drops onto the couch next to Adrian and crosses her legs, watching as he continues to shower
Crookshanks with saccharine smiles and delightful caresses beneath his long fingers.

The door to Draco's room swings back open, and Hermione pitifully twists her head to catch a
glance of him. Her breath catches in her throat as he charges out of his room in nothing but a towel
to cover his lower body.

He's only visible for a moment before he steps into the bathroom just across from his room, but
that second sends shockwaves through Hermione's chest to her stomach. Because right before he
disappears into the bathroom, Hermione cements the image of his bare torso, adorned with
magnificent black tattoos spiraling all around his body, in her mind.

There's the snake on his arm, coiling perfectly around his bicep like a thick twine. And then there's
a flower on his right pectoral, its petals rounded like dull and soft triangles. And on the other side
of his chest are constellations and planets, and then there are butterflies and reptilian scales
climbing up the empty parts of his arms, a series of words spread across the side of his chest, an
anatomical heart on his right forearm, a shark on his wrist, and then the fucking Dark Mark—the
tattoos are all perfectly visible in their deep, black ink.

But most intriguing to Hermione is what rests on his left shoulder. Although it was only a brief
glance, Hermione spotted an arrow-shaped tail resting on his collarbone, connected to a longer
body that led to his back.

Is it odd that Hermione wanted him to turn around so she could see the rest of the tattoo? She has
an idea of what it is—it's quite obvious, anyway—but there's something about the ambiguity of the
tattoos in general that toggles a switch in Hermione's brain.

When Hermione hears the creak of the faucet switch on and the water tread against the porcelain
tub, she realizes that she's been staring at the spot where Draco stood moments ago, daydreaming
about those tattoos.

Adrian nudges her arm with his elbow, and her cheeks immediately flush to a rosy tint.

"You seem intrigued," Adrian smirks with an eyebrow raise.

The others converse quietly as Hermione exhales a laugh and musters up an iota of courage for her
response. "Isn't that expected at this point? What with your plenty of insinuations?"

"Ah, the brightest witch of her age shines forth."

"What's the tattoo on his back?" she asks quietly, her curiosity too strong to control.

Adrian chuckles and tuts at Hermione, adjusting Crookshanks so that he lies upon his lap.

"Ah. I don't want to spoil any surprises. Besides—"

He snorts, jabbing the inside of his cheek with his tongue, and Hermione's chest tightens with the
promise of an inkling of information.

"I'm sure you'll be seeing it one of these days."

The day goes by quietly, consisting primarily of welcoming Crookshanks to the apartment.

Theo explained to Hermione how he and Pansy had gone out and bought the kneazle several toys a
few days ago with the hopes that he'd come by in the near future. Hermione melted like lava at his
words and gesture.

And they played with Crookshanks all day, their new toys proving to be a smashing success.

At a certain point in the afternoon, Hermione expressed that she wanted to take a brief walk around
town. Pansy offered to accompany her, and while they traipsed around the village, Hermione asked
about her mark.

"It hasn't hurt much," she explained as they turned a corner in Hogsmeade. "But we'll see what
happens when we have to start going back to those fucking meetings."

Hermione had seemingly forgotten about the meetings, about Aberfield, Bruiser, Kingsley, her job.
The world had flipped on its axis when she arrived in Hogsmeade that first night.

As much as she hates to admit it, the program did accomplish one thing. It brought her to the
Slytherins and reaffirmed her intuition about them—they do deserve compassion.

When night descends upon Hogsmeade, and Crookshanks finds it too exhausting to chase a fake
mouse and a light from the tip of a wand around the floor of the apartment, the group decides to
begin preparing for the evening.

The girls convene in Pansy's room, a cavern for priming themselves in their chosen outfits and
makeup. Already donned in her dress—a silky, silver slip that reaches the upper half of her thighs
—Daphne watches excitedly as Hermione rummages through her bag and reveals her piece for the
evening. Pansy scours her closet for her own outfit, pushing through hangers and inspecting each
dress as it flashes by her eyes.

"Is this alright?" Hermione asks, gripping her gold ensemble in her hands and lying it flat on the
bed for the girls to inspect. Both lean over her shoulders and gasp at the sight.

"Hermione!" Daphne shrieks, seizing her bicep with her fingers. "Wherever did you find this
masterpiece?"

Hermione chuckles, smiling with her teeth and reveling in the compliment and approval. "I just sort
of imagined it in my head and then transfigured an old blouse," she explains, biting her lower lip.
"It is positively gorgeous," Pansy attests with a soft and proud smile. "And that's coming from me."

Hermione glances over her left shoulder to return the beam.

"Now—hear me out—let's give you just a little more sparkle," Pansy suggests, resuming her
exploration of her closet and vigorously digging through her articles. She bends at her knees and
reaches for a pair of heels shoved off to the side. Spinning with a sneaky smile on her face, Pansy
flashes a pair of glittering, open-toed heels, adorned with straps on the ankles.

Hermione laughs and takes the shoes with pleasure. "Once again, I have to commend and thank
you for your wonderful style."

"You did this one all by yourself," Pansy teases. "As much as I'd love to take credit for how hot
you'll look tonight, that was all you. Now, it's my turn."

Pansy spins and locates her dress for the night hanging in between an ensemble of black, emerald,
and red dresses. She snatches the dress off of the hanger and holds it before the girls. It's black and
velvet with sheer long-sleeves, cinched at the waist and short beyond belief. After basking in
Hermione and Daphne's choruses of "oohs" and "aahs," Pansy tosses the dress onto her bed and
begins to strip, lifting her shirt over her head to reveal a small, dark grey, and lace bralette.

Hermione turns politely, to which Pansy tsks.

"You didn't have very many girlfriends at Hogwarts, did you, Granger?"

No, she thinks to herself, but that's not something I'd like to admit.

"Right, well," Pansy continues, reaching for her dress and slipping it over her body, "Changing in
front of people is a sign of trust, Granger." Pansy clears her throat for the next sentence: "One
might say vulnerability."

It's something Hermione would've thought inconceivable in the past—Pansy Parkinson admitting
that she is comfortable being vulnerable around others, Hermione especially. And it's reminiscent
of the moment they shared in the seminar room when Pansy first approached Hermione about her
pain. Hermione will never forget the look in Pansy's eyes, like she'd seen and experienced Hell and
could barely express the torment she endured there.

But Pansy had climbed her way out, and that was all that mattered to Hermione.

Pansy slips the dress completely over her body and sighs with confidence.

"Take your time," she tells Hermione as she adjusts the hem of her dress to suitably hug her thighs.

"We can't wait to see you," Daphne adds, and then Pansy is frantically slipping on her own pair of
heels and is stumbling out of the room with Daphne, allowing Hermione her privacy.

She finds herself in the same position as that first night when she borrowed Pansy's little black
dress. The only difference is that this time, it is her own source of confidence about the evening
that is coercing her to dress up. She chose the dress—imagined the piece in her mind and created it
out of that glorious image.

She did it with two things in mind: herself and—she cannot lie—him.

Her clothes find themselves on the ground in moments, the excitement of the evening dawning
upon her mind and coaxing her to get ready as fast as possible. The dress takes the place of her
former clothes, resting upon the dips of her waist and the natural curve of her chest. Slipping the
heels on to complete the ensemble, Hermione stands in front of the small mirror on the wall,
inspecting herself and recalling the same feelings from that night.

Incredible. Confident. Almost unearthly, like she's been sent from heaven.

There's little hesitation in stepping out of Pansy's room and making her grand entrance in the living
room. She's become accustomed to illustrious and majestic entrances now, exulting in the
impressed gazes she receives from her peers. There's no inclination to conceal her exposed skin—
not her legs, her arms, or any other exposed part of herself. She enters the living room with poise
and coolness, the beat of her heels against the wooden floors rejuvenating her confidence with each
tap.

The group is chatting and laughing with one another when she steps outside, and it's a moment that
she wishes she didn't interrupt. It's organic and beautiful to see such joy between them.

She even sees it on Draco's face, who smirks at one of Adrian's comments.

But the second his eyes fall on her, the smirk disappears. His eyes glue to her body, coursing up
and down her figure with such intensity that she can feel his emotions. Hermione watches as his
chest, taut against a tight black sweater, rises up and down in a steady beat. And she notices his jaw
and fists clench, like he's desperately trying to hold himself together.

Adrian leaps from the couch and kisses the tips of his fingers. "Granger!" he shouts, approaching
her and extending his hand. She warily takes it, unsure of his intentions. But when he
lightheartedly lures her into a playful spin under his arm, she laughs at the thought of being the
center of attention. "Anyone who denies that you are the Golden Girl is so far up their own arse,
honestly."

Theo sits upon the arm of the further couch with Pansy standing between his legs, his fingers
delicately trailing up and down her hips. "I haven't seen this dress in our closet, Pans," Theo
comments over her shoulder.

Pansy shakes her head with a smirk, looking over her shoulder and down at Theo. "That's not one
of mine, darling. It's hers."

"Well, look at you," Adrian continues, admiring her further. "Always knew you had a little spark."
He turns to Draco and gestures towards Hermione. "Anything nice to say, Malfoy?"

Flagging Adrian's side while sitting on the other couch with Blaise, Daphne tsks at Adrian and rolls
her eyes. "Adrian—"

"She looks great."

Now, the tone is sharp and curt. Candid and straightforward, leaving no room for interpretation.
But Hermione can't help letting her brain spin out of control at the sound of the compliment
coming from Draco's mouth. It's followed by Draco taking a large swallow and tapping his fingers
against his right knee—his knee, which bounces with keenness.

"Is it Yule Ball great?" Adrian pushes with a conniving grin.

"Alright, alright, enough out of you," Daphne interjects, taking Blaise's hand in hers and rising
from her couch. "Let's get going, yeah?"

Turning and winking at Hermione, Adrian whispers, "Goodness gracious, I just can't seem to help
myself."

What Daphne said about Amortentia on New Year's Eve is true: the club pageants an exceptional
and fantastical ambiance on this night.

It's uniform and glorious, like stepping through the golden gates of heaven and into paradise, a
place untainted by sin even though that's exactly what happens here.

The gold and white strobe lights crash upon Hermione's skin as she steps down the platform and
onto the dance floor where she's welcomed by a similar crowd of dancing and twirling bodies. Yet
the homogeny of the color palate and the implied importance of the holiday stand paramount to the
other aspects of the club. There must be seventy people crammed in the epicenter of the floor, all
dressed in their ascribed colors, dancing upon one another without a care in the world and
exchanging sweat and camaraderie like they're a form of currency.

Hermione's eyes reach the stage and latch onto Titus, who stands off to the side and examines the
crowd before him. It is clear to Hermione, based on his favorable expression, that he savors the
sight of his patrons socializing and celebrating the prominence of the evening. And while he
fiddles with the cuffs of his black suit, Hermione notices an unfamiliar gentleman approach Titus
from behind, wrap his arm over his shoulder, and plant an affectionate kiss on his cheek.

She opens her mouth to make a comment to whoever stands next to her, but her voice is cut off by
a hand wrapping around hers and hauling her around the border of the club to the bathroom on the
other side.

They pile into their paradise and prepare themselves for rapture.

It's an identical routine as before. Save Hermione, the group lines themselves at the counter while
Draco and Adrian carefully prepare the lines for the evening. The little dime bag comes into
Hermione's sight, and all of a sudden enticement soars through her chest and settles into her bones.
She presses her back against the door and watches them go to work.

It looks... so enticing... so exciting... so invigorating.

So... worth it?

The question tumbles past her lips: "Can I try again?"

She's met with silence as each and every head of theirs spins to stare at her. It doesn't take much
discernment for Hermione to realize that her request has struck a nerve with the group. She senses
the shock and fear in their eyes—even those silver irises glisten with dread.

Theo clears his throat. "Oh, Granger—"

"Absolutely fucking not," Draco snaps at Theo before he can finish his sentence.

Hoisting his arms in surrender, Theo rotates his torso to confront Draco behind him. "What makes
you think I was going to say yes?"

"Well, were you?"

"No," Theo practically seethes, rolling his eyes as he spins back around to face Hermione.
"Granger, you remember our conversation, right?"
"Your conversation?" Draco fumes, taking a step forward and slanting his eyebrows.

"Fuck's sake, would you relax for two seconds?" Theo retorts with a raised voice.

Realizing her role in the festering contention, Hermione opens her mouth to speak. "You know
what, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. It's fine, really."

"No, don't apologize," Theo responds, his anger cast aside as he addresses Hermione. "It's just...
this stuff is dangerous. People always say one more line, one more time, one more purchase. We
just don't think it'd be safe for you to make this a habit. Like what we talked about."

"I understand," Hermione sighs, and she feels disappointed for a moment, but the emotion is
quickly replaced by something far more important than an enjoyable half hour.

What Theo demonstrates in this moment is his undying inclination to protect Hermione—save
someone else from the pain that he feels every day. Because the love of his life, his soulmate, his
closest companion suffers next to him, and there's little he can do to truly save her.

And if Theodore Nott can save another friend from this fate, then he will do it in a second.

We need you, Granger.

"But if you want to feel that way again," Theo starts, reaching his fingers into his pocket, "I can
help you with that."

Theo removes his own small dime bag from the pocket of his black slacks, but this one holds one
small, white pill.

"You trust me?" Theo asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes," Hermione responds without hesitation, and she's surprised at how effortlessly the answer
slips out of her mouth.

Theo smiles, his lips curving and generating sweet dimples on his cheeks. "I've made this for you,
in case you ever wanted to experience the feeling again. So, check it out. It's not a drug. The
capsule will only mimic the effects of a high without actually getting you high. You'll just feel as
though you are."

Hermione's mouth hangs open with astonishment. "So, it's like a placebo effect?"

Theo snorts and turns the dime bag in his fingers. "A variation of that phenomenon, yes. See, your
mind will simply convince itself that it's under the effects of the drugs, but you won't actually be
high at all."

Driven by her curiosity and interest, Hermione asks again, "So, not a drug?"

"Not at all," Theo confirms. "It's magic. Have you already forgotten how brilliant of a wizard I
am?"

Hermione laughs and steps forward. "How on earth were you able to do that?"

"It took a while, actually. I had to very meticulously alter a batch of cocaine and disguise it as
something else. Modify the properties and extract the—"

He pauses, raising an eyebrow and exhaling. "Fuck's sake, you won't make me relay the impossible
to pronounce scientific terms, will you?"
Hermione smirks. "I don't know—sounds quite interesting, if you ask me. Have you already
forgotten my personality back in the Hogwarts classroom?"

Theo playfully rolls his eyes and chortles at the parallel. "Still as inquisitive as ever, aren't you?"

"Oh, quite."

"Well, I can guarantee you that I've altered it precisely enough that the addictive properties of the
drugs are—" he whistles— "gone. Imagine that the drug is like a person, alright? And I'm a
surgeon. Being the brilliant wizard I am, I was able to extract the conceptual properties of the drug
—let's call it, the soul of the drug. The euphoria, the high, the pleasure factors. Leaving the less
appealing features behind, I was able to solidify the desired properties into one little capsule. You
want to be even further amazed? This high is going to last you about two hours. And your crash in
the morning is going to be much more bearable—practically nonexistent."

Realizing that she's been gazing at Theo with incredible admiration, Hermione breaks eye contact
and surveys the faces of the others. Their mouths gape wide open at the information, like they
know that Theo is incredibly ingenious but misconstrued just how clever and inventive Theo really
is.

"Our resident fucking genius," Adrian says, swathing Theo's shoulders with his arm and tugging
him into his side.

Theo shakes the baggie in the air, cocking his eyebrow at Hermione and lifting his lip in a boastful
smirk. "This is the fucking future, Granger."

"And you're sure that it only just exhibits the symptoms?" Blaise asks.

"Positive," Theo responds, kissing the tips of his fingers like a chef. "I'm a god."

"Yes, you are," Pansy slurs, delicately kissing Theo's cheek. "In more ways than one."

"Oh, fucking hell, you two," Draco mutters with a conspicuous eye roll.

Pansy shoots a glare over her shoulder at Draco. "Darling, your jealousy is louder than the music in
this club."

Hermione finds herself staring at the white pill—the manifestation of all the good and alluring
parts of cocaine—nestled inside the bag. She reminisces on the first night she sampled it, and
suddenly the ghost of all the things that happened that night sweeps up her back like a chill and
percolates through her skin. It wraps itself around her brain, taunting her motor cortex to react.

She's extending her hand and receiving the pill before she truly comprehends it.

Dipping her finger into the bag, she removes the white capsule and holds it between her thumb and
index finger. She blinks and ruminates over how such a tiny pill can hold such influence over a
person. Can effectively alter the chemicals in their brain to create the most wonderful feelings in
the world.

And how it can also take that all away in a matter of time.

She has to remember that reality, too.

Hermione looks up at Theo. "Thank you," she says, nodding her head with deep appreciation.
Theo shrugs nonchalantly—as if this is some unremarkable magic—and pivots to glower at Draco.
"That satisfying enough for you?"

Draco groans, chewing the inside of his cheek and levitating his eyebrows dismissively.

"Go on," Theo encourages, nodding his head. "I promise it's safe. I wouldn't give it to you if I
wasn't positive."

Pushing the pill with her index finger into the palm of her right hand, Hermione takes a deep breath
and tips the pill into her mouth. She swallows effortlessly, feeling the pill slide down her throat and
settle into her stomach. And as the others begin to inhale their several lines of the powder,
Hermione consents to the sensations festering within her. She lets the pill colonize the corners and
crevices of her figure, conscious of the way that the dissolution of the charmed substance clings to
her nerves and rushes straight to her brain.

In a minute, she can already sense her fingers turning hot with energy, her feet feeling the heartbeat
of the club through the pounding floor, the hair on her arms standing upright as invisible atoms
brush past her sensitized skin, and her heart striking her ribcage in tandem with the throbbing bass
of the music.

They pile out of the bathroom and enter heaven, their wings spread and halos mounted.

And it's incredible.

Hermione feels everything again. The lights, the air, Pansy and Daphne's hands as they trail up and
down her body while the three of them dance.

Euphoria sweeps over her body without the side effects. The drip, the stinging, the unpleasant taste
—they all falter under Theo's masterpiece, and Hermione is left feeling so fucking blissful that she
could transcend this very universe and reach heaven if she tried.

The air suffocates her in the best way possible. It's stuffy and warm, the crowd of bodies driving
the temperature up to what feels like one million degrees, but as Hermione tilts her head back into
Pansy's shoulder and sways her body against Pansy's hips, she dispels the fusty heat from her
senses and instead focuses on Pansy's fragrance upon her neck—it's exotic and natural, like amber.

"How do you feel?" Pansy shouts, her hands trickling down to wrap around Hermione's waist.

"Wonderful!" Hermione shouts back. "Your Theo is a genius!"

"Have I been summoned?" Theo calls out from beside them, and suddenly he's situating himself
behind Pansy and reaching for her hips. Hermione's eyes connect with Theo's as her head bounces
up and down Pansy's shoulder; she gleams at his face, upside down from her line of vision. Theo
sticks his tongue out at her. "Paws off, Granger, or I'm going to lose this one to you!"

Hermione pouts but obliges, disconnecting herself from Pansy's grip and stumbling away. She
turns and admires the way Theo rests his chin in the space upon Pansy's shoulder and whispers
lovingly in her ear. Pansy knocks her head back and laughs into his shoulder, and Hermione can
just make out the words that Pansy mouths back to Theo:

I love you.

Glancing over her right shoulder, Hermione spots the others engaged in their own dancing. Adrian
has Daphne pressed up against his body as he amicably swings her around, his giant hand swathing
her little one like a cloud casing over the sun.
Draco and Blaise have their arms wrapped around one another's shoulders, laughing and patting
one another fraternally, and occasionally Blaise will swing to the side and coax Draco to do the
same. With a roll of his eyes and a collapse of his walls, Draco succumbs to the music and to the
pleas of his friend.

Hermione stares at those arms, that sweater, that torso, and she feels an uncontrollable urge to
approach him, wrap herself between those arms, tip her head back against his shoulder, and
whisper in his ear just how badly she feels like provoking a dragon tonight.

"Ah, it's you."

A similar voice, one Hermione remembers all too well, trickles down her neck in a soft yet tainted
breath. She feels someone crowd against her back and hold her taut in his arms.

Able to twist out of the grip, Hermione turns around and sees the man she danced with that night—
no, the man she bloody kissed that night—leering at her with his hungry eyes.

"You ran off last time before we could finish what we started."

His hands find Hermione's waist, and he tugs her towards him. His forehead collides with hers, and
he grins as he sinks his fingers into her skin.

Hermione sets her hands against the man's chest and pushes back. "Oh, I—"

"You left me wanting more of the sweet taste of your lips."

Breathe, Hermione. You'll be okay.

She fakes a smile and shakes her head, teetering between being polite and being hasty to remove
herself from the uncomfortable situation. She lightly shoves his chest again. "I don't think tonight
—"

"Come on," he interrupts with a sigh, "Let's pick up where we left off."

His hands snatch her wrists.

Alright, fuck being nice.

"I don't think you're hearing me," Hermione hisses. "I don't want to."

"You left me wanting so much more," he continues, lowering his head towards hers.

Hermione is strong. She's physically capable of anything that comes her way. She's taken down
countless witches, wizards, and creatures that have ever had the displeasure of threatening her.
Fuck's sake, even Voldemort was threatened by her.

So why is it that when this single man has his hands wrapped around Hermione's wrists, she
suddenly feels quite powerless? Like he's sucked all of her bravery out with his horrific and erotic
gazes?

She hates the feeling. Despises looking weak.

"You have five seconds to take your hands off of me—"

"Come on, darling. What's different this time?"

Quite a bit.

Hermione's breath quivers as the man pulls her even more flush against him.

She reacts, stomping her heel on his foot.

"Ow! What the fuck?" he growls, snarling his lips at her.

"Hey!"

Adrian flanks to Hermione's side, placing his left hand on her shoulder and his right hand on the
man's chest. And when the man tries to step forward, Adrian grips the lapels of his black button-up
and thrusts him backwards with one grand push.

"You better fuck off, you hear me?" Adrian orders, flaring his nostrils and pointing his finger at the
man.

"And who the fuck are you?" he shouts, tilting his head and rolling his shoulders back.

"Who the fuck am I?" Adrian repeats, jabbing his own finger into his chest and baring his teeth.
"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm just asking her to dance—"

"Oh, yeah? So yanking her around while she tries to pull away is you asking her to dance?" Adrian
taunts, leaving Hermione's side so he can shove the man back again, this time into a group of
dancers. The man stumbles and raises his arms in a half-hearted surrender, yet his eyes harbor a
look of pure malice.

Hermione mutters a profanity under her breath and steps forward. "Adrian, it's alright—"

"You think you're some big man, huh?" Adrian continues, ignoring Hermione behind him. "You
stupid fuck. Walk away before I bash your fucking skull and paint the floor with your blood."

"I don't know where you got the impression that this is any of your business," the man heckles,
shoving Adrian's chest with his palm.

Adrian barely moves at the contact—not with his broad chest and firm stance.

"Don't put your hands on me, or I swear it will be the last thing you do." Adrian folds the sleeves of
his dress shirt to his elbows.

"Is that so?"

Out of nowhere, someone else swoops in from behind Hermione and Adrian, hurling a punch at the
man's face and tackling him to the ground.

It's a dragon attack.

Knuckles already beet red and sweat glistening upon the back of his neck, Draco straddles the man
and throws punch after punch. Each punch cracks like porcelain shattering, and blood begins to
seep from the man's nose in a matter of seconds. Club goers scatter from the direct area, but the
pummels are effectively masked by the chaotic energy of the club, the commotion and the lights
and the music and the plethora of distractions.

Hermione hears a crunch and sees more blood.

She's frozen in place while Adrian chortles with glee.

"Oh, fuck yeah, Malfoy!" he cheers with an elated grin, the thrill of the sight causing him to swipe
the air victoriously with his fist.

Hermione can barely process her breathing as Draco finally stands, spits in the man's direction, and
wipes his nose against the back of his hand. And then he's reaching down and removing his wand
from the ankle-holster hidden beneath his slacks. He aims it at the man and breathes heavily.

"Depulso."

Wrapped in white sparks from Draco's wand, the man flies through the air and lands on a loveseat
several feet away. Half of his limp body hangs off of the couch, and his chest rises in rickety beats,
like he's holding onto his last inkling of consciousness.

Draco slowly turns around, takes one look at Hermione's horrified expression, and walks away.

Like usual. He walks away like usual.

No. He doesn't get to attack someone and then storm off as if nothing happened.

Hermione clenches her fists together as she watches Draco stagger through the crowd and
disappear into the bathroom.

That fucking bathroom.

Her feet, which should have carried her to him earlier, obey her mind as they rush in his direction.

Because—no—Draco doesn't get to just walk away. He doesn't get to hide and sulk every time
something inconvenient happens, or every time something inexplicable takes over his body and
makes him act the way he does. She's had enough of his running, his hiding, his game.

She reaches the door, grips the metal knob, feels the lingering touch of his fingers on it, and thrusts
the door wide open.

Draco is washing his hands when Hermione finds him. Scrubbing the blood off of his knuckles and
staring himself down in the mirror. She slams the door shut, gaining access to his eyes for just a
moment. Hermione can't decipher his expression. Because on the one hand, he appears distraught
and disappointed, but on the other hand, there's a hint of victory in his eyes and upon his ears,
flushed with adrenaline and exhilaration.

"I was handling that!" Hermione blurts, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her heel
against the floor.

Draco scoffs and reattaches eye contact with her through the mirror, and it's a thrilling yet
terrifying sight. It sends shivers up Hermione's bare legs. "Yeah, because it was going so smoothly
before I showed up."

"Huh! I had that under control," she continues. "I don't need you attacking another person on my
behalf when you know that I am fully capable of taking care of things by myself."

"Oh, I'm fully aware. My attacking that fucker had nothing to do with that," he sighs, lifting his
hands off of the counter and leaning his waist upon the ledge. "Do you know how long I've thought
about doing that to him?"
That fucker you kissed is all that rings in Hermione's ears and all that she sees in his eyes—his
eyes, practically aflame with those words, swathing and suffocating the grey with an inferno so tall
that it cloaks the very smoke it produces.

"What the hell makes you think you can just punch someone when they do something you don't
like?" Hermione asks, her cheeks growing pink as the image of Draco defending her replays in her
mind.

"Oh, don't tell me you didn't enjoy the show a little."

The reality becomes clear to Hermione—Draco is a different person when he's high. When the
drugs control his body. When they conduct his brain. It's like he's rushing down a track at
uncontrollable speeds, privy to falling off the rails at any moment at the will of the conductor.

"You are such an enigma.".

"And you don't enjoy that? Hm? You don't find pleasure in wanting to pick me apart?"

"Ha!"

Draco begins to menacingly inch towards Hermione, tapping his long fingers against the counter as
he trails the side of it. "Haven't we gone over this already? I know you're dying to figure me out."

"I already have a decent idea of who you are, Malfoy."

Draco hmphs and raises his eyebrows, stopping at the end of the sink and staring her down from a
few feet away.

"Well, don't be shy, Granger. Feel free to analyze the hell out of me."

She takes a deep breath through her nose, channeling the pill, the dragon, her own sense of
courage.

And then she takes a step towards him.

"I think that there are two sides to you. There's the Malfoy on drugs, and the Malfoy not on drugs.
The Malfoy on drugs hates me. Hates me yet craves me at the same time. I think my innate sense
of confidence and drive is a threat to your façade. It jeopardizes the very disguise that you try so
desperately to wear every day of your life."

Draco clenches his jaw, leading it to spring forth against his pale skin. Hermione can make out the
indentation of his jawline with ease, and her lips curl in satisfaction as she takes another step
towards him.

"But then, there's the Malfoy when he's not on drugs. When you're detoxing—when you're just
you, not this image that the world has subscribed to you—I think you respect me, admire me, and
want me. I think you become confused and angry with that reality, and then subsequently frustrated
because you don't know how to express it. You don't even know if you want to express it. Because
that means changing everything about the person you've built up these past few years. And that
scares you."

"You think that I'm some scared, soft fucker, huh? That I don't think about ripping that smug
expression off of your face every day? Clawing at that curly mess on your head? Fucking
strangling you? Believe me. I dream about it."
"I think," she starts, treading with ease, "Unless you finally do those things, then yes. You are a
soft fucker."

"Oh, wow. You really just love poking dragons, don't you?"

"Very much so."

"You remember what dragons do when they get provoked, then?"

"Bite?" she whispers, the word curling off her lips slowly and ethereally.

He snickers. "Even worse."

His hand juts out and grasps her throat, and while he settles his fingers on the back of her neck, his
thumb rests just below her chin. He tilts Hermione's head back with the tip of his thumb and snarls
above her.

"They shower you with their rage."

"Well, don't be shy, Malfoy," she slurs, and their mouths begin to exchange pockets of air as he
inches closer and closer to her. "I'm dying to see how hot those flames of yours really are."

"Oh?" he probes, tilting his head to the side and glaring at her with ferocity. "You enjoy playing
with fire?"

"Yes."

"Yeah?" His fingers tap against her neck, each touch more electrifying than the last. "You scared to
get burned?"

"Not one bit."

"Not scared of the pain?"

"The pain makes it worth it. Wouldn't you agree?"

The comment draws Draco's breath right back into his throat.

He tries to deliver his next sentence with as much confidence as possible, but the words come out
in staggered intones.

"Th—there's that pain kink again—"

"Wouldn't you agree?" she repeats, this time more forceful.

His grip around her neck falters. Hermione can feel his hand go limp against her skin, the side of
his palm resting against her collarbone as he loses the drive to taunt her.

Draco shakes his head and flattens his lips, delivering his response in a lower voice. "You don't
deserve the pain."

"Neither do you."

Draco stares her down, the flames in his eyes reduced to ice as he desperately tries to hold onto the
confidence. But like a glacier splintering in the heat of the moment, Draco's façade cracks.
"It's all I know how to feel."

"Well, can you feel this?"

Hermione lifts her thumb to rest against his lower lip. She drags it down lightly, and it's moist and
soft against her gentle touch.

Draco exhales upon her finger, his eyebrows cocked with perplexity. "What are you—"

"What about this?" Hermione continues, the sweet intones of her voice and tender strokes against
his arm shattering his walls, his pretenses, his fucking sham of a life. Hermione finds his chest with
her hands, and she snakes her fingers across the soft sweater, up to his shoulders, then to his neck,
and then to the back of his head. She lightly tugs him towards her, and he breathes just above her
mouth, an act that revitalizes her—draws her into a state of total bliss.

"Do you feel this?" she asks again.

Draco closes his eyes and nods, his forehead rubbing against hers as he does so.

"Do you feel it more than everything else?"

"Yes," he says, and it sounds as though he is under a spell of some sort.

"Is it stronger than the pain you feel?"

"Yes."

"What does it feel like?"

"Like... fucking novocaine. I can't feel anything else."

Hermione sucks a breath through her teeth as she feels Draco's hand slide down her arm and jump
to her waist.

"I can help take away your pain."

"No—"

"I can help you feel better—"

"Just stop—"

"I can bring you peace—"

"Granger—"

"Let me help you."

He opens his eyes and scoffs at the word, disconnecting their foreheads for a moment to shake his
head with frustration. "I told you I hate—"

"You hate that word," Hermione interrupts. "I know. You hate the thought of accepting help
because it means that you're not as strong as you thought you were. You hate feeling weak, out of
control, and fragile. You hate feeling things that you never thought you would feel. Maybe you
hate what you've become. But Malfoy—"
Her hands find his cheeks, the warmth of his face melting her hands.

"You don't have to self-destruct. You don't have to hate yourself. Not when there are people all
around you who would do anything to bring you peace."

Draco inhales through his nose, his chest aching with such longing that he can barely breathe,
barely see straight, barely comprehend just how close she is to him.

"I'm not afraid to get burned," Hermione says. "And you shouldn't be afraid of burning me—"

Hermione's sentence is sucked out of her mouth when Draco slams his lips against hers.

His lips are warm, like the desire departs from his mouth in an array of flames. Like he's engulfed
her in a fiendfyre, and the only sensations she can grasp as the ones that boil in her lower stomach,
simmering and smoldering that little box of secret desires until nothing exists, the demons run free,
and she's giving in to what she's thought about for so long.

Her knees buckle under the intensity of his lips, but Draco's left hand drops to catch her lower back
and press her flush against him.

Their lips communicate with everything they have, ebbing and driving upon one another as if even
the thought of being apart would kill them both.

She's desperate to continue to study him with her own hands, so Hermione presses her palms
against his chest and tugs him in tighter—if that's even possible—and then she's trailing the
contours of his chest with her fingers, and fucking hell she can feel the palpitations of his body
against her palms like a booming bass.

It feels like the sun—like she's caressing this animated and beating star with her cool fingertips,
singeing his skin with her equally desirous disposition.

When Draco's tongue pushes past the fortifications of her lips, swirling across hers like he's
desperate to taste her, like her mouth is an oasis and he's been wandering in a desert for years,
Hermione sinks further and further into him. She surrenders to his mannerisms and warmth as he
carefully guides her to the door, pushes her up against it, and kisses her more and more.

He'll occasionally wander to the side of her lips, and in that moment, Hermione catches her breath.
Because Draco is sucking it right out of her with this kiss. She doesn't complain about the lack of
air, though. If anyone should have her oxygen, it's him.

Penetrating through their pocket of euphoria is a countdown coming from the shouts of the club
goers outside, signifying the commencement of the new year. The countdown flies by like a song,
but they can't focus on anything else except for the consummation of their lips, the ebb and flow of
their tongues, and the long-awaited moment finally reaching fruition.

The new year arrives, Hermione's lips gifting it to Draco.

With every trace of her fingers against him, Draco feels like he's being kissed by stars, brushed by
a supernova so strong and warm and resilient. He can feel her so vividly, but it's not just the
cocaine. It's the pining, the secretive emotions, the daydreams and desires all meshing into one
action—he kissed her. And he's still kissing her. And she's kissing him. Her hands are in his hair,
on his chest, around his cheeks.

Every part of their lips, every small nip and little sound that escapes their mouths, attests to the
worth of the moment. The worth he sees in her.
But while Draco caresses her silky lips with his, a thought crosses his mind: you're going to ruin
her.

He ignores it and continues to feed her with his breath, his affection, and—yes, she was bloody
right—his admiration. And she reciprocates wholeheartedly, willingly taking his pain for herself.

You're going to drag her down with you.

No, he can't be away from her. He can't stop stroking his fingers against her sensitized arms or her
pulsating legs as they shudder against him. He can't stop kissing her mouth, the very mouth that
has spewed both hatred and compassion for him, the same mouth he has thought about for years
and years in the back of his head.

No, he simply cannot be apart from her. Not when it's taken this fucking long to get here.

You're going to kill her, just like you're going to kill yourself.

It's too far.

Draco rips his lips from Hermione's and stumbles backwards. A head rush takes control of his
brain, brought on by the forced removal of her lips and the sadistic voice in his head.

Hermione touches her lips and furrows her eyebrows in confusion. She takes a cautious step
forward. "Malfoy—"

"Don't," Draco begs, extending his hand out between them and pointing his index finger at her as a
caveat.

"But—"

Suddenly, the air sucks Draco into a white mist. His body contorts and twists, and then the
atmosphere swallows him whole. He disappears into the air, a figment of what was once potent in
this room.

Hermione finds herself alone in the bathroom, slack-jawed and confused. Her lips ache, sore and
throbbing from the effect of his lips but nevertheless dying to feel them again. Dying to undertake
that pain and suffering for herself.

She found heaven upon his lips and came tumbling back to earth when he pulled away.

And is that how he felt when she left five days ago? Because now Hermione knows pain.

He was right. It hurts. It burns.

And time sheathes her in sadness again, because the moment they found one another—the moment
the seconds started to feel as they should—the continuum jinxed and tore them apart yet again.
 Chapter 22

Maybe it’s not time that rips them apart. Or the universe.

Maybe it’s just themselves.

It’s a never-ending game of cat and mouse. They chase one another around in an infinite circle,
never actually believing that one will catch the other. The thrill of the hunt drives them to play, but
the moment one of them is caught in the headlights, exposing something too real and authentic, too
clandestine and private, the game halts. The clock ceases its ticking. And the one who's victorious
simply feels empty.

Hermione feels empty.

Draco carried her to paradise when he crushed his lips against hers, and when he tore himself away
—when he quit the game—she found herself falling from that cloud and tumbling back to earth—
earth, which is resentful and cold and unexciting without him.

Her eyes are glued to the exact spot where he stood just a second ago. Her mind races, jumping
over obstacles and vaulting off of walls in the process. The spirit of the kiss flutters and soars
around her skull like a little bird, chirping and singing and reminding her of the way that Draco
took her in his arms, swathed her in that soft, black jumper, and kissed her.

Yes, he kissed her. He planted his lips against hers with unquantifiable thirst and desire.
Dehydrated and aching for warmth, his tongue swiped over hers to quench his needs, and his hands
—those lean fingers that felt like ice against her skin—stroked her waist, her hair, her cheeks, her
neck. And she physically fell into him, and he caught her and brought her close. Saved her.

And then he apparated away.

And she doesn’t even know why.

Because if he felt the same things that she did when their mouths found one another, then why
would he ever want to sever that connection?

Her thoughts run across her mind so fast that she realizes it’s only been one second since he
apparated. One. He was just here. How the fuck is it possible that she can process all of those
things so quickly? It’s like his hands are still on her, his lips are still painting impressions on her
jaw, and his breath is still feeding her oxygen. It’s like he barely left.

But he did. Fucking hell, Hermione. He left.

She’s in the process of turning around and leaving the bathroom because the pounding in her head
and in the club is all too much to handle when, without warning, and much to her surprise, a
violent gust of wind fills her eardrums. Spinning on her glittery heels at the hint of the sound and
almost tripping over herself in the process, Hermione’s eyes behold the atmosphere that denies
Draco his escape.

Cruel and merciless is the air that Draco tries to maneuver through. It spits him right back out onto
the floor with a hearty, twisted laugh.

Draco looks down at himself first, and then his head tips up to stare at Hermione. There’s terror
smeared in his eyes and fluster colored on the tips of his ears. His breath is heavy and staggered,
lifting his chest up and down and contorting the tight fabric of his sweater. It’s as if he’s sprinted
across the world in an attempted exodus only to return to the place that held him prisoner.

“What," he stutters, confusion painted in his expression, "what the fuck—”

“Malfoy—”

Before Hermione can finish her sentence, Draco jams his eyes closed and clenches his fists in an
effort to apparate again. The same white mist consumes his body, and he twists into himself until
there is nothing left.

And she’s alone again—confused, bewildered, pissed.

But moments later, in the same fashion as before, the air rejects his plea and throws Draco back in
the same spot, this time far more violently, as if to say, you’re not going anywhere.

Draco lands with a thud on the floor of the bathroom. He steadies himself on his hands and knees,
heaving loudly and running his fingers through his scruffy hair. Doe-eyed and baffled by the
events—or lack thereof—Draco raises his eyes from the floor and looks at Hermione.

She realizes that he’s going to try to apparate again and again and again.

Hermione lunges forward.

Her hand seizes his right shoulder the moment he twirls into the air.

It sucks both of them in, tangling their bodies together as they soar through space. Afraid to lose
him in flight, Hermione grips his shoulder as tight as possible. Merging with him physically and
mentally, she begs herself to land where he does.

It’s an all too dangerous game—apparating. Catastrophic when done wrong.

She grips the ball of his shoulder so tightly that, midflight, she hears a tear. And a muffled cry.

And then they collapse in Draco’s room, their bodies spluttering against the hardwood floor like
rag dolls.

Hermione immediately rises to her hands and knees, desperate to collect her bearings after the fall.
Because all she can think about is that scream—that blood-curdling, hair-raising cry, guttural and
harsh and torture to her ears.

“Son of a bitch!”

She panics. Because as she turns on her hands and knees and witnesses Draco rocking back and
forth, his back colliding over and over with the side of his bed and his left hand, wrapped around
his right shoulder, turning red with a steady stream of blood, she realizes exactly what she’s done to
him.

“I could kill you, Granger,” he growls, shaking his head furiously. “I could—I could—damnit!”

Alarm occupies and sheathes her other senses as she stumbles around his outstretched legs to the
right side of his body. Blood seeps through the sweater and onto his pale hand.

Hermione gasps, because the memories associated with splinching are too much to handle.
Because she’s seen this before, and she panicked then, and she’s panicking now even more.
Her voice cracks. “Malfoy—”

“Damnit!” Draco bellows, biting his lower lip in pain. “Why would you do that? Huh? Why the
fuck would you do that?”

Extending her right hand and clasping it above his, Hermione applies significant pressure to the
wound. She compresses the space and interlocks their fingers, desperate to keep the blood from
flowing past her barricade. Draco’s clenches his teeth—practically meshing them together—and he
emits a torturous groan.

“I’m so sorry,” she rasps, shaking her head as the feeling of his blood oozes through his sweater
and onto her palm. It’s relentless—it flows like an inexorable river, branching out and dripping in
all directions.

But she doesn’t have time to panic. Hermione Granger knows what to do. She’s seen this before.
She’s gone through a war. She knows how to help. She knows what needs to be done.

It’s just that things feel so different with him, because she’s never felt this desperate to save
someone before—and how on earth is that bloody possible? How is it that Draco Malfoy is the one
she’s most desperate to save?

Immediately, Hermione’s mind shifts into gear.

“I need to take a look at it—”

“I can barely move—”

“Would you rather bleed out, then? Potentially lose your arm?” she insists with haste.

Draco rolls his eyes and grumbles again, knocking his head back and staring at the ceiling.

She takes it as her cue.

“Hold your hand against it tightly,” she instructs, removing hers and shifting back a few inches.
Through staggered and panicked breathing, her eyes frantically course over his chest, desperate to
find a way to get under his shirt—

“Fuck’s sake, just rip the sweater!” he exclaims, his torso and legs beginning to writhe in pain.

She doesn’t need to be told twice. Hermione grips the neckline of Draco’s sweater in her hand,
musters up all the strength she has in her arms, and tears the fabric right down the middle. It’s the
adrenaline in her system mixed with a deep tenderness for him that allows her to pull the fabric
apart—like a mother lifting a car for her child. Hermione seamlessly rips the threads of the sweater
and drags the halves down his arms as carefully as possible.

And now that she can see the extent of the injury clearer, her anxiety escalates. There’s a cut—
deep and long—that runs from the front of his shoulder to his back in an arch shape. And it’s
located in the exact spot that her hand was gripping when they apparated. And so guilt surges
through her body like a tornado, panic coupled with the storm like hail beating against her heart.

Thick and slow, his blood trickles in several directions—down his arm, down his back, down his
chest, around his bicep. And it stains his tattoos in the most ominous and awful way because it
covers up who he is. He’s lost under the agony that Hermione has inflicted upon him.

“I need…” Hermione starts, her breath slowing down as her eyes glue themselves to the injury, like
a car wreck she can’t look away from. “My wand… I need my wand—”

“Just use mine,” Draco snaps, nudging his head towards his left leg.

She remembers the holster.

You’re not the only one who feels safer with a wand on them at all times.

And she realizes that she didn’t have her wand on her tonight.

Hermione shifts over slightly, tugging her skirt down as she realizes that it’s riding up her thighs in
a rather exposing manner. Then, she carefully leans over and lifts the leg of Draco’s slacks, and her
eyes fall upon his wand, fastened in the holster. She unlatches it from the strap and returns to his
right in a matter of seconds, twirling it in her fingers to become acquainted with its magic, its feel,
its soul.

Her curls fall frantically on her face, so she rapidly tucks them behind her ears and then lifts the
wand to his wound. She mutters an incantation.

“Vulnera sanentur.”

To stop the flow of blood.

“Vulnera sanentur.”

To clean the wound and activate the healing process.

“Vulnera sanentur.”

To stitch the wound shut.

And it happens as such: the flow of the blood that drips down his arm, his chest, and his back
slowly starts to recede, like a waterfall fighting against gravity. The direction of the current
switches and regresses back into the gash. And then the skin surrounding the laceration, like rock
formations surrounding a canyon, inches closer and closer to one another until the halves find
themselves in a much narrower divide, and finally there is only a thin scar present. And it’s fresh
and red and enflamed, but it’s significantly improved.

Draco struggles to control his breathing, but it becomes easier when Hermione runs her fingers
over the new scar.

Dittany. She needs Dittany to prevent scarring.

But it’s so rare. It’s so fucking rare, and what are the chances that they have Dittany in this
apartment?

Dittany. She needs Dittany. She needs it—

“Dittany?” Draco asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Hermione realizes that she’s been mouthing the word. She does that often. Her teeth chatter and her
fingers spasm and her lips move in the way the words sound. All born from her constantly anxious
state of being.

“Blaise has some,” Draco grumbles, shifting his back up higher against the bed.
Hermione’s eyes widen, shocked that her complicated request might actually be fulfilled. “Really?”

“‘For emergencies only’ is what he says. Although I’d say this is an emergency, yeah?” Draco grits
the last part, sarcasm coursing through each syllable.

She doesn’t heed him any further because in an instant, Hermione rises to her feet and rushes out of
the room, across the apartment, and into Blaise’s room. Her eyes scan the space, searching for a
bag, a chest—something that could hold medical supplies.

She locates a large, black, wooden chest atop a dresser. Lunging for it like her life—Draco’s life,
truthfully—depends on it, she throws the lid open and scours the contents for a vial of Dittany. A
small vial of brown liquid is lodged in a rack with other potions and antidotes, and she discerns that
it’s the Dittany based on that color and the large ‘D’ that is carved into the head of the dropper.
She yanks it out of place and simultaneously resolves to grab the spool of gauze in the chest as
well. She knows the bleeding has stopped, but it’s to protect the scar from—

“Granger!”

His voice pulls her to him instantly.

Hermione takes off in a sprint, rushing out of Blaise’s room as she juggles the contents in her
hands. Halfway to the door, Hermione pauses and reaches for her heels, still strapped to her feet
and causing too much pain in this moment—this moment that she needs to be with him. She
frantically rips them off of her feet, then hears another, “Granger!” And there’s so much
desperation in the voice that she whimpers out of fear.

The thoughts amalgamate in her head as she sprints for the door: the charm didn’t work, he’s about
to bleed out, he’s about to fucking die—

When Hermione charges through his room, she’s surprised to find Crookshanks prancing over
Draco’s legs on the ground.

Draco looks paler than he’s ever been in his entire life, and it could be because of the trauma of the
splinch, but Hermione deduces that it’s because her kneazle is treating Draco like his own personal
jungle gym.

He looks up at her, mortified. “For fuck’s sake, get your bloody cat away from me.”

Hermione finds her breath and clears her throat as Crookshanks nestles against Draco’s right leg,
his tail thumping against his thigh in a steady rhythm.

“It’s a kneazle, actually—”

“Why do you always have to be such a know-it-all?” he mutters, dramatically tossing his head back
onto the edge of his mattress.

“Why don’t you save your insults for a moment that I’m not saving your life,” she retorts, bending
down and swooping her hand beneath Crookshanks to lift him from his spot and lightly toss him
onto Adrian’s bed. He lands stealthily, spins in a circle, and settles right against the pillow. And
then his beady little eyes stare at Draco as he snarls back at the kneazle.

“If that cat came any closer to me, I’d lose my other arm in a second.”

Hermione huffs. “You’re unbearable sometimes, you know that?”

“Good.”

“Good?” Hermione repeats, her lips curved in disgust. She scoffs and screws the vial open. “I
thought you were dying, or bleeding again, but you were just scared of my kneazle?”

“Oh, excuse me for undergoing a rather traumatizing experience with that orange demon during
fourth year—”

“Maybe if you hadn’t been such an arsehole,” Hermione mutters under her breath as she unscrews
the vial and inspects the dropper carefully.

It’s Draco’s turn to huff in sardonic exasperation.

Indignantly, Hermione settles her left hand against Draco’s bicep, her fingers matching the shape
of the snake that coils around his arm. She takes a deep breath and holds the dropper over his cut.
“Hold still,” she instructs.

Her fingers squeeze the rubber part of the dropper, discharging little drops of brown liquid from
the tip. It seeps into his fresh scar.

Draco grits his teeth again and slams his left fist against the floor.

She sighs and bites her lower lip. “I know it’s painful. Just relax as much as you can.”

The Dittany stings his wound—sizzles and steams the slit in his arm—yet it doesn't compare to the
way that Draco stares at her. She avoids his eye contact but can still feel his burning gaze on her.
Her lips tremble and her eyes flutter as she tries to focus on the healing process. She fights the urge
that festers within her to look up at him, unsure if she’d be able to handle that stare right now.

No. There’s no possible way she could handle it.

After the sizzling quiets, Hermione inserts the dropper back into the vial. Her fingers, latched
around his bicep, delicately trail the crimson stain of his skin.

“I can clean the blood,” she offers quietly. “Do you have a washcloth?”

“There’s spare ones in the cabinet of the bathroom,” he responds, nodding his head in the direction
of the door.

Hermione rises again, adjusts the skirt, and strides towards the bathroom. Once inside, she pulls
open the doors of the cabinet below the sink, grabs a small, blue towel from a little basket, runs it
under cold water, and returns to the room.

She kneels down once again and presses the cold towel to his arm, sensitively scrubbing the
stained blood from his skin.

“You’re welcome,” she whispers with an eye roll.

“Oh, pardon me,” he starts, “I forgot to thank you for almost ripping my arm out of its socket.
Forgive me, for my oversight—fuck!”

Hermione presses the towel upon his scar just a tad too hard.

“Oops,” she mutters with a pop of her lips, followed by a victorious smirk.

“That fucking hurt,” he seethes, and Hermione begins to feel poorly about her dig.
“I know, I'm sorry. Just try to stay still for me. Don’t move your arm too much.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Well, just think of something other than your pain—”

Immediately, Hermione’s own mind flutters back to the kiss, and she wonders if his does the same.

And maybe it’s the way he ends up staring at her after she says it that confirms her suspicion.
Because his lips are slightly parted now, as if they expect hers to mold to his in this moment. His
eyes, dead set on hers, twinkle with a sliver of hope.

She wishes she didn’t look up at him. She could lean forward and kiss him again with that look.

But it’s not the right time, so she breaks eye contact and continues to clean his wound instead.

Daringly, Draco lifts his left hand to cup Hermione’s cheek. His fingers find the back of her head,
wrapping themselves in her curls. And his thumb finds her lips in the same way she did earlier in
the night.

Draco might’ve cupped her face, but it’s Hermione’s own volition that leads her to turn her head
into his hand and meet his eyes yet again. She holds her breath as Draco leans forward. Her fingers
slacken. The towel drops onto his lap as Hermione enters a hypnotic state, all brought on by those
eyes staring her down, preparing to devour her, preparing to adore her—

It’s the sound of the apartment door opening that brings them out of their daze.

“Malfoy? Granger? You here?”

Hermione gasps, her eyes widen, and she pulls away. The loss of Draco’s skin on hers is
tormenting, but she forces herself to stop the moment, save it for another time, cherish the fact that
they almost did it again.

Draco's head drops against the side of the bed in agitation. Hermione catches a quick glimpse of
his eyes rolling.

She turns to face the door, watching as the others stumble into the apartment. Blaise turns first and
he sighs in relief.

“Fucking hell,” he exhales, “We didn’t know where you were! We got worried. Adrian said that
you two stormed off and didn’t come back. Are you alright? Where’s Malfoy?”

“We’re fine,” Hermione exhales as the others crowd around Blaise and trample towards the door.
“He’s here.”

Theo cocks an eyebrow. “On the floor?”

“Well, there was a bit of an accident—”

The word sets a bomb off in Blaise. It’s the look in his eyes—like he’s heard the most terrifying
news of his life—that catches the attention of Hermione. He immediately darts into the room, his
legs striding with purpose and determination. When he sees Draco sitting between the two beds,
alive, breathing, he sighs in immense relief.

“What happened?” Blaise asks.

“I’m fine.” Draco's response is curt.

“He splinched when we apparated,” Hermione admits, holding her warm cheeks in the palms of her
hands.

Adrian walks deeper into the room along with the others. He lifts an eyebrow. “Apparating
accident? Now, why were you two apparating—”

“Pucey—”

“What!” Adrian exclaims, throwing his hands in the air and smirking like he’s on the cusp of
uncovering some clandestine affair. “That’s a valid question!”

“Well, it’s not really much of your business, is it?” Draco continues as Blaise bends down to
inspect his shoulder.

“I used your Dittany,” Hermione confesses to Blaise, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry. I
know it’s quite rare, but it was necessary.”

Blaise shakes his head and smiles at Hermione. “No worries. It’s there for a reason. You did a
fantastic job.”

“Yes, well, I’ve seen it happen before,” she mutters, thinking about the time Ron splinched in the
forest. She recalls the intensity of the situation—the desperation and anxiety and shame that
overtook her body that day.

It doubled when it happened to Draco. And she asks herself again how the fuck that is possible.

“Must not have been that big of a splinch because it’s healing rather smoothly,” Blaise comments.

“‘Must not have been that big of a splinch’ my arse,” Draco retorts, nostrils flared and jaw
clenched.

“Look on the bright side,” Adrian interjects. “You get to sport a sexy scar on your shoulder to
match your other brooding qualities.”

“Ooh, that’s a fantastic new look for this one. It’ll match his tattoos perfectly,” Pansy chimes in,
leaning against the door frame and giggling with Daphne at her side.

Theo finds Hermione’s side and nudges her arm. “Something else, isn’t he, Granger?” he adds with
a smirk.

“Alright, alright!” Daphne exclaims, pushing through the others and wrapping her hands around
Blaise. “Show is over. Let the poor boy rest. I want to go to sleep before the crash hits.” She tugs
Blaise’s arm, and he rises with her plea.

As the others pile out of the room, Blaise addresses Draco before he exits: “If you need anything,
you know I’ve got some antidotes that can help with the pain. Just let me know.”

Draco offers a single nod.

And they finally exit, but not without Adrian winking at Hermione.

Closing the door, Hermione can feel the tension rise again. Heat the room like a sauna. And she
can feel Draco staring at her, so she turns slowly and reaches his eyes with her own.
He struggles to rise to his feet, but eventually he stands, exhaling as he finds his bearings.

She steps forward and reaches for the gauze. “One last thing,” she insists, unspooling the roll in her
hands before even reaching him.

“I don’t need that—”

“Your wound should be covered—”

Draco’s hands swathes Hermione’s to stop her, and she stops playing with the gauze.

“Just go to bed, Granger” he whispers, taking the gauze from her hand and then letting go.

And there’s that feeling again—it tugs Hermione’s heart down into her stomach. It’s the
knowledge that he’s pulling away, that he can’t stand their closeness, that he doesn’t know what to
say or how to feel.

He stumbles past her and walks out the door, closing it gently on his way out.

And for once, she listens to him.

And it’s hard—almost impossible—but she can’t risk pushing it. She would tread the waters for
now, because earlier tonight she’d swam so deep into the sea. Almost drowned. Draco took her
breath and filled his lungs with it to a point of no return.

So instead, she suffocates on the silence. It’s the best she can get.

Maybe tomorrow, she could find water again.

It’s not an influx of water that wakes her up. Not the taste of seawater, not the sound of waves
crashing, and certainly not the feeling of suffocating on a liquid that is both bitter and sweet at the
same time.

No. It’s a knock at the door.

Her eyes open. Hermione realizes that she’s been sleeping on her right shoulder, which is not
normally the position that she sleeps in. She prefers her left shoulder, or simply her back. But she
slept on her right last night, and she did it for him. She did it to face him.

Draco lies on his left shoulder, eyes closed. Facing her. Asleep.

Facing her.

Another knock draws her from her daze, and she hurriedly steps out of bed and tiptoes to the door.
She's attentive, desperate not to wake Draco up. Because she knows how hard it is for him to sleep,
and she can’t bear waking him from something that looks so peaceful.

She carefully turns the handle, opens the door, and sees Adrian standing in the threshold.

“Morning,” he whispers with a hoarse voice. “Sorry to wake you, but… erm… you’ve got a
visitor.”

“A visitor?”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have bothered to wake you up if it wasn’t important. But it seems keen to
speak with you.”

Hermione furrows her eyebrows as she follows Adrian out of the door and into the living room.
And then she understands, because perched in the middle of the two couches is a stag, blue and
white and radiant in the morning rays of sun that seep through the window. It practically sparkles.

“Oh, it’s Harry,” Hermione exhales, crossing her arms over chest and stepping towards the
Patronus.

“Potter?” Adrian confirms.

Hermione turns her head and nods. And then the message relays, and it’s succinct yet everything
that Hermione has been waiting to hear:

Hermione, t here are some things we need to talk about with regards to your boss. Might you be
able to stop by Hogwarts today? It’s better to show you.

Hermione glances over her shoulder at Adrian, who cocks an eyebrow.

“Erm,” she mutters, gulping and turning back to the Patronus. “Yes. Of course. I’ll come by very
soon. I’ll be in the courtyard.”

With the message in tow, the stag turns, prances through the window, and disappears.

“So, you’ve told Potter about Aberfield?”

Hesitantly, Hermione turns on her heels and nods. “I needed help figuring a few things out, and…
well… Harry offered.”

Adrian’s jaw tenses.

“Are you angry?” Hermione asks.

He shakes his head, and the panic that Hermione built up dissipates. “Not at all. I just… didn’t
think he’d be interested in helping us.”

“Harry is very compassionate,” Hermione explains. “He’s offered to help in whatever way he can.”

“How about I join you for your little excursion to Hogwarts?”

“Really? You want to?”

“Absolutely,” Adrian answers, seating himself on the arm of the couch and folding his hands in his
lap. “Would be nice to see the school grounds again. Nicer to learn more about Aberfield. And
most nice to see the Chosen One in his prime.”

Hermione snickers and rolls her head. “I’ll pretend I have no idea what you mean by that.”

“Mm, I love our little hidden language,” Adrian teases, gesturing his index finger between the two
of them and winking for good measure.

“Let me just go warn Malfoy that we’re leaving for a bit,” Hermione says with a lip bite, and as
soon as her teeth chew down on her plush lips, it’s like she’s been transported back to that moment
she left a few days ago, and all that plays in her head is the way he couldn’t watch her leave.

“Did you two…” Adrian shifts his torso left to right in a little dance, “Have an enjoyable evening?”
A scoff escapes her mouth. There’s no point in lying anymore. No point in sugar-coating the
situation. Things are out in the open; Hermione’s words should reflect that.

“It was... at times enjoyable.”

Adrian flattens his lips, nods his head, and shrugs. “I’ll take it,” he mutters. “Now, go say goodbye
to your boyfriend.”

Hermione steps past him and playfully punches his arm with her fist.

“Aye!” he gasps, gripping his bicep. “Save that playfulness for the dragon chamber. It gets hot in
there really quickly, but you might already know all about that—”

“You are relentless, aren’t you?” Hermione exasperates with a giggle, her hand wrapping around
the metal knob of the door to Draco’s room.

In typical Adrian fashion, he stretches his arms to the side and shrugs. “Can’t help myself.”

Hermione twists the handle and dips into the room.

To her surprise, Draco is awake, sitting on the side of his bed and massaging his upper bicep. He
plays with the gauze on his arm—Hermione assumes he must have applied it himself last night
when he left the room.

She closes the door and steps towards him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he mutters, his throat still spellbound by the kiss of sleep. “Still hurts quite a bit.”

It’s bold of her, but she sits next to Draco on his bed—bends her left knee and hangs her right leg
off the bed as she looks closely at his shoulder.

“I just want to let you know that I’m going to see Harry for a bit. Adrian is coming, and we’ll be
back soon.”

Draco nods, staring forward. “Okay.”

“And I just thought you should know that I’m returning very soon.”

He rubs his sleep-stained eyes and nods.

"It's just a quick visit to—"

"You know you don't have to explain yourself," he snaps, but then there's immediately a look of
regret in his eyes after doing so.

Hermione tilts her head. “Did you sleep much last night?”

“No.”

“You should try to get some rest.”

“It’s too hard.”

She chews on the inside of her cheek, sucking and thinking about how she can help, how she can
bring him peace.
“Have you ever thought of using a Sleeping Charm?”

Draco creases his eyebrows as he turns to face her, yet his eyes light up with curiosity. “I haven’t.”

She purses her lips, because the way he’s looking at her right now is so tempting, so inviting, so
breathtakingly perfect. And yet she finds it so difficult for her body to move forward.

“I can help cast one, if you’d like. You… you need to sleep. Really sleep.”

Before Draco can protest, Hermione rises and grabs Draco’s wand from his desk. She turns slowly
and approaches him, standing right in front of his legs.

“Let me help you,” she repeats, her eyes pleading with him.

Reluctantly, Draco lifts his legs and dives under his covers. He stares up at the ceiling, swiping his
hand over his face and exhaling.

Hermione meets the edge of his bed with her legs and hovers the wand over his head. She sways
the wand in a zig-zag motion, and a violet mist spurs from the tip and clouds Draco. In seconds, his
eyes flutter closed, and then he’s asleep. And he looks at peace—as much peace as one can hope
for, anyway.

She briskly transfigures out of her pajamas into an outfit more appropriate for the excursion, sets
Draco’s wand—hot with magic—back on his nightstand, and tiptoes out of the room. Crookshanks
dips his head from under the covers of Adrian’s bed, meowing as Hermione approaches the door.
She turns around, smiles sweetly, and slips through the door back into the living room.

As she does, she witnesses the last moments of Adrian snorting cocaine off the tip of his index
finger.

She forgets sometimes how often they need it. How it’s not just a sporadic ritual that happens in a
bathroom of a club. The smallest excursions in the world require it at this point. And that breaks
her heart. Puts things further into perspective.

Adrian turns around and swipes his finger across his nostril. He’s dressed in black slacks and an
indigo sweater, perfectly complementing his complexion and bringing out the color of his emerald
eyes.

“You ready to go?”

Hermione nods as Adrian extends his hand.

“Now, don’t go splinching me too, Granger, alright?”

With a laugh, Hermione squeezes his hand, and they spin into the air.

She doesn’t know why she’s so shocked to see the schoolground completely empty. It’s New
Year’s Day—most students are at home enjoying the holidays. But there’s something about the
desolate campus, the lack of noise, the drought of students and professors roaming the school that
makes Hermione’s body shiver.

Everything seems unfamiliar in a way. She can’t place her finger on what it is.

“Deep in thought?” Adrian says, shaking her hand in his to drag her from her daydreams.
Hermione opens her mouth and looks up at Adrian. “It’s just strange being back.”

“I agree,” Adrian concedes. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve been back too.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and exhales out of his nose, taking in the sight of the school
before him—the brilliance of the stonework, the illumination of the windows when the sun’s rays
kiss the glass, and the stature of the spires flagging the numerous towers.

As they continue their observance of the schoolgrounds, Harry suddenly emerges from between
two pillars of the cloister. He smiles brightly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and
tumbling into Hermione’s arms for a hug.

“Welcome back!” he cheers, closing his eyes and swinging her side to side.

Hermione giggles, the sound reminiscent of those days when they were just children here. It’s like
the memories of those days find their way into her lungs to produce this splendid sound. She
eventually pulls away and pats down the sleeve of his ivory knit sweater with the palm of her hand.
“Thank you so much for reaching out.”

“Of course. Anything for—”

Harry looks a little closer at Hermione, tilting his head and furrowing his eyebrows.

“Are you alright?” he asks, the question dipped in subtle concern.

She smiles softly. “Yes, of course. Why? Is something wrong?”

“You just look quite tired—”

“Oh, she’s tired all right,” Adrian murmurs from behind Hermione. He crosses his arms over his
chest and smirks at Harry. “Had an eventful evening, this one.”

Gazing over Hermione’s shoulder, Harry acknowledges Adrian with a subtle nod. “Pucey—”

“Ooh, you and I are still doing last names, are we?” Adrian teases, flicking his tongue across his
top layer of teeth. He stretches his hand forward and offers Harry a handshake, to which Harry
eventually succumbs. “Pleasure to see you again, Potter.”

Harry’s voice trembles as he shakes Adrian’s hands. “A pleasure, and no less."

“Now, now, don’t flatter me too much, or I’ll have no choice but to fall madly in love with you."

Now, Hermione has caught on to Adrian’s mischievous banter, and so she laughs with delight at
the insinuation. But Harry, completely unaware of what Adrian means by his comment, hangs his
mouth open and quickly withdraws his hand. “I’m… well… erm… I’m with G-Ginny Weasley—”

Adrian leans forward and amicably shoves Harry’s shoulder. “It’s a joke!” Then—just to see how
far he can go—Adrian leans forward and whispers, “But you’re not married, right?”

Hermione scoffs and covers her eyes with her fingers, shaking her head and laughing as she turns to
chastise Adrian.

Harry’s eyes dart between them, as if he’s missing the joke. The tips of his ears turn pink, and his
fingers twinge with uncertainty.

With a reassuring smile, Hermione says, “He’s just kidding. Where is Ginny?”
Harry’s chest rises and falls with mortification. “Oh, she’s quite busy. She came home for
Christmas for a few days and then was right back out to traveling with the Harpies.”

“Already?”

Harry nods sullenly. “It’s difficult to get ahold of her because of all the traveling. But she’s happy,
and so I am. I suppose… it would be better if we were happy together, though.”

Hermione frowns. She knows more than anything that Harry has an immense amount of love in his
heart—love that deserves to be shared and valued. And Ginny is wonderfully breathtaking, kind,
and important. But as she watches Harry glance at the ground and sniffle quietly, Hermione
ultimately grasps the magnitude of the situation: Harry is lonely.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Shrugging, Harry crosses his arms over his chest and soaks in the warmth of the sweater. “It’s
alright. We’re making it work.” With his arms still crossed, Harry gestures his left hand towards
Hermione. “Anyway, I’ve done some digging and asking around about your boss. And there are
actually a few things that McGonagall wants you to see.”

The mention of the kind, old witch who supported her relentlessly through her time at Hogwarts
breeds fireworks in Hermione's chest. “Is she here?”

“Unfortunately, no. She’s taken a few days before the beginning of the term to travel. But she left
me with this.” Harry reaches into the pocket of his brown slacks and pulls out a small, clear vial.
With a raise of his eyebrow, Harry asks, “Fancy a trip to the Pensieve?”

Adrian clicks his tongue. “Are you taking me to the Headmistresses’ office already? Have I really
been that naughty?”

Harry points the vial at Adrian. “Right. I’m starting to figure you out a little better.”

“You enjoying what you hear? See, perhaps?”

Mouth agape, Harry exasperates and stumbles over his words. His mouth opens and shuts with
discomfort, and then he subsequently spins on his heels and gestures them to follow him.

“Oh, Adrian,” Hermione whispers, trailing a foot behind Harry as he guides them through the
familiar castle.

Adrian turns his head and winks down at her. “I can’t help myself. It’s the bloody Chosen One,
Granger. Now, don’t be a cockblock—I’ve got to make a solid impression and get in there before
Ginevra swoops back in.”

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re being serious or facetious anymore,” Hermione mutters.

Adrian shrugs as they turn a corner, the entrance to the Headmistresses’ Office in plain sight at the
end of the corridor. “Why would I be facetious?”

“Well, you’re always joking about things.”

“Let’s just say,” Adrian murmurs, his eyes coursing over the back of Harry’s neck, “the Chosen
One should be privy to my comedy, yes. But at the end of the day, honesty and sincerity lead to
action which then leads to a lifetime of pleasure. And Granger, I’m ready for some pleasure.”
McGonagall’s office doesn’t look much different than it did when Dumbledore was headmaster.

There are still dozens of trinkets scattered around the bookshelves and desks, books stacked upon
tables, chairs, ledges—anywhere they can fit—and natural light slinking its way through the
stained-glass window on the furthest wall.

And on the right side of the office, poking out of the wall, the Pensieve makes its way forth by
Harry’s call. The dip of the stone basin glows in a murky blue hue, and within the opaque liquid,
white mist spins and coils around the circumference, occasionally splintering and webbing into the
center of the basin.

Hermione hovers her head over the basin. She can see her face clearly in the reflection.

“Careful,” Harry warns, standing firmly at her side.

She looks to Harry on her left, then Adrian on her right.

“Relax, Granger. I’ll keep the Chosen One company whilst you’re on your little escapade.”

Hermione smiles, the tension in her shoulders subsiding as she glares back into the Pensieve.
Lifting her heels off the ground and tilting her head in further, Hermione suddenly finds herself
falling from the ceiling and landing on her feet in the Great Hall, just in front of the Professors’
table.

It’s just past midday—she can tell because the sun pokes through the west end of the hall and casts
silhouettes and mirages of students studying and chatting. Others bustle around the pathways
between tables, clutching their books and gossiping away with owl eyes and quick mouths.
Hermione spins around, her eyes combing over each student, professor, and ghost that is gathered
in the hall.

Facing the main entrance, Hermione catches sight of the individual in question.

Aberfield sits alone at the Slytherin table, his green robes swathing his slim figure like a mouse in
a trench coat. Biting his nails and occasionally running his fingers through his jet-black hair, he
intently reads from a textbook. The red binding is tattered, as if it’s been heavily used in the past,
exploited for its words and content and secrets.

Hermione suddenly feels a presence behind her.

“Quincy is still quite the recluse.”

It’s McGonagall. She knows the voice anywhere. Could pick it out of a room of thousands if
necessary. For some odd reason, it reminds Hermione of gingerbread—it’s warm and comforting
and representative of one of the gentlest people in her life.

Hermione turns on her heels and steps back one foot. McGonagall and a younger Slughorn lean
against the dining table, their eyes glued to Aberfield as he reads.

“He’s just a naturally quiet boy,” Slughorn responds, crossing the left flap of his tan robe over the
right to cover his already growing belly.

“It’s been six years of this. Do you think the war is affecting him in some distinctive way?”

Slughorn audibly sighs out of both confusion and exhaustion. “It’s affected everyone. I suspect that
Quincy’s natural shyness is the cause of his desolation. Poor boy has always been that way, ever
since arriving at Hogwarts. I reason that it has to do with his upbringing, you know.”

Hermione furrows her eyebrows, listening intently.

“Poor thing,” McGonagall laments. “Parentless, cooped up in that dirty orphanage when
Dumbledore found him. Completely unaware of his magical abilities. He just needs someone to
look up to.”

It all sounds a little too familiar to Hermione—his origin.

“I’ve tried my best,” Slughorn responds.

“I know, Horace.”

“Several of my other students have tried to include him in their activities. Quidditch, clubs,
apprenticeships with professors. I’m afraid, at this point it time, there’s not much else we can do to
help him—what with the term coming to a close. And next year, he’ll be building his reputation in
the world as he prepares to fly away from this school.”

“Is he ready?”

Slughorn sighs yet again. The conversation appears exhausting to him, like he’s done everything
he can to combat Aberfield’s quietness.

“He is apt at many things. Excels in my class, among others. I do think he will be alright, but I
think it’d be best if we keep a close eye on him.”

“And we will,” McGonagall replies, patting Slughorn’s shoulder and walking forward. Hermione
follows her down the pathway between two long tables, watching Aberfield as she does.

The last thing Hermione sees before the scene fades is another boy, accompanied by his friends,
walk behind Aberfield and shove his face into the book he reads. The student bends over and
mouths something into Aberfield’s ear, and although she can’t hear it, Hermione knows exactly
what he’s said.

It’s the way the word rolls off the tongue and through the lips. Hermione has studied the pattern of
flicks and purses as the word is said. It’s engrained in her memory.

He called Aberfield a mudblood.

The Great Hall disappears, and Hermione finds herself floating through the air like a feather yet
again. And then the colors change—morph into darker and browner tones—and she finds herself
falling into the library.

Her eyes immediately find Aberfield, sitting at a table, reading from the Daily Prophet and
consciously annotating the article.

Behind Hermione, McGonagall approaches the table. The witch watches Aberfield with worrisome
eyes, her fingers trembling upon her emerald robe as she does so. Hermione curiously leans
forward and peeks from across the square table to see what he is reading.

She catches the title of the article: Two More Order Members Die at the Hands of Death Eaters.

And she sees the date: April 1981.

They’re in the height of the war.

Aberfield is underlining sections of the newspaper, starring and circling words and tapping his
quill against the mahogany table. His lips move with the text as he carefully discerns the main
points of the passage.

McGonagall sighs and approaches his side.

“How are you today, Quincy?”

Aberfield glances up at McGonagall, his eyes wide with fear.

“Fine, Professor,” he says with a nod, his voice quivering ever so slightly. He scrambles for the
newspaper and scrunches the paper up in his fist, creasing the parchment enough to conceal the
content but also continue reading at a later time.

McGonagall tilts her head. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she explains. “I just wanted to make sure
you are doing alright. Many students are feeling quite flustered by this war. How are you coping?
Would you like to come by my office for tea sometime? We can discuss your future—”

“I’m alright,” he rushes to say, reaching for his bag on the back of his chair and slinging it over his
shoulder. “I should get going.” With a blunt nod, Aberfield darts around McGonagall and rushes
out of the library.

And then it happens again. Another boy, inches taller than Quincy, shoves his shoulder and spits
the same word in his face.

Mudblood.

And as McGonagall scolds the boy takes fifty house points for his disgusting language, the
Pensieve claims its time.

Hermione levitates into the air, the scene below her fading and turning cloudy under the magic.
And then she’s gasping for air as her head soars out of the basin.

She falls back, the sudden pressure change being a little too overwhelming for her, and a pair of
lean arms catches her before he trips over her heels. Harry.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks, and suddenly Adrian is at her side and gripping her arm as well. His
large hand finds hers, steadying her quivering fingers in his warmth.

“Sorry, yes,” she says, regaining her footing. The boys hold her tightly, only letting go when she
nods her head in confirmation. “That’s an interesting feeling—coming back, I mean. The pressure
change was really quite intense.”

Harry nods. “Yes, it’s not fun the first time. Believe me.”

“What did you see?” Adrian asks, the tone of his question pertinent and purposeful.

“It was some of McGonagall’s memories of Aberfield here at Hogwarts. He was a Slytherin. An
orphan. A muggleborn.”

“Really?” Adrian asks, tilting his head.

Hermione nods. “And he seemed to have been bullied quite often for it. And he was always
reading, taking notes, studying—just a generally quiet student.”

“Interesting, considering how much he bloody drones on about worthless bullshit at the meetings,”
Adrian says with an eye roll.

Hermione sighs. “It was brief, but helpful beyond belief. You’ll have to tell McGonagall that I said
thank you.”

Harry nods. “Of course.”

“Potter was explaining some of his other findings to me,” Adrian interjects, crossing his arms over
his chest and raising his eyebrows at Harry, a cue to continue their conversation.

“Right, erm… Unfortunately, there’s nothing in any spell book that I’ve come across about what
Aberfield calls a ‘Location Beam.’ It’s clearly his own spell,” Harry explains. “Now, has he
registered it with the Ministry?”

Hermione shrugs, anger stirring through her nerves as she thinks about how discombobulated the
Ministry has become. How invested in other affairs it has been recently. How uncompassionate and
distracted and unfair it now is.

“I’m not sure. When I looked through the archives, I couldn’t find anything about it.”

“You’ve got to ask Kingsley,” Harry presses.

“Even if it wasn’t registered, Kingsley let the Location Beams be implanted in them. What good
will it do to ask whether it’s been registered or not?” Hermione asks.

“Archived spells often have detailed descriptions of what they are, exactly. If you can find that
registration, maybe you will be able to understand the properties better. See if it really is exactly
what he says it is.”

“Brilliant, Potter,” Adrian comments with a solemn nod.

Hermione joins the sentiment. “Absolutely. I’ll consult with Kingsley. I’ve seen the Location
Beam in work, though, and it appears that it’s exactly what he’s said it is. But maybe there’s
something more to it.”

“Worth an investigation, if you ask me,” Harry shrugs.

Hermione exhales and leaps forward into Harry’s arms. She can’t help herself—with everything
that he’s done for her, she feels obliged to remind him just how much he means to her.

“I can’t thank you enough, Harry,” she whispers.

Harry pulls away and smiles. “Anything for you. You’ve saved my sorry arse more times than I’d
like to admit. You can always count on me, I swear.”

Hermione steps back, and suddenly her shoulders are swathed in Adrian’s broad arms. He tugs her
in for a side hug and smiles down at her. “Brilliant, isn’t she, Potter?”

“Deserving of the world and nothing less.” Harry’s comment is terse and almost snappy.

“Believe me,” Adrian starts, “We know. She’s helping us when no one else would.”

“That’s in her nature.”

“My point exactly.”

It’s like a competition between Harry and Adrian, both vying for Hermione’s approval and love.
She’s unsure where the contention between them has come from, but she resolves to clear the air as
quickly as possible.

Hermione reaches for Harry’s hand. “Harry, thank you again.”

“Whenever you need me, I’m here for you.”

She smiles and looks up at Adrian. “We should get going.”

“Let me know if I can be of any more help,” Harry offers as Adrian reaches for Hermione’s hand.

“Ah, Potter. So noble and thoughtful. Glad to see those traits have stuck.”

“And I’m glad to see you’re as comedic as ever, Pucey.”

Adrian clicks his tongue on his mouth and winks. “The Ministry can take my freedom, my
autonomy, and whatever else they want. But my sense of humor? That comes with me all the way
to my grave. Make no mistake—I, Adrian Pucey, will always be the king of comedy.”

Then Adrian leans forward, his face lingering a foot away from Harry’s. With their significant
height difference, Adrian’s eyes peer down at Harry in the most cheeky and bold glare.

“I don’t charge for comedy shows, either. So, if you’d ever like a front row seat, you know where
to find me.”

Harry’s stupefied expression is the last thing Hermione sees before they apparate away.

Tonight will be different.

That’s what Daphne said to Hermione later that day as they lounged on the couches and soaked in
their last day of freedom before returning to the Ministry.

“Draco will open up,” she had whispered to Hermione while stroking Crookshanks’ soft fur. “I
know we keep asking you to give him a chance, but he’s getting there. Tonight will be different.”

So when night falls and the group retreats to their rooms for the evening, Hermione feels her
stomach twirl and contract like a hurricane. She searches for the eye of the storm in the mirror of
the bathroom, tossing cold water onto her face, breathing heavily, and preparing for another night
in the room with him. A room where they’re only feet away when, ideally, they should only be a
breath apart.

Sauntering back into the room, Hermione notices Draco sitting on the side of his bed, twisting his
shoulder, adjusting it, trying to find some peace from the pain—pain that she brought upon him.

She shuts the door and boldly asks, “Can I get you anything for that?”

Draco looks up at her, his hand freezing upon his shoulder. He turns his head to the left and
gestures to a small vial of clear liquid on his desk.

“Blaise said that would help with the pain. I just need to apply some to the scar.”

Hermione makes her way between the beds and takes the small vial in her hand. She turns to face
Draco, standing dangerously close to the space between his legs.
“Could you… erm…”

She points to his torso—the shirt, more specifically.

Carefully, Draco uses his left hand to slip the shirt off of his body. Hermione is shocked at how
effortlessly he removes the top—it seems to just slip right off of his figure in the most satisfying
and brisk way.

Her eyes glue to his, because she’s tempted beyond belief to stare at his tattoos.

“It would be easier if you sit against the headboard.”

Draco accedes to her request, lifting his legs off of the ground and stretching them across his bed.
He shifts his back against the headboard, and Hermione, bold and daring and tired of playing their
passive game, climbs onto his bed and flags to his right. She unlatches the dropper from the vial
and begins to cautiously apply the liquid to his scar.

Draco grits his teeth in discomfort.

“Sorry,” she whispers, steadying his arm with her free hand, her fingers setting against his skin as
delicately as possible. “For a lot of things.”

Draco cranes his neck to look at her.

She fights the urge to look at those eyes, but oh it’s so bloody difficult. Because they have this
intrinsic power to them where their luster begs people to pay attention, and one fucking look into
them feels like the world is a brighter place.

Hermione clears her throat. “I’m going to start rambling, like I normally do. And I don’t want you
to stop me. Because there are several things that I need to get off my chest, okay?”

And she thinks he’s going to reprove her—because that’s what he normally does—but instead he
replies, “Okay.”

She sprints with the opportunity presented in fear that he’ll revoke it in a moment.

“I’m still trying to figure out how to talk to you. How to help you. How to be there for you.
Because the others seem quite receptive, but for some reason you’re pushing back.” She pauses. “I
can’t imagine it actually has anything to do with how we once acted towards one another. How we
hated each other. It can’t be that anymore. I know it.”

Draco lets her talk, because her voice is like medicine to him.

“And maybe it never was that in the first place. Or, at least, we grew out of it sooner than we
thought. Because… I don’t hate you. I can’t. How on earth can I hate you or any of your friends
when you all have given me something so wonderful? When you’ve all given me another home,
another family, another reason to live and work and breathe?”

Hermione catches her breath, and he still doesn’t say a word.

“I want to help you. But I feel torn between doing that and also being everyone’s friend. Because
thee nights that I’m with you all are some of the most fun and authentic and enjoyable nights I’ve
ever had. And as much as I want you to all be okay, I’m worried that… that I’ll lose you all…
should this end. I don’t even know how this is going to end, and that’s another frustrating part, you
see. It’s that I am so confused and lost and frustrated with the world for throwing you away and for
continuing to ignore you all. Because you don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who will care
about you. Take care of you. Treat you like a human. And I—”

“You talk way too much, Granger.”

She scoffs. “Yes, I know. I have a problem with silence. And with rambling about things that make
no sense.”

Shutting the vial and turning it in her hand, Hermione looks up for a brief moment to find his eyes.
And, fuck, she’s glued to them now, and she fights the urge to lean forward and finish what they
started—plant her lips on his again and taste his soul as it slips through his swollen, rouge lips.

“I just don’t know when to stop talking.”

Through the pain of shifting his right arm too much, Draco manages to place his hand on
Hermione’s bare leg. The sensation that courses through her thigh and into her stomach is sharp
and soft at the same time, and she feels her breath hitch in her throat as the tips of his fingers bend
and squeeze ever so slightly.

“Now. Now would be a good time.”

She parts her lips to let out a shaky breath.

“I have a lot of trouble controlling my mouth."

Draco’s chest falls in an exhale as he licks his bottom lip, dragging his tongue over it slowly.

“So do I.”

With his left hand, Draco reaches across his body, finds Hermione’s right leg, and swings it over
his lower half.

She straddles him, scaling his body with hers until she plants herself firmly upon him. Her hands
instinctively find his neck, and she gently paints stars with her fingertips and draws cascades upon
the beating pulse of his neck.

And he leans forward to connect their foreheads while simultaneously running his hands up and
down her thighs, tracing her silk skin with his gentle caresses.

“I think…” Draco starts, “If you know what’s good for you, then you’ll use that mouth for
something other than talking.”

The tips of their noses touch.

Hermione wants nothing more than to listen to him. To kiss him again and feel the dips of his body
upon hers. But there’s fear clouding her vision—and she tries to close her eyes to dispel the
thoughts of him pulling away, but it’s so difficult to concentrate when his breath meets her skin.

“How do I know you won’t pull away like last night?” she whispers.

With his left hand, Draco lifts her chin, coaxing Hermione to open her eyes and fall victim to the
luster, the glow of the night sky in his irises, yet again.

“Because I want to experience what it’s like to not feel pain again.”

He licks his lips—an invitation.

“And because—yes—splinching was painful. The mark is painful. The drugs are painful. But
nothing compares to the moment I tore myself away from you.”

This time, it’s Hermione who leans forward, who instigates the connection of their lips. Her lips
graze upon his, softly. With delicacy. Immense delicacy. A ghost of their kiss the night before.

And then she deepens the kiss ever so slightly.

Draco reciprocates, letting the breath caught in his chest fall out in a sigh against her lips.

The kiss is soft, defined by nothing more than a reminder of the night before. It’s just their lips
connecting, testing the waters, truly defining whether or not they mold as well as they both
thought.

But when Draco parts his lips to engage her more, Hermione feels her stomach drop and her lungs
practically collapse. Her head tilts to the left as she presses herself against him further, creating a
steady rhythm to the kiss, one that Hermione’s breath tries to keep up with.

His hand on her thigh flattens, and he runs his palm up the side of her skin until it reaches her
waist, and then it jumps onto the back of her head. His fingers plunge into her curls, and using his
hand, he guides her towards him more.

Hermione can’t help but dive into him, shift her hips higher upon him so that her chest presses
against his. His skin feels like ice, but his breath feels like fire, and she simultaneously drowns and
burns in the way he pulls her close to him.

One of her hands falls to his chest, and she can feel his heart leap from his ribcage in staggered
beats, like a drum that is off course from the rest of the orchestra. And normally the off-beat
rhythm would throw the world into turmoil—would disturb the very music they intend to create—
but neither one seems to care about their involvement in that catastrophe. Music is subjective.

Their lips begin to pulse with more speed, heads twisting and adjusting to explore one another a
little deeper. Taste, feel, discover.

Possibly with too much force, Hermione drives Draco’s body back to collide with the headboard.
He flinches in pain for a moment as she continues to kiss him, but soon after he’s back to dropping
his left arm to wrap around her back and shift her even closer to his center.

Hermione’s hips roll once upon him, and she winces at the feeling that swelters inside her.
Underneath her kiss, she can feel Draco’s mouth tense and then relax, as if she’s unlocked and set
free another part of him.

His right hand tries to grip her leg, but he cringes at the pain still present in his arm.

Hermione pulls away for a moment while Draco attempts to put on a brave face. He pants quietly,
struggling to advert his focus from the pain in his arm to the medicine from Hermione’s lips.

Medicine that she decides to use further.

Hermione leans down to kiss the scar on Draco’s shoulder.

And when she pulls away and grabs his eye contact, she quietly asks, “Novocaine?”

“Novocaine,” he responds before crashing his lips into hers again.

And there goes her breath. Because every time that Draco sucks on her bottom lip, breathes into her
mouth, and showers her with fervent kisses, he simultaneously steals her ability to breathe. Takes it
for himself—just like he should—and uses it to revitalize his own depraved lungs.

To catch her breath—because it’s truly all over the place—Hermione pulls away again. She feels
Draco’s fingers tighten around her waist and leg, like he’s about to lose her. Like he’ll do
absolutely anything to stay attached to her.

Hermione’s thumb finds his cheek, rubbing his blushed skin delicately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Draco exhales in a manner that attempts to mask his relief. But it’s written in his eyes, painted on
his cherry lips, and sewn into her through his fingers—he can’t let her go.

Before she can reach his lips again, Draco drops his head and places the top of his head against her
chest. She’s shocked and worried by the act, fearing that he’s about to pull himself away again,
even when he promised that he wouldn’t. Her hands touch the side of his head, her fingers stroking
his icy hair.

“What?” she asks, desperation in her voice.

Draco exhales out of his nose. “I can’t… put you… in this fucking position.”

Hermione cups his cheeks and lifts his face to hers. “What position?”

He inhales through his nose and grits his teeth.

“What? What position?” she asks again, bursting at her seams to guide the answer out of him.

But Draco remains silent, fighting with every bone in his body to relax himself.

“Okay, okay,” Hermione says reassuringly, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “Let’s not talk
about it. I can wait.”

In frustration, Draco knocks his head against the headboard. He looks up at the ceiling, pursing his
lips and struggling to speak.

Hermione finds the strength to dismount him and sit back at his right side. And she wants to dip
her head into the crook between his shoulder and neck, but it’s the same shoulder that she almost
tore from him body. And there’s no need for more pain, more discomfort, and more agony. She’ll
do anything to keep him from running away.

Instead, to remind him that she won’t abandon him, Hermione places her hand upon his and rubs
her thumb against the back of his palm.

“You’re with us, right?”

His voice. Calm and soft and quiet like the night.

Hermione looks at Draco, and he matches her eye contact.

She sighs in relief as he repeats himself: “Tomorrow, when we go back. You’re with us?”

Nodding, she answers, “I’m with you. I swear.”

“If you’re really with us,” he whispers, “Then you’ve got to help us get out. Because that fucker is
killing us. I know he is.”
She has the urge to look away because owning up to her mistakes is the hardest thing Hermione
Granger has ever done. She’s always struggled with it—and maybe it’s because the world expects
her to be perfect, even as it falls apart around her. It assumes she’ll remain as strong and conscious
as everyone else—solve the mystery, save everyone, be happy forever.

But that’s a feat even Hermione can’t fathom. She’s allowed to fall apart with the world sometimes
—isn’t she?

“You’re not going to die. None of you are. I promise."

And Hermione knows that she has broken promises before. But this one—this one she swears on
her own soul that she’ll keep. She’ll stow it in her heart and wrap it around her bones if she has to.

Minutes later—it’s all a blur how it happens, really—Hermione finds herself lying comfortably in
Draco’s bed, underneath his covers, just to his right. She would give anything to turn over and lie
upon his shoulder, trace his chest with her finger, soak in his warmth and repeatedly remind him
that she is here.

But the thought of physically hurting him more than she already has stops her from doing so.

So, for now, her presence is enough.

It’s enough to make Draco finally sleep.

Because with her next to him, just a breath away, he can finally relax in the promise of some form
of peace.

And tomorrow, when they return to the meetings, he’ll undoubtedly feel the exact same way.
 Chapter 23

A Ukrainian Ironbelly.

Hermione is convinced that’s what she sees as she opens her eyes the following morning.

She’s certain for two reasons.

The first reason is that she recalls how highly Charlie Weasley once spoke of the dragon. She’d
gone to the Burrow last summer for a large dinner party, and while she was there, she fell into an
emotionally driven conversation with Charlie, who was home from Romania for a few weeks. He
rambled on and on about the Ukrainian Ironbelly—its elongated snout, its curved scales and sharp
spikes lining its back, its pleated wings, and its glossy white disposition. And there was such
passion rooted in his ember eyes and plastered behind the freckles of his rosy cheeks that
Hermione swore she would never disremember his delight in the topic, the way he raved about
how beautiful those creatures were.

The second reason is that she remembers flying out of Gringotts on one—gripping those same tall
spikes with Harry and Ron as they held on for dear life and soared through the cloudy sky of that
fateful day hunting Horcruxes. She recalls the exhilarating feeling of it all, coupled with utter
terror. All too similar feelings.

And there it is—the Ukrainian Ironbelly—painted on Draco’s back like an absolute masterpiece,
something straight from the hands of van Gogh or da Vinci themselves.

She finally understands how the tattoo is designed. Its tail coils around the front of his shoulder,
and then its long, skinny body dips down onto his back. Wings outstretched across his shoulder
blades and mouth wide open upon Draco’s lower back, the dragon appears ready for a war.
Prepared to strike down anyone or anything that comes near it. Kill whatever even looks in the
direction of what it serves to defend.

It stares Hermione down, and she doesn’t know whether she’s the future victim or the damsel it’s
been sworn to protect.

It’s the break of morning, and Hermione knows this because the sun pokes through the window in
an inviting fashion, and it strikes Draco’s back with diligent luminosity that she swears the dragon
comes alive with each breath he takes.

She cautiously lifts her torso off of the bed, twisting and exerting the weight of her body on her left
forearm. Her sudden movement triggers Draco to rotate his head to look down and over his left
shoulder at her.

Draco’s gaze sends shivers slowly crawling down her back. Her gut tenses. It’s the coupling of the
dark bags under his tired eyes and the hollowness of his cheekbones that disturbs her. But then it’s
also the thing that keeps her going. It’s her reason for staying, for sleeping in his bed. Because
underneath the exhaustion, the fatigue, and the pain, there is a person begging to be set free from
the chains of humanity’s most overwhelming feeling—loneliness.

And how can she possibly ignore the cry in his glimmering eyes? She can’t—she simply won’t.

The way he opens his mouth reminds her of a built-up melody, and the climax of the song roars
when he finally speaks.
“We’re leaving soon. For the ministry.”

Is it possible to hate the tune but adore the singer? Because that's how Hermione feels. Those
words sting, but that voice soothes.

And Hermione can practically feel the heat of his dread. It’s like she’s being smothered by her own
responsibilities and duties while simultaneously tossing water on the rolling fire. And it burns and
scorches and destroys everything tangible to her, no matter how hard she tries to oppress the
flames. No matter how hard she tries to save him.

She lifts herself up further and leans her back against the headboard. Taking a deep breath, she
looks at Draco and asks, “Are you alright?”

Avoiding eye contact, Draco stabs the inside of his cheek with his tongue and shrugs.

In the past, Hermione has avoided offering her physical touch to Draco as a way to calm his nerves.
It was clear then that he didn’t want it, and as much as Hermione wished she could wrap her arms
around him and hold him close as a sign of her solidarity, she knew he would’ve squirmed and
groaned at the gesture.

But now, she can’t help herself. Can’t stop the signal rushing from her brain to her hand.

Her right hand settles upon Draco’s left shoulder, sheathing the tail of the dragon. And her thumb,
with immeasurable grace, slides up and down his smooth skin. Cherishes it. Revitalizes the
emptiness that lingers below. Fires doses of novocaine straight into his system.

The only part of Draco that moves is his chest. It lifts up and down, working in the way it was
designed. Yet, in another sense, it’s as if it’s been rewired. Or maybe found its true rhythm.

Hermione unseals her tightened lips to speak. “I’m going to have a conversation with him today.”

“Aberfield?” Draco asks, lifting his eyebrows in resentment.

“Kingsley.”

Draco cranes his head and lifts his eyes to catch hers.

“What are you going to say to him?”

Hermione inhales through her nostrils. Her thumb continues to dance on his shoulder—he lets it
happen.

“Anything I have to say in order to make this better.”

She can see him moving his tongue in his mouth, as if he’s contemplating saying something. He
turns back to stare at the floorboards, tracing the pattern of the wood with his eyes.

Please say it, she thinks to herself. Please say whatever you want to say.

“Don’t go saying anything too outlandish,” he mutters.

Hermione tilts her head. “Why not? He should know exactly how I feel.”

He smiles with a brief huff. “If you get fired, we’re fucking screwed. So, don’t get fired.”

And then his eyes lift from the floorboards and seize hers again.
Lean in, she urges herself. Lean in and kiss him again for fuck’s sake.

Just as she lifts her back off of the headboard, Draco swivels his head away.

“I’ll let you get dressed.”

He rises from his bed, walks to the dresser shoved against the opposite wall, pulls out a black shirt
and a pair of black slacks, and leaves the room, all in what feels like one torturous moment. One
blink of an eye and he’s gone again.

Hermione sighs, climbing out of his bed and reaching for her duffel bag settled at the foot of
Adrian’s bed. After she removes her wand and changes into an appropriate outfit for work,
Hermione too exits the room.

They’re all awake and gathered in the living room already. And like yesterday, Hermione
witnesses the last moments of Theo and Pansy snorting tiny piles of cocaine off of the tips of their
index fingers. Daphne has her thumb and index finger squeezing the bridge of her perky nose,
Blaise rubs his eyes and clears his chest, Adrian plays with something in the pocket of his pants,
and Draco, all dressed in his day clothes, fidgets with his fingers like an itch he can’t scratch.

When Theo’s eyes glaze over the shoulders of the group and land on Hermione standing in the
doorway, he quickly shoves the baggie into the pocket of his pants and clears his throat.

“Morning,” he greets with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

Hermione steps towards them, coaxed by the smiles on their faces. “I’m alright. You?”

Theo shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ve been more excited about other things, truthfully.”

“Haven’t we all?” Blaise adds with an exhausted grin.

“We should get going,” Daphne says, wrapping her hand around Blaise’s forearm. “It’s quarter ‘til,
and I suspect Hermione has to be at work relatively early.”

“It’s alright,” Hermione responds, a cheeky smile growing on her face. “I hate my boss, anyway.”

Adrian laughs, the melodious intones a breath of fresh air. “Words I never thought I’d hear out of
Ms. Granger’s mouth, ladies and gentlemen!”

Hermione chuckles. “I’m actually planning on having a word with Kingsley when we arrive. But
it’ll be quick. I’ll meet you back at the seminar room once I’m done.”

“You going to try to liberate us from this prison, Golden Girl?” Theo asks.

“I’ll certainly try.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Theo responds with a nod and a wink. He takes Pansy’s hand in his
and kisses the side of her head like it’s the most special part of his day. “Right, come on. Let’s get
this day over with, yeah? One day at a time ‘til freedom comes again.”

“Are you alright to apparate, Draco?” Daphne asks, her eyes filled with worry as Blaise takes her
hand in his.

Draco nods in her direction. “It’ll be fine, Daph.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt any further.”

“I’ll be alright,” he answers reassuringly, followed by a soft smile. Daphne sighs and nods.

“Just keep those hands away from Granger while apparating, yeah?” Adrian teases, pointing to
Draco’s hands. “Or will that be too difficult?”

Theo audibly snorts and digs his head into Pansy’s shoulder as a means of concealing his laughter.

Draco runs his tongue across the top layer of his teeth as Hermione awaits his response.

“Jealous, Pucey?” he replies, cocking an eyebrow.

Adrian’s jaw drops, allowing for a colossal smile to form on his face. “Quite jealous, actually, now
that you bring it up!”

The eyes of the group dance between Draco and Hermione like they are reading their minds. Like
what they’ve done is written on both their foreheads in bright red ink.

And so Hermione bites her lower lip to mask the smile that develops because she’ll do anything to
keep Draco comfortable. To keep him close and open and willing to accept the perplexing thing
between them—the bond, the connection, the string. To dismember it now would be fatal.

Daphne, keen and perceptive as ever, interjects on Draco’s behalf, though truthfully, he doesn’t
appear as uncomfortable with the insinuations as usual.

“Let’s just get going,” she says, tugging Blaise’s arm.

One by one, the Slytherins apparate. Right before he goes, Adrian salutes Draco and Hermione,
and then they watch as the air blankets him in its glory and transports him somewhere else.

The two remain, the silence only interrupted by the light tosses of Crookshanks in his bed near the
window.

Hermione slowly looks up at Draco. His eyes are already fixed on her. She lifts the corner of her
mouth in a heartening smile.

“Everything will be alright—”

He kisses her. Grips her arms with his hands. Cuts off her words and supplies her with his lips as a
preemptive response to her anticipated kindness. She can feel his mouth tense as if he’s in some
sort of pain. She assumes it’s the tension in his shoulder from the way his fingers tentatively wrap
around her bicep, but that doesn’t stop her from receiving every ounce of gratitude he gives.

The removal of his lips is like someone has stolen her breath. But when he subsequently places his
forehead against hers, Hermione understands how lungs are supposed to work yet again.

“Give me your hand,” he whispers.

Hermione opens her eyes and gazes at him. “Are you sure? Last time we did this together, I almost
tore your arm off—”

Draco cuts her off by seizing her hand and swathing it in his. “Let’s not fight this, Granger.”

The instant she squeezes his hand, the air captures their bodies.

When they land on their feet in the ministry and jog to join the rest of the group already a few
paces ahead, Hermione doesn’t let go of his hand. She grips it with purpose; it’s not even an option
to let go, not even fucking feasible.

She isn’t even bothered with who sees it—and people do see it.

It feels like they’re walking through the snow in Hogsmeade again.

Because there’s joy present in the direct friend group—glee in their pocket of camaraderie which
they’ve created and fostered. But outside of this group, Hermione perceives intolerable animosity
from the other ministry workers who march past them, briefcases swinging and eyes rolling with
distaste.

The workers glare at the group like they should be anywhere but here. They taunt, sneer, and one
of them even spits in their direction, and Hermione finds herself side-stepping the trajectory of the
saliva right before it hits her shoe.

Someone actually spit at them.

Hermione can hardly comprehend it.

Draco’s hand leaves hers, and for a moment she feels vacant. It’s not until his hand tugs her waist
towards him and she’s being maneuvered to the inside of the circle that Hermione realizes that
Draco has positioned himself on the outside of the group. The target, if need be.

He glues his hand to her lower back. It’s clandestine enough that nobody draws attention to it, but
Hermione perceives his presence all too well. His fingertips fastened on her back shoot
uncalculated levels of dopamine through her system, and her stomach clenches at the memory, the
imprint, the memorial of his hands on her back last night. This one simple touch, powerful enough
to conjure those memories and feelings and sensations, draws her under his metaphorical wings.

And she realizes that she might just be the thing the dragon has given its life to protect.

He glares at anyone that looks their way. Flares his nostrils and invokes tall, red flames to
counteract his piercing grey eyes. Latches his hand firmly against the dip of her lower back as a
reminder to Hermione of her armor.

Before they depart for the fifth floor, Hermione peels off to meet with Kingsley.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” she explains to the group.

“Give him hell,” Blaise advises with a playful smile.

Give him hell she repeats to herself as she marches through the ministry and stations herself outside
of Kingsley’s russet door moments later.

As nervous as she feels, Hermione recognizes the imperativeness of this conversation, the
desperate need to strike down her nerves and repress the panic building in her chest. If she could
just lift her hand to the door and knock—

She knocks intuitively. Thumps her fist against the door three times and waits for a response.

And when she doesn’t receive an answer, she knocks again with more urgency.

But there’s still no response.

She curses her impatient nature as she opens the door and pokes her head inside the office.
Behind his desk, Kingsley stands with two other ministry workers. They’re deep in discussion, his
guests furiously scribbling notes on the parchment upon their clipboards. Kingsley taps his finger
onto his chin as he answers another question.

She sees this as the perfect opportunity, as Aberfield and Bruiser are nowhere in sight. Keen to
communicate her true intentions about the program without interruption, Hermione clears her
throat. “Kingsley? A word?”

Kingsley swivels his head in her direction and smiles. “Hermione, of course. Come inside.” He
gestures her into the office with a wave of his hand. “I have some important business to continue
dealing with, but once I am finished, we can speak.”

Cautiously entering the room, Hermione situates herself just behind one of the guest chairs as
Kingsley turns his attention back to the workers.

The tall man speaks. “We were thinking red tablecloths, Minister—”

“Red tablecloths? Absolutely not. Black tablecloths would be much more appropriate and easier to
build off of in terms of further decorations.”

Tablecloths?

“And let’s ensure that the orchestra has ample space on the stage for themselves and their many
instruments. This gala with the M.A.C.U.S.A. representatives needs to run perfectly in order to
safely secure our position in the international treaty.”

The stouter female asks a further question. “Have you made a decision in terms of the food
selection?”

Food? Hermione can hardly believe it. You have got to be kidding me…

“As many options as possible,” Kingsley answers. “This event requires glamour and opulence. An
array of food options should be available.”

“Excellent choice, Minister,” the man responds. “And for the formal invitations—”

Hermione clears her throat, garnering the irate glares of the two workers. She keeps her eyes glued
on Kingsley, though—holds his gaze until he’s forced to exhale and reconcile with her silent yet
thunderous plea.

Kingsley turns back to the irritated employees. “Why don’t we continue this discussion in one
hour? See what sort of progress you can make with regards to the current suggestions. Thank you
for your time.”

The staff sidesteps Kingsley’s golden desk and flags around Hermione, their eyes traveling up and
down her body with antipathy. Her eyes stalk them as well as they exit the office, and then her
vision redirects to Kingsley.

“Now,” Kingsley sighs, folding his indigo robes over his torso and sitting on his regal chair, “What
is on your mind, Hermione?”

No distractions. No games. No sugar-coating anything.

Hermione hits the point on the head with a hammer. “I need to talk to you about the F.D.E.R.E.”
“Well, Aberfield and Bruiser should be here for this—”

“No,” Hermione interrupts, taking a step forward and latching her hands around the back of the
guest chair. “We need to talk about this alone.”

Kingsley raises his eyebrows. “I see.”

She begins, the fire in her heart guiding her words out with ease. “There is something very wrong
about that program and about the methods which Aberfield and Bruiser are using. I have reason to
believe that their practices are unethical.”

“Unethical how?” Kingsley asks, and Hermione is fucking shocked at how genuine the question is.
If he could just open his eyes, then he would see all of the issues laid out in front of him like an
open book. A children’s book. A fucking picture book with vibrant colors and colossal words, and
they’d read something like Aberfield and Bruiser are fucking frauds!

“For starters, they are completely ignoring the real issue at hand here. I am well aware that this
program was created to help them become reacquainted with the wizarding world, and that the
situation of their private life was mostly unknown to us. But our main concern cannot be
reintegrating them into society. Kingsley—they need rehab before that can even become a
conversation. Real rehab. They have an obvious drug addiction that nobody is doing anything
about.”

Kingsley nods. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Hermione presses, her tone climbing towards unkempt levels of indignance. “Because I
have brought up this issue before, and you brushed over it like it didn’t matter.”

Kingsley folds his hands, stroking the silver rings on his fingers. “I am an incredibly busy man.
Unfortunately, I cannot oversee every little project that happens at the Ministry.”

“But you can organize gala parties?”

He sighs, and Hermione can sense an inkling of his defeat. It’s enough to keep her pushing.

“I’m just asking you to show a little more attention to this issue. These are real people with
concrete feelings and emotions. Need I remind you what happened to Graham when he was left
untreated? I can’t… I can’t allow that to happen again. This program cannot continue in good faith.
Not when it’s ignoring their actual struggles. I think there needs to be a complete investigation of
Aberfield’s credentials.”

“On what specific grounds?”

“For starters, I believe that he’s poisoning them.”

“Poisoning!”

“Yes! And I have reason to believe that his trackers are some form of dark magic. Or… the potions
are the dark magic. Regardless, both initiatives are completely unprincipled. I already told you that
Pansy was exhibiting strange symptoms with regards to her dormant Dark Mark. The others have
experienced the same phenomenon. I have reason to believe that Graham underwent the same
torture. This isn’t a coincidence, Kingsley. Has the spell Aberfield created for the trackers even
been registered with the ministry archives?”

Kingsley sighs as if the question is more burdensome than any request he’s ever been asked. “I do
not know the answer to that question.”

“How could you not know?” Hermione exasperates, throwing her hands in the air and then
gripping the back of the chair again.

“Hermione, I don’t have much time to be scrutinizing every measure of the program. There is quite
a bit of business to be taken care of before I can devote all of my attention to this minor initiative.
You have to understand that this is important to me. However, I have quite a bit on my plate as the
Minister of Magic. I can’t be dissecting every inch of this secondary program.”

She hates how he says that—secondary program—as if the Slytherins are any less deserving of
attention from the ministry. As if their lives have not been torn apart and stomped on by the heels
of this inflexible government.

She invokes her inner dragon because it brings her confidence and power.

“Can I be candid with you, Kingsley?”

Leaning back in his chair, Kingsley extends his hand forward and consents to her words.

“I mean this in a very sincere way. And I also truly mean no disrespect. But there is a clear lack of
regard and acknowledgement for this program that comes from you. Do you not see the value in
helping these people? Don’t you think they are deserving of compassion and benevolence? Do you
not care what happens to them? I cannot understand why all of the problems which I have relayed
to you are not getting through to you. Please—please—I need you to hear these words. Why is it
that the rest of the wizarding world gets your undivided attention, but these people don’t?”

A question for the ages. One that lives on in all facets of life. One that divides humanity and
exposes frauds and those too selfish to be in positions of authority. One for Kingsley and for all the
fuckers who ignore those most vulnerable.

“Hermione, this is important to me. But there are important people to keep happy. There is an
image that I need to create about our world after the war. I am trying to rebuild this system after the
devastating toll the war took on the infrastructure and people. This does not happen overnight. This
takes time and patience and collaboration with other wizarding governments. I cannot devote all of
my time to one program. What Aberfield has planned—”

“—Aberfield is clearly unhinged and does not know how to properly care for them—”

“—I am putting my trust in him for the time being—”

“Why? For fuck’s sake, why? Kingsley, please, there are more important things than public
appearance—than bureaucratic meetings and luxurious galas! I am begging you to please listen to
me. There needs to be some sort of investigation against Aberfield and Bruiser. I’ve spent the
entire holiday with my peers. The difference in their personalities when they’re not tied down to
the Draught of Peace and meetings is astounding. Please stop perpetrating a program that makes
them unhappy. That drives them deeper into their addiction. Please.”

Kingsley takes a deep, drained breath. “I hear you, Hermione. I will speak to Aberfield and Bruiser
in the near future about changing the trajectory of the program. In the meantime, please continue to
do your job. It sounds as though you’ve formed quite an attachment to the group, and I am
confident that your undeniable kindness towards them has helped make this a smooth experience.
And I do appreciate that about you.”

An empty compliment, at best. Nothing of significant value. Not even close to what she wants to
hear. No promises made, no direct action being taken. Nothing. Just meaningless words to get her
to be quiet.

Hermione’s shoulders fall—she realizes that they’ve been tense since the beginning of the
conversation.

Kingsley takes her silence as permission to continue. “I am just being equally as candid with you,
Hermione. I cannot be everywhere at once. I cannot please everyone. I cannot make everything
perfect.”

In the quiet that follows, and as Hermione rolls her eyes, Kingsley pulls a drawer of his desk open
and removes a piece of parchment paper from a hidden stack. He slides the paper towards
Hermione, grabs a quill from the top of his desk, and extends the pen to her.

“Why don’t you write down your specific requests, and I will find a time to get to them.”

Unsatisfied but without another option, Hermione sidesteps around the chair, receives the quill, and
bites her lower lip in contemplation. There are several things she wishes to write. She could
compile a list as long as the number of edicts that fucking Umbridge once enacted at Hogwarts,
and they’d probably be just as petty and demanding as hers. But at least they’d be for a good cause.

Instead, Hermione looks at Kingsley and says, “I just want the program shut down.”

“Hermione,” Kingsley sighs, leaning forward and setting his forearms against his desk. “That
would affect your internship with the ministry. If you cannot complete your project under the
mentorship of Aberfield, your selected advisor, then you will be unqualified to serve in a ministry
position further.”

“You can’t threaten my future at the ministry with this,” Hermione entreats, shaking her head and
pleading with her crystalline eyes.

“The protocol is out of my hands—”

“You’re the Minister of fucking Magic! How can you sit there and—”

“Hermione, work with me here,” Kingsley interrupts, his voice stern and direct and unwilling to
budge.

She sighs. Centers herself. And begins to write her requests.

A diagnostic of the Location Beam.

A list of ingredients in Aberfield’s office and in the Draught of Peace.

An investigation into Aberfield’s work history.

An investigation into Healer Bruiser’s work history.

And finally,

Real rehab for the Slytherins.

After dotting the final period, Hermione deposits the quill into its small basin and slides the paper
back to Kingsley’s side of the desk.

“These are indispensable requests. They need to be done,” she mutters.

Kingsley quickly glazes over them and nods. “I will get these done at my next convenience.”

My next convenience, she repeats to herself as she turns and walks away. But right before she exits
—right before her hand reaches the silver knob—Hermione turns back to Kingsley.

“Your ‘convenience’ might be too late for them. You need to do something now. Or I will. I won’t
hesitate to do whatever I can to help them. And it should be the same for you.”

She’s out the door a moment later.

And just when she thinks she’s heard it all—just when she thought that the ministry could not push
her nerves more—the topic of today’s discussion throws Hermione completely out of her mind.

They’re seated in the same lackadaisical circle when Aberfield poses the topic for the day:

“Let’s talk about… blood status.”

The moment those words tumble past Aberfield’s conniving smile, Hermione’s face tenses. She
first looks at her notes for the day, and when she doesn’t see anything on the curriculum about
blood status, she panics. Feels the muscles in her body tighten and hold her breath captive in her
chest.

She subsequently surveys the expressions of the group, wondering what their reactions to the
awkward and problematic topic of discussion are. Written on their faces like a headline is the look
of pure shock and horror. Blaise’s mouth hangs open, Adrian’s eyes are wide with astonishment,
Pansy’s eyebrows are inclined furiously, Daphne’s bright cheeks attest to her uncomfortableness,
Theo’s fists tighten and his jaw clenches, and Draco lips are flattened, his nostrils flared. Steam
practically discharges from his ears as the strain in his forehead builds with every passing second.

Aberfield continues. “A rather sensitive topic, undoubtedly. But it must be discussed.”

Adrian slopes forward, leaning his elbows upon his bouncing knees. “Exactly what do you plan on
teaching us that we don’t alright know?”

“I thought we could have an honest discussion about the history of blood supremacy. You all come
from rather distinguished, pureblood families, yes?”

Nobody answers.

“And you’re all familiar with the very vocabulary that tore the wizarding world apart, I assume?”

Theo clenches his jaw even tighter, the projection of the joint reaching a dangerous level, like any
more pressure would snap his mouth. “Aberfield—”

“There’s a fascinating practice in the muggle world called repentance. It’s linked with their
religious ideologies. Apparently, forgiveness is as simple as admitting to all the wrongs things
you’ve done and subsequently receiving what is called a penance—an act or deed to complete in
order to solidify that forgiveness with a higher power. I think it would be an interesting exercise for
us to participate in, yes? Repent and ask for forgiveness?”

And then Aberfield’s delighted eyes fall upon Hermione.

“Ms. Granger, you were well acquainted with these students at Hogwarts, yes? That is what you
told me, after all.”
Hermione can feel her heart stop—literally cease its beating. Her voice catches in her throat
because without oxygen she cannot speak, cannot breathe, cannot process in her mind what is
unfolding. The only part of her that moves is her fingers, tepid and frantic in the way they link
through one another.

“At any given time, when you attended school with these individuals, did one of them ever call you
a mudblood?”

The word falls out of his mouth far too easily.

Hermione can’t help it. Her lips unfasten and her jaw slackens.

She finds that bit of oxygen and answers, “That’s an incredibly inappropriate question.”

Aberfield continues, appearing to relish in the palpable uneasiness that he’s fostered in the room.
He shifts his attention to the others. “Taken Ms. Granger’s inability to answer the question, I do
believe you all owe her an apology.”

Hermione shakes her head. “No, that’s really not necessary—”

“For calling her a mudblood.”

The word strikes the air like thunder.

“A filthy mudblood.”

Another crash.

“A disgusting mudblood.”

Crash.

“Whatever other adjective it is you tacked onto the word—”

“Aberfield, please—”

“Go on,” Aberfield exclaims, gesturing towards Hermione. “Ask for forgiveness! All of you! Heal!
Tell the mudblood that you’re sorry!”

At the mention of the taboo yet again, Blaise rises to his feet and points his finger at Aberfield.
“You have a lot of nerve directing that word at Hermione—”

“It is for educational purposes, Mr. Zabini.”

Blaise scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Educational purposes? Really?”

“These meetings are fucking shams,” Adrian adds. “And this lesson is utter bullshit. What are you
teaching us here, huh? What is it you’re trying to get at?”

“Will you or will you not take responsibility for your past actions? Will you or will you not adhere
to the original goal of this program, which is to reconcile your actions as former Death Eaters and
work towards building a more reputable standing in society—”

Hermione joins Blaise on his feet and speaks directly to Aberfield. “This is incredibly
unwarranted.”
Yet he continues, unphased by the festering contention. “Where are your backbones, ladies and
gentlemen? Has the word really lost all meaning to you? Did it ever mean anything? Go on—say
it! Nobody here will stop you! Apologize to the mudblood! Let the world roll off your tongue once
again!”

“Why are you saying this to us?” Daphne entreats, her hands shaking as they grip the bottom of her
seat.

Aberfield directs his attention to Draco, whose face is red with anger. “Go on, Mr. Malfoy. You
seem quite keen to say it. I can tell by your expression. Look at Ms. Granger and say these words:
‘I’m sorry for calling you a mudblood.’ It will feel so good to let that word come out of your mouth
again, wouldn’t you agree—”

In a hot flash, quicker than lightning itself, Draco rips himself from his chair and charges across
the circle towards Aberfield, his fist cocked behind his head and his eyes red with anger.

Blaise leaps in front of Draco and shoves his shoulders back. And Adrian, quick to react, jumps
from his own chair and dives towards Draco, tugging him back by his shoulders as well.

Aberfield stands and raises his arms in a sardonic surrender as Draco struggles to break himself
free of his friends’ tight grips.

All the while, Hermione recoils in shock and discovers Theo springing in front of her like her
safeguard. And her mind takes her back to that meeting where they almost tore one another apart,
but now, it’s different. It’s a shared enemy that’s threatened the unity, the foundation, the string
that keeps them together. And with each day that passes, that string keeps them further and further
from spiraling and crashing. It’s natural that any sort of threat to that peace would stir such high
emotions.

“One day in!” Draco shouts. “One day into these fucking meetings again and you’re already
making fatal mistakes! Keep fucking saying it! Go on! See where that will get you!”

“Mr. Malfoy—”

“Fuck you, Aberfield!” Draco spits. “One more stupid fucking word from that mouth of yours and I
swear you’ll regret it!”

He doesn’t heed Draco’s caveat. “Clearly, you weren’t suited to be Death Eaters. If the word is too
difficult to say,” Aberfield says with a huff.

Hermione notices the tone in his voice.

He brags.

As if saying the word is something to be proud of. As if he’s proving some sort of universal and
extraordinary point about them.

“And you have no difficulty saying it, so what does that say about you, huh?” Theo shouts, still
positioning himself in front of Hermione.

“We all regret several things,” Pansy interjects, her hand fastened to Daphne’s as they stand in
solidarity. “But we’re at the point in our lives where we don’t need to be reminded of our mistakes.
We’re trying here. We’re attending your fucking meetings. We’re growing on our own terms. We
don’t need you shoving this down on our throats!”
For Hermione, it’s enough. She can’t stand it anymore.

She steps forward. “This meeting is over. This was not the lesson we had planned. You’ve sprung
this upon me and upon them, and that is highly inappropriate. I told Kingsley we would leave the
moment something goes wrong. This is that moment.”

“This is a lesson in the real world,,” Aberfield responds. “Another step to recovery and
rehabilitation—”

“You have quite the nerve to use those specific words,” Hermione seethes. “‘Recovery’ and
‘rehabilitation’. There’s none of that happening here! This is a circus, not a rehabilitation program.
And I can’t allow it to go any further.”

As Draco finds his bearings and the others begin to relax, Hermione makes a bold decision. She
looks into Draco’s tired eyes and does it for him. For all of them. For herself.

“We’re not coming back to this program until this is all sorted with Kingsley.”

Theo gazes at Hermione over his shoulders, takes in the serious look in her eyes, grabs Pansy’s
hand, and leads the exodus out of the room. The Slytherins all follow suit, crossing the threshold of
the circle and parading towards the door, the promised land, their nirvana and heaven and whatever
other paradise they know outside these walls.

Draco passes by Hermione, his ears beet red as he follows the others.

With one more look at Aberfield, Hermione shadows the Slytherins and promenades to the door,
leaving a trail of success with each footprint on the monotone carpet.

“Where’s your will to repent?” Aberfield shouts as they pile into the hallway. “Where’s your
regret? Where is your willingness to own up to your mistakes? I know you’ve said the word! Come
to terms with it before it eats you up inside! Do it!”

Hermione turns around just before exiting simply because she can’t resist the feeling of arguing
with him. “You can’t force reconciliation,” she exasperates. “Especially when it’s completely
unnecessary and forced.”

Aberfield shakes his head and chuckles in a low pitch. “I worried about you, Ms. Granger. I knew
your kind heart would attach itself to them—grow too close to them. You’ve lost sight of the true
meaning of this program. They must own up to their mistakes. Learn from them. Reflect and
repent. You are getting in the way of that exercise and inhibiting their growth. Don’t ruin your
career here at the ministry for them. Don’t fall into their trap of illicit behavior. Don’t give in.”

“You are utterly out of line. Kingsley will hear about this behavior. And you will be removed from
your post here. I will make sure of it.”

Aberfield chortles and shakes his head. “You promised me at the conception of this program that
no matter how difficult or impossible this became you would remain pure of heart. And yet, you
side with the disgraced Death Eaters.”

“Side with them?” Hermione crossly repeats. “This program was always about siding with them.
And if you are blind to that fact, then you are more incompetent than I thought.”

“It would do you well,” Aberfield starts, stepping forward, “To treat me with more respect.”

She feels a hand on her back. A familiar hand. His hand.

“Come any closer and you’ll regret it,” Draco warns, and she can feel the sincerity of his threat as it
trickles down her spine in an ominous breeze.

Aberfield’s eyes dart between the two, and he laughs. “It’s like I said—I feared you would become
emotionally attached to them.”

“That’s the point. I am emotionally attached because I have a heart. I have compassion.
Forgiveness lives inside of me as if it’s its own organ. They received my forgiveness long ago.”

She cocks her eyebrow, remembering what she saw in the Pensieve just yesterday. And she asks a
daring question that’s laced with the key to his past: “Are you still searching for it? For
forgiveness?”

Aberfield’s face tenses. She’s unlocked his secrets and let them ooze out of his secret box, and now
they float in the atmosphere like little demons. And they torment Aberfield—it’s clear in his
distressed mien. The dip of his eyebrows, the small aperture made possible with the release of his
lips, and the horizontal lines forming on his forehead—all markers that point to his darkest
memories. Memories that Hermione has seen herself.

“Expect a formal letter from Kingsley about your termination very soon. I won’t have this any
longer. Until then, we won’t come back.”

“You can take those lessons of yours—” Theo shouts from behind— “And shove them right up
your sorry fucking arse!” And he throws his middle fingers in the air for good measure.

Adrian hoots and mimics Theo's action.

The group turns and begins to walk away, and Hermione feels Draco’s hand guide her body in the
other direction. The last thing she sees is the look on Aberfield’s face, still swollen and red with
fury.

She can hear Draco inhale and exhale out of his nose with the same level of anger. His hand tenses
on her back—flexes and then rests comfortably against her yet again. Hermione exhales, releasing
every ounce of tension from that meeting and instead letting every wonderful iota of the free
atmosphere asphyxiate her.

And they’re almost at the end of the hallway when Hermione hears Aberfield storm out of the
seminar room. She rotates her head to look over her shoulder closest to Draco and watches as he
storms into his office a few doors down. The door slams.

“Ignore him,” Draco says, gazing down at Hermione. She lifts her eyes to meet his. “Ignore it all.”

And she realizes two things in that moment.

The first is that if Kingsley isn’t going to step up any time soon, she’ll take matters into her own
hands just like she promised. Break into Aberfield’s office and turn it over a thousand times in
order to uncover his plot. She knows he has one.

The second is that she really is the damsel that the dragon has sworn to protect. And as strong as
she is, it doesn’t hurt to have someone willing to undergo extreme measures to protect her. She’ll
relish in it today, tonight, and for however long she can.

Did Ukraine ever exist under a monarchy? Were their princesses, dressed in their lavish ball gowns
and anointed with diamond crowns, that treaded around their luxurious palaces? Did dragons fly
over the castle as a caveat to any enemy that dared cross the drawn lines?
History has a funny way of repeating itself. Hermione wonders if the fables hold as much truth as
real life.

With Draco’s hand glued to her back, she suspects that they just might.
 Chapter 24
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

He can sense them. His demons.

Draco feels little devils disperse through his insides, tugging at his nerves and tramping over his
muscles with severe fervor.

They’re trying to drag him down. He knows this. It’s what they were created to do, and why should
this moment yield any different function? Why should the ire that boils in his blood be exempt
from the demons that heat it in the first place?

In a flash, his arm spasms because—damnit to all hell—Draco feels like the rage inside of him will
explode like a fiery bomb at any second, and the safest outlet for that rage is in a tight shudder of
his limbs.

What he wouldn’t give to strangle Aberfield in this very moment.

Draco’s hot fingers tingle as he visualizes it—wrapping his hands around that fucker’s neck and
squeezing until his beady eyes bulge out of his sorry sockets. Draco would gaze at him with
pleasure as he choked the life out of Aberfield. That fucker would lull over himself, eyes rolling
back and torso dropping limp in front of him, and then his legs would wane and croak under the
gravity of his blackout. He’d spill onto the floor, a hollow corpse and nothing more. And the world
would celebrate the demise of that evil, and then maybe they could all finally move on.

Instead of acting on that anger, though, Draco follows the others as they apparate back to their
apartment. They land in the exact spot they departed from earlier that day—a few paces between
the kitchenette and front door.

Draco’s teeth chatter as he tries to curb his budding anger.

He looks down at his hand. It’s still enveloping hers.

Realizing that he has to let go in order to compose his fury somewhere else, Draco’s heart stiffens.
To release her hand will undoubtedly feel like he’s ripping off a piece of his own body. He’s
attached—he can’t deny it. And it’s strange, because he never expected Granger to be the one to
draw that need out of him. In truth, he always knew she was benevolent—even at Hogwarts, he
noticed it plain as day. Perceived her nature stronger than anyone else could.

His friends are like stars, shining and glowing when he needs something bright, but Granger is the
sun to him. She’s all of them and more. She burns, dedicates every cent of her energy, and shines
her light on him and everything around him without question. And even on days where there are
clouds and rain, he knows that the sun still rises without fault; she’s there even in his darkest
moments. And she’s dying to seep through those clouds, and sometimes he can feel her rays just
barely slip through the holes between them. Sometimes the beams of her light reach him.
Sometimes they don’t. But she’s still there, rising for him every day.

So, letting go of his sun does bring him pain, but there’s something inside of him that begs him to
take a moment alone. It’s what he needs, after all.

And he thinks she knows this. Because the look Granger gives him as he surrenders the warmth of
her touch is one that is fully based in understanding and patience that, for a moment, Draco locks
eyes with her and feels half of his demons die. A crash of reassurance strikes his chest as he takes
in the mood of her eyes, the soft and reassuring glimmer that hits him right where he needs it. His
hand once holding hers contracts, his fingers spread, and then he retreats to the restroom across the
apartment without explanation, though he hopes that it’s obvious enough for everyone to assume
for themselves. It's hard to admit what he's feeling—they're beyond patient with him.

Draco shuts the door behind him, grips the sides of the sink with his shaking hands, and inhales
deeply.

His mind reminds him of the cocaine situated behind the mirror in front of him. Like magnets
underneath his hands, a force draws him towards the mirror. There is no denying the euphoric
feeling of the drug, especially when things become hazy in his mind. And so he flings the mirror
open, and his eyes fall on an all too familiar dime bag that sits on the center shelf. It speaks to him,
seductively, desirably.

His hand juts out to grab the bag, and he holds it in front of his eyes. He really fucking looks at it,
admiring the dominance of the simple white powder while simultaneously cursing everything that
it has pitilessly brought upon him.

Just as he is about to undo the seal of the bag and participate in his favored vice to drown out the
horrible memories of the day, his hands stop themselves. The magnets falter. The energy that
draws him to the cocaine weakens and stammers beneath another voice in his head. And the voice
is smooth as vanilla, saturated with a sentiment so sweet that he can taste it in his mouth.

You don’t need it.

Draco’s fingernails dig into his forehead, and then he drags his palms down his face in frustration.

The next voice is heartless and sharper, borne out of his self-destructive disposition.

Yes, I do. I need this.

No. You don’t.

Oh, come now, Draco. Let’s not play this game. You need me.

His brain throbs because the voices won’t stop arguing. They’re pugnacious and ominous,
disrupting the last bit of sanity that is present in his mind. And the longer he holds this bag of
cocaine—the longer he anticipates the high that will come and the crash that will follow—the
more Draco hates every single thing that he has become. The more he wishes that he could just
discover solace in something else without drowning it in his trauma.

Her. He’s going to drown her in his pain and issues if he becomes too dependent.

That’s what keeps him from falling into her. If that fear weren’t there, he’d do it in a second.

Regardless, he can already sense his body gravitating towards her kind spirit.

She was kind when the rest of the world ignored them.

Draco hadn’t felt that kind of tenderness in years. And as much as he tries to resist her help, he just
can’t stop himself from wanting to lean into her. He wishes he wouldn’t, because that’s not what
she deserves. She shouldn’t have to take care of him. He should be able to do that for himself.
But it’s… hard. It’s so strenuous and exhausting. He’s tired.

But the least he can do in this moment is try again.

So in a moment of clarity and determination, Draco rips open the seal and dumps the contents of
the bag down the open drain.

Through the metal aperture the cocaine descends, traces of it lingering around the edge of the
circular drain. Persistent as ever, Draco pulls on the cold-water knob. The water crashes upon the
remaining cocaine, and the substance simmers and disintegrates until nothing remains.

Draco takes a large breath, the pressure distending his stomach forward. He coughs, his throat
weeping for the drip that he won’t be feeling.

And then he realizes what he’s done and curses under his breath.

Because now there is nothing holding him back from sinking into her warm arms and then
subsequently tumbling down the rabbit hole of dependency.

Fuck.

He shouldn’t have done that.

His friends can't know that he did that.

And the last things she needs are more responsibilities, more burdens, and any reason to leave.

Because, according to Draco, that’s what he is to himself and others—a burden. Someone who
can’t fathom living with who he is unless it involves surrounding himself with people that make
life worth living at all.

She does.

Draco can’t believe that he is truly thinking these things about her, but he really is tired. And
Granger is there—no, she’s here—and she’s got her arms wide open, and her heart is on her sleeve,
and it beats and labors just to take care of them—of him. And that’s all he needs at this fucking
point. He’ll grab hold and never let go, not unless he is violently pried from her hands.

Gods, why is this all so complicated?

Draco runs his fingers through his hair, attempting to process the repercussions of what he’s just
done. He flushed the drugs down the drain and didn’t even give it a second thought. There’s his act
of strength, his moment of vulnerability. He needed that.

Just try for the day.

He can see this working. So long as he balances the ever-coursing emotions in his head and the
remaining malicious demons swirling throughout his blood stream, Draco can see himself making
it through the day without indulging.

Down the drain goes his drugs, and with them his fear of accepting her gestures and warmth.

Because how could he say no to someone as tender yet fiery as her? How can he deny the sun its
intrinsic function, the thing that it rises every day to do without fault?

Why would he want the deceptive sensations from the drugs when he can find actual comfort in a
healthier way with Granger?

Draco doubts that the detox will last very long—it never does—but he resolves to try. With
everything in him, Draco accepts the challenge, cognizant that his safeguard is only a breath away.
He just needs to reach forward and stop fighting it.

She noticed absolute fatigue in him all day.

When Draco exited the bathroom, he swiped his nose and gritted his teeth, and so Hermione
assumed that he occupied himself with his normal habit.

What she wouldn’t give to turn back time and yank his hand back when he pulled away. Remind
him that there are other options, brighter paths, and better alternatives to his coping mechanisms.
That there are actual people standing right in front of him who would sacrifice everything for his
happiness.

He grew wearier, prevalent in every little thing he did throughout the day. As they lounged on the
couches and chatted about irrelevant and humorous topics, Hermione noticed Draco’s energy tank.
Adrian would crack joke after joke, Blaise would emit his hearty laugh, Daphne would nudge
Draco’s arm with concern, and Pansy and Theo would caress one another as if in their own little
bubble of love. But Draco simply sat there, his eyes weak and his chest moving a mere mile an
hour. Hermione watched as he forced smiles, but then his fingers would twitch, his eyes would
flutter, and his mouth would form a wide and tall ‘o’ shape as he yawned every other minute. It
seemed like exhaustion held him captive and drained him of everything.

By the evening, Draco looks like a ghost of who he was in the morning. And Hermione concludes
that he wasn’t snorting cocaine in the bathroom—he couldn’t have been.

It’s peculiar how a sudden withdrawal of chemically induced dopamine can really affect a person.
Can draw them into such a passive and drained mood. Twist and deplete them of their emotions
and personality.

When after a relaxing day they decide to turn in for the night, Hermione finds herself instinctually
retreating to his bedroom. Adrian stays behind on the couch, legs propped up to run across the
length of it with Crookshanks reclined on his chest in a comfortable position. With his right
forearm placed behind his head and his left hand stroking the kneazle’s fur, Adrian catches
Hermione admiring the sweet scene.

“You just go on and continue to hog my bed,” Adrian sarcastically insists, eyeing her up and down
and flicking her hand in the direction of his room. “If you really are using it, that is.”

Hermione smirks and rolls her eyes. “Goodnight, Adrian.”

Before she can leave, Adrian speaks again. “Hey, Granger.”

She turns around at Adrian’s call, watching as he swings his legs over the side of the couch and sits
up. His hand rotates Crookshanks into his arms, and he holds the kneazle like a baby. His jade eyes
sparkle as he smiles softly at her.

“Everything that happened today…”

Adrian clears his throat and finds comfort in stroking Crookshanks’ belly.

“I just want to apologize.”

Hermione finds herself taken aback at his solemnity. When earnestness passes between Adrian’s
usually jovial lips, she knows that the sentiments are both grave and sincere.

“I’m sorry too,” she responds, taking a step forward.

Adrian shakes his head and rises to his feet, and with Crookshanks still nestled in his broad arms,
he crosses the room to meet Hermione. Balancing the kneazle in his left arm, Adrian slings his
right arm over Hermione’s shoulder and tugs her in for a hug. He props his chin atop her head and
rubs her shoulder with his hand.

“Today wasn’t your fault,” he mumbles. “In reality, it was ours.”

“Still doesn’t make what Aberfield was trying to do acceptable."

Adrian pulls away and looks down into her eyes. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You
belong here. You’re welcome here. We do need you, yes. But we’re also just happier when you’re
here. What’s in the past can’t be changed. But you should know that what you’re doing for us
makes the future worth seeing.” He falters for a moment, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m sorry
that Graham never got to feel your compassion. Maybe he’d… still be…”

Adrian can’t finish his sentence. He breaks the blockage in his throat with a gasp of air, wiggles his
nose, and shakes his head.

“Fuck’s sake,” he laughs to himself. “Didn’t mean to get all sentimental right before your little
soirée with Malfoy.”

He’s back to his comedic tone of voice.

“Adrian—”

“You go to bed,” he says, nudging his head in the direction of the door to his room. “Go on.”

She doesn’t move. Her feet are stuck to the floor as she watches Adrian turn around and fall back
onto the couch, plopping Crookshanks back on his chest and swiping his thumb across the sides of
his pudgy, orange face. As much as Hermione wants to engage with him further—dig out the
sadness and toss it aside and make everything better for him—she’s learned to respect boundaries.

She instead just says, “Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams,” he sings back with a cheeky smile, returning his undivided attention to
Crookshanks as Hermione withdraws into his room for the night.

Once there, Hermione’s eyes dart between Adrian and Draco’s beds.

She resolves to sit on the edge of Adrian’s bed and wait until Draco comes back, when maybe—
just maybe—he’ll express how he feels. He’ll say what he wants from her.

Because Hermione already knows what it is she desires. She knows perfectly well which bed she’d
prefer to sleep in tonight. But that’s only if it’s what he wants as well. She won’t force it. She
refuses to contribute to a devastating and torturous episode of silence between them.

Her feet tap against the floor and her fingers dig into the edge of the mattress as she awaits Draco’s
return from the bathroom. She counts the seconds in her head as they go by, waiting for the
opening of the door to draw her out of her daze. Eyes glued to the spot in his bed that she slept in
last night, Hermione affirms in her heart and mind that she’d do anything to spend the night there
again. Be near him. Hold him, even. Remind him over and over that she’s not going anywhere, that
she’d do anything for him and the others, that he has value and is important and strong and
beautiful—

The door swings open, finally. Hermione’s eager head twists to behold Draco as he closes the door
to their room. When he turns around, he catches her stare with his silver eyes, holds it for one
perfect moment, and then begins to walk towards his bed.

He mirrors her position, sitting on the edge of the bed and clasping his hands in his lap.

It takes a moment, but Hermione speaks first.

“Are you alright?” she asks, and fuck’s sake she immediately cringes at the question. She knows
the answer already: of course not.

His weary eyes and arched back illustrate it plainly—Draco Malfoy is detoxing, and it’s devouring
him.

He purses his lips, staring at the empty pillow to Hermione’s side to avoid eye contact with her. He
clears his throat, fighting the urge to look into her eyes, those kind eyes, those eyes that could melt
him in an instant.

Hermione doesn’t wish to push him too hard, but she knows he needs a nudge, a minor impetus.
Something to draw out the emotions that have been forced down after years of suppression.

“Malfoy—”

She suddenly notices the manner by which his legs bounce up and down and the equally chaotic
way his fingers twitch. He can’t stop moving, can’t control the ticks, can’t fight the agony of the
detox that consumes his being.

For Hermione, it’s scary. So she can’t even fathom how he must be feeling.

“Do you need anything?” she asks, leaning forward slightly.

Draco’s lips part slightly, and she truly believes that he’s going to speak.

Come on, she thinks to herself, you can do this.

His lips quiver, opening and closing a few times before he finally communicates with her. “It’s…
uh… it’s just that it’s been several hours. Since I’ve… had anything.”

Her heart springs at the admittance of his detox. It’s a step in the right direction, an iota of progress
for him.

“What can I do?” she presses.

Draco inhales a slow, solemn breath through his nostrils. “Nothing. It’s… normal.”

She hates that he normalizes the torture he undergoes. He shouldn’t have to go through this, it
shouldn’t be him—why is it him?

One final push. “Can’t I do anything?” she asks, secretly praying to the gods that he’ll allow her to
be near him.

Attempting to control his twitching fingers, Draco rubs the bridge of his nose and the corners of his
eyes with his thumb and index finger. Hermione’s hope falters for a moment, and she fears that
she’ll be spending the night in this empty bed, without him.

She dreads that future until Draco says, “Could you… come…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Just drops his head into the palm of his hand and sighs
despondently.

It’s enough for Hermione. She can read Draco’s plea like a headline, discern exactly what it is he
desires from those three little words. He doesn’t have to finish his sentence for her to do what she
wants—what she is sure he wants too.

She rises to her feet, makes the two-foot journey from her bed to his, and sits to his right.

Her exposed thigh skims against his, the spark of the touch causing Hermione’s breath to snag and
her throat to tighten. They remain quiet for a moment, soaking in their physical closeness.

Hermione’s eyes wander to his shoulder where she knows there is a scar hidden beneath his t-shirt.

“How is your scar?” she asks quietly, her eyes lifting to meet his as he turns his head to answer.

“Better,” he responds with small nods.

Their pod of silence recommences, but Hermione—true to her nature—breaks the quiet with her
rambling.

“I’m sorry about what happened today,” she whispers, lowering her head in shame.

Draco cocks an eyebrow in confusion at her apology. “What on earth are you apologizing for?” His
tone is sincere.

“For… all of it.” She scratches her forehead. “I’m sorry I didn’t pull you all out of there sooner.
I’m sorry I lacked the strength to do that months ago.”

Draco clears his throat. “Not your fault.” He pauses, then continues. “What Aberfield said—”

He stops himself, then after contemplating for a moment, he finishes his thought. “It shouldn’t
have had to have been said in the first place.”

Her breathing fails at his words. Raising her eyes to meet his—already glued to her by the time she
looks at him—she shakes her head. “Malfoy, it’s in the past—”

“You…” he starts, the tremor in his lips hindering his ability to speak, “You are… the only one
who… who cares.”

Her heart—it shatters.

“Why? Why, after everything that we’ve been through, and after everything I've said, do you want
to help us?”

In truth, she both knows and doesn’t know. In the back of her mind, she can’t neglect the way they
treated her in Hogwarts. Their words and actions—Draco’s, in particular—are engrained in her
memory like warning signs, caveats and impositions she can’t seem to shake.

And yet, her heart gravitates towards them, and maybe it was inevitable that they find one another
again to undergo this reconciliation. She’d experienced unconditional friendship with Harry and
Ron, but there is something about surrounding herself with the Slytherins that fulfills a part of
Hermione she’s always wanted to explore. They bring out everything good in her while
simultaneously challenging her in situations not even the war had drawn out. Hermione feels more
alive than ever before when she is with them.

“I don’t totally know,” she responds with utter honesty.

“I do.”

Surprised, Hermione looks into his eyes, her heart beginning to palpitate at an unhealthy pace.

“I think there’s something innate about you that radiates… compassion.”

Fuck, she thinks to herself, certain of her inevitable crumble into his arms.

“You—you’re just predisposed to kindness. And no matter what anyone says about you—no
matter how poorly people treat you—there is still empathy in everything you do. You pass on your
energy to everything that you touch. You never stop burning.” Draco catches his breath. “You
really are the sun. Always… giving. Never smothered by your own heat. Just … providing.”

“Until the moon rises with its own light,” Hermione whispers, returning the same sentiment he
presents to her, one dipped in such serenity and admiration that she feels compelled to repay him
for his words.

“Everyone sleeps when the moon comes out,” he responds with a tilt of his head.

She shakes her head. “No. Not everyone.” Noticing that his hands are still trembling, Hermione
takes a leap of faith and swathes them in hers, squeezing lightly to stop the movement. “Try to
relax,” she says, swiping her thumb over the back of his hand.

Draco inhales deeply, attempting to focus his breath in the moment. He looks down at their hands.
“It’s difficult.”

Hermione bites her lower lip, racking her brain for ways to help him. “Okay. Why don’t you
distract yourself with something. You can…” Her hands track up his wrists to reach the threshold
of his tattoos. “You can tell me about these. One by one. How they feel, what they mean. Just talk
and distract yourself.”

Draco hesitates.

“Trust me, talking helps,” she says, emitting a quick laugh.

A smile forms on his face. It’s small, practically microscopic. But it’s there.

And he opens up.

“I occasionally go with Adrian to Barnet when he meets with our dealer. There’s a small shop near
their meeting spot where I’ve been going since after my trial and moving in with everyone. It’s full
of muggles. No magic whatsoever. And it’s… nice, actually. They don’t know who I am, or what
I’ve done. They just… let me in. Talk to me. Paint art on something I consider tainted ever since
receiving the mark.” His voice breaks for a moment, as if his next words are too hard to even think
about. “The first time I went, the artist asked about my mark. Told me it looked badass. I didn’t
have the heart to tell him what it really meant—what it represented.”

Hermione notices that he’s faltering, approaching a point that might be too difficult to continue to
discuss. She hastens to redirect the subject.

“What does it feel like? Getting a tattoo?”

Draco ponders for a moment, then snickers. “It actually feels similar to that bloody cat of yours
scratching me over and over again.”

In response to his amusing remark, Hermione falls into a fit of giggles. And when she looks up, she
has to do a double take because he’s smiling, he’s smiling. Teeth bared and lips curved up high.

“It’s an appealing sensation, actually. Some moments it feels like this steady stream of vibrations
against my skin. Other moments it really does feel like something repeatedly clawing at you. I
can’t explain it entirely, but there’s something very right about that feeling. Something calming yet
enthralling at the same time. It’s addicting, for lack of a better word.”

She can’t stop listening to him, and she’s additionally enraptured by the shift in their dynamic.
When everything has been about her speaking and expressing her emotions, it’s refreshing to watch
Draco take his own steps forward in progressing their conversation. She savors it.

“But most importantly, getting these tattoos feels nothing like the day I received this one.” He
points to the Dark Mark and bites his lower lip. “This… burned. Scorched my skin with ease. Hurt
and stung and fucking bruised me for weeks. At least with these tattoos the pain isn’t that bad. It’s
endurable and enjoyable. And it’s almost like I’m getting another chance at defining who I am. I’m
reinventing myself with these new symbols. Hiding this ugly mark under things that actually matter
to me.”

His voice… his explanations… they strike Hermione’s heart.

“You seem very attached to them,” she says.

Draco nods. “I am.”

“Can I see them all?”

He considers her question and subsequently laughs to himself.

Hermione raises one of her eyebrows, genuinely confused by the conception of his laughter.
“What?” she asks, briefly laughing as well.

“Are you trying to coerce me into taking my shirt off?”

She can’t help herself; the laugh pours out of her in a cascade of total relief. His smile returns, this
time followed by his own laugh, and Hermione swears she’s never heard something so sweet. It’s
undoubtedly the happiest she has ever seen him.

The closest she’d witnessed him reach this level of joy was while he was dancing in Amortentia
with his friends, but even then, he’d been under the influence of his drugs. This laugh comes from a
place of genuine pleasure, not tainted with chemicals or ecstasy or manipulated compounds. It
comes straight from his soul.

“No,” she insists through her laugh. “I’m just… facilitating… a conversation—”

“Right, right,” he teases, lifting his eyebrows.

Hermione admires the way his cheeks flush and his smile forces little dimples around his eyes. Her
insides are reduced to gelatin as she accepts her fate—she will positively melt into a puddle of
paradise under his gaze.

“I’m genuinely curious!” she maintains, riding her smile out until it hurts. “Can you tell me about
them?”

Draco regards her, his smile dissipating as his eyes study hers. He inhales, his chest rising with
apprehension. But as his tongue slides across his bottom lip, Hermione perceives his cooperation
finding light.

“I’ll show you.” He gestures his head to the left. “Come here.”

Before she understands exactly what he means, Draco grips the bottom of his shirt and lifts it over
his torso and head. He tosses the shirt onto Adrian’s sheets, then pushes himself back onto the bed
and towards his headboard. Leaning against the wood, his eyes remaining on Hermione the whole
time, Draco motions his head to his right side.

Hermione wastes no time joining him. She crawls across his bed and settles to his right, stretching
her legs forward to run parallel with his. Her eyes dip to his bare chest to admire the intricacies of
the tattoos.

Clearing his throat, Draco holds his right arm out, and starting from the top, he begins to illuminate
the mysteries upon his canvas.

“The snake for Slytherin. Because even though those years at Hogwarts were full of ups and down,
I did find solace being among my housemates. And I still do. And I want to remember the
association that brought us together all those years ago.”

He rotates his arm so that his forearm faces up, and Hermione sees the heart. “A heart. It’s a
reminder that I have one, after all this time. I like to look at it and remind myself that it’s very
much still inside of me, beating, working as it should. Some might say I don’t have one, but then I
can point to this and prove that I do.”

Her own heart throbs at that rationalization.

Draco flips his arm again and points to the shark that swims from the middle of his lower arm
down his wrist. “A shark. They’re predatorial and vicious when required. Protective and defensive
and fast. I’d be that for any of them because I know they’d be it for me. And—”

He curls his fingers into a fist, and Hermione revels at the way the veins in his hand protrude.

“It’s cool and metaphorical should I ever need to punch someone. Again.”

Hermione giggles as the memory of New Year’s Eve floats into her mind. She finds herself leaning
upon his arm.

He continues by lifting his left hand to his right pectoral. “A flower.” He takes a deep breath, and
Hermione watches as his eyes fill with dark memories. “For my mother.”

It clicks. Hermione remembers the way he recoiled when she asked about Narcissa on Christmas
Eve. Guilt surges through her like a violent hurricane.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she whispers.

He nods. “I want to. I need to.”

For reassurance, she reaches her left hand down and entwines her fingers in his. Her touch seems to
give Draco the proper strength to speak.

“A few years ago—the summer I got the mark—I went into my father’s drawing room to speak
with him. When I opened the door and walked inside, I saw both of them—my mother and father—
snorting something off of a thin, metal board on his desk. I didn’t know exactly what they were
doing until I got a clear view of the several strips of cocaine that lined the board. My mother was
horrified. I was horrified. But I was also intrigued.”

He shakes his head as if to dispel the image from his mind. “I don’t mean to blame them. I swear.
But that was the first time I saw someone do it. And I knew that they were under a lot of pressure,
and so I thought that because I was also under pressure, that it might make me feel better. Might
make my friends who were in similar positions feel better. The first time I snuck some of their
stash, I was hooked. It’s… my fault that we ended up like this.”

“It’s not,” Hermione replies.

Draco huffs. “It’s okay, Granger. I’ve sort of come to accept my culpability in it all. In a way, it
feels good to say it out loud. Really come to terms with it.” He stares at the wall across the room
for several seconds, breathing through his chest to compose himself. Then, his head drops to look
at the flower. “This is for her. A daffodil. It's a way to have her close even when she’s far away. A
more beautiful way to connect us as opposed to the drugs.”

Hermione has to bite her tongue to keep from crying, because all that runs through her mind in this
moment is her own mother, somewhere in Australia, with no memory of her.

"You haven't seen her since you left, have you?" Hermione cautiously asks.

Draco shakes his head. "I haven't. I have no idea..."

He pauses, taking a deep breath to compose himself.

And then he continues, pointing to the other side of his chest. “Planets and constellations here
because I’ve always secretly enjoyed that kind of stuff.”

Unfortunately, Hermione can’t say the same for herself. Perhaps Draco could convince her
otherwise.

“I think there’s a lot that the sky can say about a person,” he reflects. “It can’t be all by chance.
There’s meaning in those things—I know it. I’m sure of it.” He points to the highest constellation
on his chest. “I’ve got my own, obviously. Draco.” His eyebrows rise with pleasure, and then his
finger drops to the one below, continuing down the line of the pattern of stars. “And this is Cyngus,
which is a swan.”

Hermione’s heart immediately leaps because she’s reminded of Daphne’s Patronus.

“Pavo, which is a peacock.”

She once heard a rumor that there were white peacocks that grazed the fields of Malfoy Manor.
She never saw for herself.

“Vulpecula, which is a fox.”

“Why a fox?” Hermione inquires, realizing that her thumb has been rubbing his since she fastened
her hand in his.
“We used to have some that ran around the gardens of the Manor. I found them cheeky and
pleasant as a kid and would often chase them around, as if there weren’t any repercussions to
taunting a fox.” He laughs to himself. “My mother would lovingly scold me each time she caught
me doing it, but I just couldn’t stop myself. I thought I’d include it as a reminder of something I
used to find joy in as a child.”

Hermione imagines Draco as a boy, chasing foxes in the acres of land his family owns. The
thought is enough to compel her to sink even further against him.

Then, he points to the planets. “Then Venus right here, over my heart. Self-explanatory, I think.
And Saturn here.” He points to the planet drawn across the center of his ribs. “I’ve always been
fascinated by the god Saturn. He ruled and thrived in a Golden Age, and that’s all I want, really. To
reside in my own Golden Age.” Draco sighs and cranes his neck to look down at Hermione. She
meets his gaze and smiles. “Bored yet?” he asks.

“Not at all,” Hermione responds.

He smiles and points to the right side of his ribs, inches from where Hermione rests against him.
“Alright, don’t laugh. This one Adrian suggested I get. And I got it while I was drunk. He thought
it’d be a laugh to get a tacky quote.”

Hermione lifts herself off of Draco and reads the phrase tattooed on his side: per aspera ad astra.

“Through struggles to the stars,” she translates, demonstrating her mastery of the language.

Draco scoffs yet smiles. Hermione can see the memory play in his mind. “He is such a prick.”

“I like it,” Hermione attests, falling back onto his arm.

He shrugs. “It’s not horrible. I just can’t believe he persuaded me to get it. I feel like a fucking
middle-aged woman with this on my ribs.”

They both laugh before he can finish his sentence. Hermione can feel his body jerk up and down
with each breath between his wonderful laughs. Her head bobbles as well, and she lifts her hand to
her mouth to trap the chuckle before it escalates too far.

She can practically see it herself—Adrian hyping up Draco in the tattoo shop to get the quote with
his vivacious energy and compelling tone of voice.

It leads her to adore them even more.

Draco continues, lifting his left arm and crossing it over his body. “The butterflies fly up my arm
because they represent freedom, liberation, autonomy. Things I’d really like for myself one day.
I’ve often felt confined by a lot of external things—people, place, programs.” He snickers
teasingly. “But these remind me that transcendence is possible. That emancipation from those
things is not too far-fetched because it’s right here.”

She loves the explanation—it’s just so painful that a tracker rests just below those butterflies.

“And then the scales are a reminder that this skin is malleable. That I can shed it if I want to and be
more than what everyone else assumes I am. That permanence only stays permanent if I force it to
be.”

Admiration doesn’t even come close to how Hermione perceives Draco in this moment. She’s in
complete awe of him. His careful and meaningful choices, his transparency, his growth—they all
amalgamate into a haze around her that she cooperatively breathes in. And it is velvet against her
tastebuds, soothing her glands like a cup of hot tea.

And then he flips his arm over so that the Dark Mark is visible. And she can make out scars that
run horizontally on his arm. They’re small but nonetheless present, representative of his
unquestionable struggle. Self-inflicted, unquestionably.

“One day, I’ll cover this up,” he says. “Or I’ll paint around it so that it’s barely visible. For now, I
leave it evident as a reminder.”

He doesn’t explain further, and Hermione is content with that.

“And finally—”

Draco inches forward and turns to the left so that Hermione has a clear view of the Ironbelly on his
back. Staring at it again up close, she solidifies just how colossal it really is. The details are
exquisite—not one part of the dragon is spared from the magnificent artistry and technique. It
whirls across his back like a coil, its spikes tall and large and its outstretched wings representative
of its imminent flight into battle.

“How long did it take?” she asks.

“Several hours,” Draco answers. “But it was worth it.”

Tentatively, Hermione lifts her hand and places her fingertips on his skin. She traces the length of
the dragon’s body all across his back, admiring the craftsmanship of the artist and the tenacity of
Draco himself.

“It’s amazing,” she comments.

Draco nods and turns his head over his right shoulder. “I know they’re stereotypically evil—
bearers of chaos and anger. But I think they can be misunderstood sometimes. Not all of them are
threats to what is prototypically good. Sometimes, I think they’re actually assigned to protect those
things. I want to think that I’d do that for any of them and maybe someday for myself. And then
have someone who’d protect me all the same.” His eyes lift to meet hers. “It’s certainly a defining
part of who I am.”

“It is,” she agrees, dropping her hand.

At the termination of her touch, Draco turns back around and rescinds into his previous position.
He turns his neck to gaze at Hermione, and then his hand reaches for hers again.

“Do you feel any better?” she whispers.

Draco nods. “Yes.”

She clears her throat. “I know it’s difficult for you to hear this, but I am here for you. I mean… I’m
literally here. Sitting on your bed. Willing to listen and help. I don’t want you to keep shutting me
out. This conversation was just the beginning.” She takes his hand rests it upon her lap. “How can
we keep this flame between us alive? How can I keep you from running away?”

Draco nips at his lower lip. “It’s… complicated—”

“What is complicated about it?” she asks, furrowing her eyebrows.

“Granger—”

“Come on, Malfoy. What’s stopping you from wanting more of what we just did?”

He heaves a sigh, followed by an answer. “I don’t want to drag you down with me—”

“You won’t drag me down,” Hermione insists, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “You don’t have
to worry about me.”

“I do,” he asserts.

“No, you don’t—”

“I do,” he repeats with more zeal. “Try to see it my way. I know what it’s like to have someone
depend on you for everything. To have someone constantly seek your validation and attention. I
was that for my mother from the moment I saw her that day in the drawing room to the moment we
were separated after her trial. I wouldn’t wish that burden on my worst enemy. Especially you.” He
sighs. “I already feel myself gravitating towards you. And I can’t… I can’t put you through the
emotional labor it demands. I won’t. Not when I’ve done enough to you already.”

“But you’re not forcing it. I’m offering you my help. There's a difference. I’m genuinely offering
you my help. I hear what you’re saying. I do. But you’re not going to drag me down. I’m going to
pull you up.”

He shakes his head as if it’s something he’s heard too many times before. “It’s not that easy or
poetic.”

She sighs. “I suppose not. But you can’t deny that I’m sitting here, listening to your words, and
wanting only what’s best for you and for everyone else. You can’t deny what happens when we’re
together like this. And I’m not claiming to be your solution. I get it—you can’t depend on me. I
know that. But you can ask for help. You can lean on my shoulder. You can talk to me. And even
though I won’t solve all of your problems, I can help alleviate some of your pain.”

Draco exhales slowly. “You… you make it so difficult.”

“To do what?”

“To ignore everything that’s inside of me.”

“Good,” she responds. “I could tell from the first day I saw you in Kingsley’s office. You’re used
to doing that—shutting down and ignoring everything. But you’ll never feel better until you start
talking, processing, and accepting all the sincere help that comes your way.”

Draco shifts himself closer to Hermione, his eyes attached to the way her hand fits in his. “You’re
the first person who’s offered it. This… isn’t easy for me.”

“You’ve done amazing,” she insists, lifting her right hand to cup his cheek. “You should be proud
of yourself.”

The sigh that passes through his lips sounds as though he’s been dying to hear those words for the
longest time.

“You keep saying these things to me that I don’t deserve,” he mutters. “You keep forgiving me.
You keep reminding me of the bit of good in the world. And I can’t stop myself from drifting
towards you.”
Hermione’s breath catches in her throat as her mouth trembles with anticipation, desire, and a need
for salvation she can only attain when they’re pressed against his.

“I think you’re going to be the one to bring about my Golden Age, Granger.”

Her lips follow in the direction that her heart shoots—forward.

Hermione kisses him.

For a moment, she thinks he might not respond positively. That she’s made a fatal mistake by
deepening their connection with this kiss. But she couldn’t go another second without displaying
the fullest extent of her adoration for him and the way he’s grown.

The fear of her move is decimated when Draco presses his lips tighter against hers. He inhales
through his nose as he strengthens their union, using his hand to dip Hermione’s head to the side so
that he can dive further into her.

She thanks the gods that he’s receptive to the kiss, because next to her words, it’s the second-best
way she can communicate her feelings for him at this point. There’s only so many words in the
English language that she can say to him. But her lips convey an eternal story, never tired or beat.
They collide and float against his in a rhythm that coincides with her heart, articulating everything
she can’t put into words. It transcends semantics, surpasses all vocabulary. It’s just her beating
heart unfolding for him.

With care and ease, Draco drops himself to his forearm and tugs Hermione down with him. They
plunge onto their sides and cherish one another with kisses sweeter than toffee, rolls of the tongue
upon one another that resemble licorice. Hermione’s hand frames the contour of his cheek, and her
thumb glides over his cheekbone with delicate precision. She’s careful to treat him gently, just as
he deserves.

While softly sucking on her lower lip, Draco’s hand drops to her thigh, and he tugs her taut against
his body. Their legs mingle and tangle between one another in an attempt to close the distance
between them. His chest is warm to the touch, flames settling upon her own body as his hand
follows the length of her leg up to her waist where it slides underneath her shirt.

With his hand on her skin, Hermione feels a ripple soar across the surface of her figure, and she
emits a small whimper against his open mouth.

He digs his fingers into her waist, gracefully rocking her back and forth against him. And his head
rises above hers as he dips his tongue past her lips. Hermione tugs his head close, heightening the
kiss, intensifying the movement between their tongues, and strengthening the bond.

For a moment, Draco pulls away, and in the pocket of space between them, they share the same air.
He presses his forehead against hers and swallows.

“You… are more valuable to me in this moment than the most prized cut of gold in the universe,”
he whispers onto her lips, followed by another chaste kiss.

When did Draco Malfoy become so... poetic?

Hermione shuts her eyes as he pulls away again, licking her lips and savoring the way they grow
swollen from his affection. And when Draco begins to turn onto his back, she adjusts her position
as well, nestling her head upon his chest and wrapping her right arm across his body. She's careful
against his shoulder, but he doesn't seem to mind the pain, if there is any. Draco snakes his arm
underneath her shoulders and dips his face into her wavy hair. With a pleasant sigh, Hermione lifts
 and hooks her right leg over his waist and legs, effectively eliminating any remaining space
between them.

Her fingers trace the constellations on his chest and twirl around Saturn’s several rings. She soars
around the galaxy with her fingers and in her mind.

“What happens tomorrow?” Draco asks, his voice low and quiet as if he doesn’t really want to
know the answer.

Hermione takes a deep breath and sinks further against him. “I keep my promise. I figure out
exactly what it is Aberfield is doing. And then hopefully bring you all some peace.”

“Peace,” he repeats. “I don’t know if we’ll ever attain true peace.”

“I’ll get you as close as I can.”

Draco’s left hand reaches across his body to settle upon her shoulder. “If you want to get me as
close as you can to peace, all you have to do is stay here.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“Stay, Granger.”

“I will.”

And the invisible string that once connected them drops peacefully. It does not sever, it does not
snap, it does not lose its power. It simply relinquishes the firm tug it once held from when they
were apart. Now, it sees no reason to continue to be pulled, jerked, and tugged relentlessly.

Hermione falls asleep to the beating of his heart against her ear, and Draco, eyes closed and breath
steady, greets the warm breeze of a dormant night moments later, brought on by the scent of her
hair, the feeling of her skin, and the pulse of her heart fastened and secure against him.

He holds her in his sleep and, for the first time in what feels like an endless string of tumultuous
and arid months, he actually dreams.

Chapter End Notes

character development has me screaming !!!!

 Chapter 25

There’s something particularly serene about waking up in Draco’s arms.

Hermione can’t explain it, can’t rationalize it, but she doesn’t care. There’s no point in trying to
decipher why it feels so right, so comforting, so much like the sun igniting the moon and
reminding it time and time again that they both rise in the sky at some point. They both deserve
and receive attention, have a purpose, breathe and exist for one another.

Waking up wrapped in his warm embrace is just... comforting. Reassuring. Perfectly tranquil in an
otherwise tumultuous set of circumstances.

She doesn’t leave his arms just yet. They’re warm, and she craves warmth. Requires it.
Occasionally needs to be reminded of it in order to feel it in herself. Because Hermione would be
lying if she said that her heart and body weren’t exhausted by the layers of responsibilities and
situations weighing her down. Even by Draco himself—as much as she values and loves that he’s
opened up to her after months of trying, Hermione feels the inevitable crush of his imperfections
slowly creeping its way into her body.

But it’s him—it’s Draco. It’s the boy she saw lying in the infirmary all by himself. It’s the boy who
wandered those hallways like an apparition of who he once was. It’s the boy who made her life a
living hell in order to battle his own personal inferno. And beyond the wayward steps he’s taken,
Draco is still a person. Hermione’s always felt that way about him.

She thinks he’s there with her now, too.

That he sees Hermione as a person, a capable witch, someone valuable and worth sticking around
for. She won’t deny how good that progress feels.

So instead of wiggling away, Hermione nestles her head carefully upon his still sensitive shoulder
and sighs. She knows that her curls are more violent in the morning and that they are likely
smothering his face as his head cranes to the right to be closer to her, but to remove herself from
this perfect position—to get out of bed, greet the day, and confront the Ministry—would be like
severing the thing that compels and inspires her bravery.

Draco didn’t create those things in her. She’s always been strong, always been brave, always done
things her own way. He just brought out levels of them that she never dared to touch, simply
because she saw a path for herself that didn’t involve expending those emotions. But Draco drew
out those desires and interests in the form of lighting a fire—he poured gas on her soul and kissed
the match before igniting her insides, and now she can’t help but indulge in those exhilarating
feelings. Standing up to her boss, saying yes to things that scared her, being strong enough to reject
authority, the status quo, the 'way things are' at the forfeiture of her future—Draco had shown her
how to be that person. The methods might have been unorthodox and frightening, but she can’t
deny the part he played in shaping who she is in this moment, lying on his chest, listening to his
heartbeat at the break of dawn.

“Do you always think so loud in the morning, Granger?”

Hermione’s brain stops spiraling, and her lips rise in a coy smile.

“How do you know—”

“Your jaw,” he mutters, “It’s moving. And I’ve caught on to the habit you have of mouthing your
words when you’re deep in thought.”

She recalls the night she almost tore his shoulder off—how the word ‘Dittany’ seemed to slip
through her mouth silently but still to the point that he was able to read it off of her lips. Stare at
them deeply enough to make out what her mind was thinking.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, adjusting her right leg so that it reaches across her body and rests upon his.

He mirrors the action, reaching his left arm over his body to pull Hermione in tighter.

“Don’t be.”

Suddenly, unapologetic is all Hermione is.

She thinks she’d like to sink into him further, if that’s even possible. But any closer and she might
suffocate him. And then who would she find comfort in at night? Whose arms would envelop her
and ignite her? Who would bring out the fire that she thrives on feeling?

Hermione settles on this position, but if she could, she’d fall deeper.

“How did you sleep?” she whispers, hoping for a positive response.

He’s silent for a moment, his fingers slowly caressing her arm. Goosebumps rise at his electric
touch and at the hush of the interaction. She awaits his answer in that void.

And it feels like forever before he finally says, “Better than I have in a long time.”

She breathes out of her nostrils a quiet sigh of relief.

“Especially knowing that we don’t have to go to those meetings anymore,” he finishes.

Hermione nods and smiles, but her heart begins to beat fast as she thinks about the repercussions of
that fact. She had willfully disobeyed her ministry mentor. She’d overridden the program,
essentially violated her terms of employment, and made a mockery of her boss. As deserving as he
was for that defamation, Aberfield holds the key to her position at the Ministry. He’d held that
simple fact over her head before. And now, he has the means to abuse that power.

She knows that she has to talk to Kingsley about Aberfield’s conduct before he can distort the
situation. No time can be wasted—she has to go today.

But Draco’s arms—they’re so cozy and secure. They’re much like a harness; she could freefall
with just the ghost of his arms around her and still feel wholly safe.

She never expected this to happen. But ever since that first day at the Ministry when she held his
limp body up by her hands and looked into his eyes, Hermione melted. There's something about
silver that makes gold humbler, simpler, more aware of what makes it valuable in the first place—
the sheer fact that something exists as a way to uplift it.

When he told her to take her hands off of him that day, she almost did. Almost let him fall over and
collide with the floor, because it would’ve been enjoyable to watch. But now, she has a much
deeper understanding of what a touch means to Draco. She knows more about him now more than
she ever did. So, the thought of losing the grip he has on her—the idea that she won’t spend the
entire day here, wrapped in his arms—that thought kills her.

Hermione sighs, because she realizes what she has to do. “I think I ought to go speak with Kingsley
at some point today about what happened yesterday.”

She feels Draco twist his head off of hers, and so she follows and lifts herself off of his chest.
Leaning on her left forearm and carefully stroking his cheek with her other hand, Hermione really
looks at Draco. His eyes are still as tired as usual, but the normally violet bags under his eyes are
much softer today. His pale skin has a tinge of color to it, the rose on his cheeks permeating up to
his cheekbones. And his lips look soft and oh so inviting.

He licks and parts those lips, and for a second she thinks he’ll kiss her. But instead, he offers
something that’s somehow even sweeter.

“Would you like me to come with you?” he asks.

Yes. Gods, yes.

Hermione smiles. “Are you sure you want to go back there?”

Draco sighs, lifting his right hand to wrap around her back and slide up and down her shoulder. He
fights the suppression of his words in his chest, pushing them out in a stuttered yet determined
statement of desire.

“I want to… help,” he says. “Offer my testimony. Do whatever I can to help get that fucker fired.
If that means going with you to the Ministry, then yes. I’m sure.”

She suddenly finds no fear in kissing him. If fear were a bird, she’d be a blossomed tree with
dozens of nests already waiting for its arrival. She’d welcome fear as an incentive, motivation to
continue breeding that bravery within herself.

So she leans down and presses her lips on his. It’s tender more than anything else. A token of her
appreciation and admiration. But when she breaks the kiss to take a breath, Draco is quick to find
the back of her head with his hand and pull her right back down. Hermione smiles against his
mouth, and when Draco opens his to smile, their teeth knock together briefly.

And then Draco is the one to draw away. He settles his head against his pillow, stares deeply into
Hermione’s eyes, and shakes his head.

“You…”

He fights the words—she can see it in the way his neck tenses—but they rush out anyways.

“You really are a saving grace in this otherwise unforgiving world, Granger.”

She smiles, because, who says something like that and then believes that they don’t deserve to be
loved?

“When did you become so poetic, Malfoy?”

“When you reminded me that poetry still exists.”

“There you go again,” she whispers.

He begins to run his fingers through her hair, not to tame the curls but to explore them. And then he
clears his throat. “I’ll be honest, Granger. Words and emotions… have become a lot harder to
express these past few years. And I’ve…”

He pauses, and Hermione thinks that he’s lost in her eyes. Because she’s lost in his.
“Go on,” Hermione says with a nod.

He shatters the barricade in his throat and continues. “I’ve… found it easier to say the wrong thing
because it’s fun or not say anything at all. It was easier that way because I didn’t have to deal with
the burden of coming to terms with everything.” Draco pauses again. “When you say things, they
become real. I don’t know if I’m ready to say everything just yet.”

“I understand,” she whispers, and she truly does. Spoken words are tangible. They float in the air
and mean something to the deliverer and receiver. They can’t be swallowed, taken back, or
changed once they’re uttered. They become a part of what exists in the world, nothing less.

“That’s why when I say things like that—that you’re like our saving grace, or that you remind me
that poetry exists, or that you are going to bring about my Golden Age—I mean it.”

Hermione bites her lip to keep from crying. She really wants to cry—how could she not? The
things Draco is saying to her are overwhelmingly beautiful and wholly representative of his
progress. It seems that every day he is blossoming a little bit more.

Petal by petal, Draco Malfoy is becoming the man he wants to be. And Hermione is watching,
admiring, and adoring him.

“I still like being a bearer of chaos when I need to be,” he continues, nodding his head and smiling
in reflection. “But I think I’m almost ready to just find—”

“Peace,” Hermione interrupts. She metaphorically smacks her forehead, because she feels bad
about interrupting him. Old habits die hard.

Her worries are relieved when Draco smiles and nods. “Peace.”

“There will be peace,” Hermione asserts. “There’s just… a few more obstacles to get through
before it.”

“Yeah. But I’m getting… tired.”

Hermione sighs.

“Are you tired?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Not in the same way you are.”

It’s true—it’s not in the same way. Draco is mentally and physically exhausted. His body is
weighed down every day by so many things—the drugs, the trackers, the choices he’s made, the
dependency he’s created amongst his friends. They’re all things that Hermione does not know the
burden of dealing with. And while she can sympathize with his exhaustion, she knows that it’s just
not the same.

Draco nods understandingly. “You have a lot of fight left in you. And you use it on us…” He
shakes his head and scoffs. “I don’t know if I’ll ever fully understand why.”

Hermione’s thumb begins to stroke his cheek, and she adds more paint to the rosy disposition with
each tender caress. “Sometimes it’s just the right thing to do. But when you do it long enough, you
find reasons to stay. Reasons to keep going, even when it does become difficult and seems almost
impossible. Something usually emerges in time that gives you a clear reason for staying.”

It’s unspoken, but Hermione knows that Draco is picking up on her allusion. He studies her eyes
like a book he’s been waiting years to read.

“Even if I had a specific reason to want to help you all in the first place, sometimes people are just
inclined to do that sort of labor,” Hermione concludes.

“I always found that hard to believe,” he admits. “That people are intrinsically good. That they’re
always compelled to help others. But… you’ve squashed that perception quite quickly. Even that…
fucking bastard gets your patience. How do you do that?”

“It’s not easy,” Hermione mumbles.

“I like watching you give him hell,” he says with a smirk. “The sun can feel good, but it can also
burn if it wants to.”

Hermione laughs. Hearing him call her the sun—it becomes more beautiful and real every time he
says it.

Draco smiles too, multiplying that soft feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I’m predicting that the
sun will reach astronomical heat levels today, yeah?”

She nods in total agreement. “Oh yes. But before it does—” Hermione lowers herself back upon his
chest and snuggles into his body— “let’s enjoy what dawn is giving us a little longer.”

“And then hellfire?” Draco teases, to which Hermione emits another laugh.

“Hellfire? I’m the sun, Malfoy. Hell hath no fury equal to mine.”

Draco sighs, his chest expanding and falling in a steady motion. “I’d hate to be on the receiving
end of that,” he whispers into her hair.

“You almost were and also have been countless times.”

He laughs. “And I thank the gods every day that you somehow let me live.”

“So, you knew I was capable of destroying you?” she asks as she closes her eyes.

Draco nods, his chin thumping against the top of her head each time. “There was never a doubt in
my mind, Granger.”

When daylight finally breaks the threshold of the horizon and enters a higher quadrant, Hermione
lifts herself off of Draco and exhales. They’d been in and out of sleep for another hour, yet the
fluctuation of their consciousnesses was, for the most part, peaceful. It’s as if they took unofficial
turns stroking one another’s arms, leaving small kisses across patches of exposed skin, and simply
protecting one another.

Save the occasional shudder and twitch from Draco, Hermione felt as content within his arms in
this past hour as she did for the whole night.

But Hermione hears several voices speaking outside the door, and that along with the bright yellow
light shining through the window draws her out of her sleep.

Draco opens his eyes and looks up at Hermione.

“We should go soon,” Hermione whispers. “Kingsley’s usually in meetings all afternoon, so we’re
more likely to catch him if we go now.”

Rubbing his eyes and nodding, Draco lifts his torso off of the bed and bends his knees. He rests his
elbows against them and takes a hearty breath with his chest, much like a patient would when
asked to by their doctor. It’s potent and noticeable.

And then his fingers begin to twitch, and his nose crinkles, and his teeth dig into his bottom lip. He
fumbles with his digits, swipes his tongue across his teeth. The erratic actions appear out of a void
and cause Hermione to tilt her head in concern.

“Malfoy—”

“You get dressed,” he says, lifting his hand to his mouth and dragging his cheeks down. “And
I’ll… meet you out in the living room in a few minutes.”

Hermione fears the inevitable and hates that she has no idea how she can possibly stop it from
happening. But she's seen this before—the finger twitch, the heavy breathing, the tingle of his nose.
She knows by now what it means.

She supposes that’s why everything inevitable in this world is inescapable in the first place—to
torment her.

And he notices her angst. “Granger—”

“You… you don’t have to—”

“It’s complicated,” he sighs, closing his eyes to avoid her. “I need it.”

“And I can’t do anything?” she whispers, furrowing her eyebrows in a plea.

He finally looks at her. Tries to find a way to break the inevitability of the situation. But he settles
on shaking his head and looking down, ashamed of himself. “Not right now. I’m just being…
honest.”

He's being honest.

Hermione purses her lips, angry at the situation. Hating the reality of it. Wishing she could turn
back time and change everything.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” he almost begs.

“I just—” she falters, attempting to straddle the line between overbearing care and being an
enabler, because that line is so fucking thin and difficult to navigate— “I just don’t want you to
hurt yourself.”

He nods, truly understanding her fear. “I’ll be okay. I have to do this because… it’s just too
unpredictable what will happen if I don’t.”

“It’s just as unpredictable if you do,” she tries to argue, but she predicts her failure in this quarrel.
It’s almost as inevitable as him returning to his vices.

“I need you to trust me.”

Trust. The next step. One that she wants to savor with him. Faith walks hand in hand with trust, and
she desires both so badly with him. And as much as she’d do anything to not have him revert back
to his old habits, Hermione can’t bring herself to overstep. Can’t force him to do anything he
doesn’t want to do. Can’t forbid him from listening to his body and the signals it gives him. Even if
they are damaging.

He's a prisoner.

“I’m going to get us out of this mess with the Ministry,” she says. “And then I’m going to get you
all real help.”

Draco stabs the inside of his cheek with his tongue. There are a thousand doubts written in his
expression, but he reluctantly nods. “Until then.”

“Until then,” she repeats.

And it takes a heartful of strength, but she finally climbs out of the bed, taking slow steps towards
the dresser where her wand lies. When she reaches it, she grabs hold and transfigures her pajamas
into one of her archetypal work outfits.

Adjusting the collar of her button-up underneath her wool, beige sweater, Hermione turns around
and sees Draco gazing at her. With more strength in her steps than before, she approaches the side
of his bed, leans over, and kisses him. And it feels entirely natural and perfect to have her lips mold
upon his.

She splits from him. “I’ll be just outside when you’re ready.”

Draco nods. “Okay.”

Hesitantly, but seeing no other choice that does not transgress her boundaries—boundaries that
Draco has made known time and time again—Hermione walks towards the door.

“Granger?”

Hermione turns over her shoulder just as her hand touches the handle.

“I like that sweater. You look nice in beige.”

Her lips lift at the corners which then lead her eyes to wrinkle. And then, because she doesn’t
know what to say that will make anything better in the moment, she turns and leaves the room.

Hermione stumbles upon the others engaged in several activities. Blaise and Pansy are in the
kitchen using a combination of magic and physical labor to make breakfast—slices of toast
slathered with assorted jams. The smell is delightful, reaching her nostrils in an inviting way. And
on the floor between the two couches, Daphne, Theo, and Adrian are seated in a triangle with
Crookshanks as the focal point right in the middle.

There’s something so endearing about emerging into a scene like this and having all of them look
up at Hermione with happy eyes. She can’t help but feel immense joy each time they greet her this
way.

“Hey, good morning!” Blaise calls out from the kitchen. “Care for some breakfast?”

“That’d be wonderful,” she responds, raising her eyebrows in agreement.

“Granger, your little kneazle is easily the best thing to ever come through our doors,” Theo
remarks, reaching forward and hoisting Crookshanks into his arms. “Second to you, of course. But
he’s going to give you a run for your money soon enough.”
Hermione laughs and walks to the edge of the couch, seating herself upon on the arm. “I have no
doubt that he absolutely loves the attention he’s getting from you all.”

“He’s a big baby,” Theo says with a soft voice, pressing his forehead upon the crown of
Crookshanks’ head. “A cuddly, precious baby.”

“Bless your heart, Theo,” Hermione hears Pansy mutter in the kitchen as she finishes spreading
jam onto a single piece of crisp toast.

“So, how was your evening?” Daphne asks Hermione, her eyes bright with intrigue.

Hermione smiles and surveys the engrossed looks of the others around her. “It was fine,” she says,
careful to keep an iota of mystery to the events of the previous night.

“Fine? Just fine?” Adrian asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Just fine,” she responds slowly with a stark smile.

Adrian tsks. “I’m a man who craves details, Granger. Come on!” he exasperates. “It’s half-past ten
in the bloody morning! We’re all a little curious as to the reason why you were able to sleep in so
late. Could it be that you were wrapped up in the arms of a particular, lovable sourpuss—”

“Adrian,” Daphne warns, widening her eyes.

“Daph, Granger should just expect this out of me by now,” Adrian responds with an equally snarky
yet endearing tone.

“Doesn’t make it any less okay for you to prod so deeply into her business,” Daphne sasses back,
and Adrian opens his mouth in an over-exaggerated wheeze.

All the while, Blaise and Pansy laugh at the encounter while still in the kitchen, and Theo remains
entirely wrapped up in Crookshanks’ presence. Hermione laughs too as Daphne turns to look at her
and mouth the word sorry. She waves her hand back at Daphne and smiles, denoting her
comfortableness with the situation. Adrian’s right—she’s used to it by now, even finds comfort in
the teasing. It reminds her that Draco truly does feel something—an attachment, a bond, a
predilection.

The door opens behind her, and Draco exits his bedroom. Hermione turns over her left shoulder to
look at him. He wears a fitted, black sweater and dark grey slacks—his usual ensemble. Perfect
colors for the winter months and for him. But then he swipes the bottom of his nose with the back
of his hand and sniffles several times, and Hermione feels her heart drop.

When she turns her neck forward again, Hermione watches as Pansy skips towards them with a
piece of toast in each hand. She first hands one to Hermione, and then she approaches Draco and
stuffs the corner of the toast into his mouth before he can object to the breakfast.

“Eat up, big boy,” Pansy teases, pinching his cheek.

Draco crunches down on the bread and settles it between his fingers. “Thanks,” he mumbles with a
conspicuous roll of his eyes, eyes that show his gratitude in an unspoken way.

“Now, you’re looking handsome, Malfoy!” Adrian comments, leaning his back against the couch.
“Where are you two off to, then? A brunch date, perhaps?”

“We’re going to the Ministry to speak to Kingsley about yesterday, actually,” Hermione answers,
standing and advancing towards Draco’s side. She takes another bite of the toast, flavors spreading
in her mouth in a homey way.

Adrian recoils, the expression on his face transitioning from pleasure to disgust. “Oh, ew,” he
mumbles. “Not as cute as I thought it would be.”

“Oh, can I join?” Theo asks, twisting Crookshanks in his arms to stroke his belly with his nimble
fingers. “I’d pay money to both see you cuss out the big man and maybe even get in a few choice
words of my own.”

Draco glares at Theo and subsequently places his free hand on Hermione’s back, something that
she feels herself roll into effortlessly.

Theo purses his lips. “You know—on second thought—I will cede my spot to Malfoy and Malfoy
only.”

“Right choice,” Draco says stoically, flexing his hand against the small of her back. And then he
drops it and weaves his fingers into hers.

At the sight, Theo and Adrian’s mouths both elongate vertically into quiet gasps.

“Oh,” Adrian sighs. “I see.”

Draco snarls at Adrian. “You are lucky I slept well last night. Otherwise, you’d be dead a lot
sooner due to my lack of patience.”

“Oh, did you sleep well?” Adrian continues with a smirk, scratching the back of his head.

“Sleep with an eye open tonight, Pucey.”

Blaise hastens towards the group, approaching Adrian from the side and holding the lids of his
eyes open with his fingers. “You heard him, Adrian! Sleep like this mate. Don’t want you to get
eaten by the dragon!”

“Ouch, that’d be a rough way to go, wouldn’t it?” Adrian teases. “I’ll bite my tongue—for now.”

Draco rotates his head to look down at Hermione. “Please, let’s go before I rip his head off.”

Adrian gasps. “Not the moneymaker!”

Sharp and acute as ever, Daphne turns and winks at them. “Be careful, please.”

“Nah—raise hell, you two!” Blaise suggests, dropping to Daphne’s side.

“And nothing less,” Pansy adds from the kitchen with a wink. She then points to Hermione.
“Especially from you, Granger. Same energy as yesterday morning, okay? That was badass.”

Hermione nods as she finishes off the toast. “I’ll certainly do my best to bring about some justice.”

“That’s our girl,” Theo says, and those words cling to Hermione’s mind and heart—our girl.

“We’ll be back soon,” Draco says, squeezing Hermione’s hand as a sign that he’s ready to depart.

And just as they’re twisting into the air, Adrian calls out, “Take your sweet, sweet time, you two!”

-
They land in the atrium and begin marching directly to Kingsley’s office.

Hand in hand.

And—yes—she receives sideways glances and perplexed looks from the workers around her. She
is, after all, Hermione Granger holding Draco’s Malfoy’s hand. Tattooed, no less. But those
indecent glances and brief scoffs mean nothing to her. They don’t instill fear or angst about how
she is perceived. Because Hermione has moved past the fear of being perceived incorrectly—being
reduced to the choices she’s made thus far—and instead embraces the direction that her heart tugs
her in.

Why would her heart lie to her, anyway? Lead her down a path she isn’t mean to follow? She
doesn’t believe that’s possible. She’s always listened to her body, always been in tune with the
signals it injects into her mind and heart. And so how can she ignore—no, disregard this feeling?
Why should she hide this anymore? She won’t. For both their sakes, she won’t.

They’re a corridor away from Kingsley’s office when Hermione spots Rowena, one of Kingsley’s
many assistants. Young, vivacious, and beautiful, she walks boldly through the halls with her back
facing Draco and Hermione. Her black heels clink against the shiny tiles to create a bold pitter-
patter sound.

Hermione tugs Draco forward. “Rowena!” she calls out, and the woman turns over her shoulder
and smiles.

“Hermione,” she says when they catch up to her, “How are you?”

“Alright,” Hermione responds hastily. “And you?”

“Busy,” Rowena comments, tipping her head to the side and offering a gleeful, teethy smile. “I’ve
got quite a bit of planning to do for the gala before Kingsley returns.”

“Kingsley’s not here?”

“No, he’s out for the two weeks,” Rowena responds, nodding her head solemnly. “Meeting with
representatives around the continent. The new year is a very busy time for the Ministry, I’m
afraid.”

Hermione curses under her breath and feels Draco lightly squeeze her hand.

“What about Quincy Aberfield?” Draco asks, and Hermione notices that there’s the hint of a
scheme in the tone of his pert voice. “Is he here?”

“No,” she responds, shaking her head. “I do believe he’s doing business off the premises today.
He’s either at St. Mungo’s or is doing something with his initial rehabilitation program from the
summer. I'm unsure.” Rowena’s eyes dart between Draco and Hermione. “Can I relay a message to
either of them when they return?”

“No, no,” Hermione responds as understandingly as possible, though she’s utterly disappointed and
angry at the inevitable failure of today’s goal.

With that, Rowena nods and walks away.

Hermione’s hand leaves Draco’s so that she can rub her eyes and groan. “Damnit,” she whispers,
turning to look at Draco. “This is time-sensitive. We can’t wait any longer to talk to Kingsley. We
need… we need to know what he's been doing. We need to know what’s happening. I need to know
what’s happening, damnit.”

She looks away. Curse her curiosity and curse her festering self-doubt. Her constant need to be
aware of the dangers around her. Hermione can’t help it though, because now it involves people
who are almost more important to her than anything else in the world. Wonderful people who have
grown to become like a second family. And if she can’t save them or help them, then what is she
good for?

Draco huffs out of his nose, and when Hermione glances back at him, he has this look of complete
determination in his eyes.

“Come on, Granger,” Draco says, turning around and tugging her the opposite way they came.

“Where are we going?”

“Aberfield’s office. We’re not waiting any longer.”

Hermione remembers a time in her life—a long time ago—when rules were to be followed blindly.
When even the thought of sneaking into someone’s office was enough to make her tremble and feel
physically ill. She’d grown out of that quickly at Hogwarts, but it’s in this moment that her
rebellious side is arguably the most potent it’s ever been.

Something about scheming and breaking the rules with Draco feels more defiant than anything
she’s ever done. And—fuck’s sake—she’s done quite a bit.

Once they finish maneuvering their way through the intricate halls of the Ministry, garnering
nothing less than suspicious and disgusted looks from everyone around them, they finally make it
to the wooden door of Aberfield’s office. The corridor around them is quiet with only a few
straggling workers hustling between their meetings.

Hermione quickly tries the handle, but it’s locked. So she reaches for her wand in the pocket of her
pants, whispers, “Alohomora,” and sneaks into the office with Draco trailing her heels.

She closes the door quickly, locks it, and then for good measure casts a small charm on the knob to
safeguard it against any other magic. When she turns and scans the small office space, she’s
unsurprised to see that it is as tidy and clean as she remembers. Each item is housed strategically on
the shelves that line the walls to her left and right, organized in a perfect stratum. Not one book is
out of place, nor antique turned a little too far to the right or left, nor one vial full of the Location
Beams missing.

She looks to the shelf on her right and sees more items, but what catches her eyes are the lines of
jars, vessels, and clear containers that hold dozens of ingredients. Each jar is named on the front,
and she thanks the gods that he is compulsively organized in that regard. It should make looking
for things that are out of place much easier.

Draco’s already at his desk when Hermione finally finishes scanning the room. He picks up a
book, bound with a navy cover, and begins to flip through the pages. Briefly, he looks over at the
ingredients on the shelf, then back at Hermione. “How certain are you that some of those are the
actual ingredients for a Draught of Peace?” he asks suggestively, gesturing his head in that
direction.

“Not certain at all,” Hermione responds, walking towards the shelf and beginning to scan the
names of the substances.

Her eyes are voracious, peering at each name with care and concern. The ingredients of a Draught
of Peace have been engrained in her memory since Potions during fifth year, and so she scours the
containers with ease, waiting for those names to appear.

There’s moonstone—a key component. It’s unpowdered, but Hermione assumes that Aberfield
takes care of that when he makes the potion.

And then she sees a clear vase with a cerulean colored liquid inside, and the label in the middle
says that it’s syrup of hellebore. Another key component—mix too much of it in the potion,
though, and it could lead to devastating consequences. Consequences, unfortunately, that have
nothing to do with the symptoms which the Slytherins were exhibiting when they were regularly
taking it.

A jar of unicorn horns to the right of that, of which also have to be powdered down. She knows
they’re rare, and Aberfield only has two left.

Then there’s the porcupine quills, long and black, resting in a jar next to the horns.

And finally, some Valerian root. And like the syrup of hellebore, if one adds too much of the root,
it could surpass a state of peace and instead foster a sedative, practically unconscious state.

But those aren’t the symptoms. That’s not what was happening to them. In fact, Hermione could
see that they were more agitated, more on edge, so much so that their bodies—their Dark Marks,
for fuck’s sake—were disturbed and stressed. And so it can’t be too much of one ingredient. That
just wouldn’t make sense.

Hermione loathes this feeling. Despises not knowing where to go from here. Hates the fact that it is
so fucking obvious that Aberfield is doing something completely immoral to these people, and she
can’t open her eyes and see exactly what it is that… that fucker is doing—

“Granger.”

That one word from Draco’s mouth draws her out of her anger. She turns around and sees him
staring at a page of the book, his eyebrows buried in the center of his face. Rushing to his side
behind the desk, she glances at the pages in front of him and notices enthusiastic scribbles strewn
across the margins and breaks between lines.

“Here,” he says, handing the book to Hermione and pointing to one of the lines on the right side.
“Look at what he has underlined several times and written next to it.”

She realizes that it’s a list of ingredients—secret, antiquated, accessible, and everything in between.
A master list in alphabetical order. Her eyes drop to where Draco was pointing, and she reads the
substance.

Nulliwinkle: a plant used to not only nullify but also reverse the effects of a created potion. Very
rare.

And in Aberfield’s handwriting next to it, the word perfect is written in his distinguishable script.

‘Nullify’ is terrifying, but what really causes Hermione’s stomach to contract and her hands to
shake is the word ‘reverse.’ Because to reverse the Draught of Peace would mean to instill
significant amounts of pain in the consumer. And depending on how much of the Nulliwinkle
Aberfield used in the potion, the levels of pain could reach enormous intensities, large enough to
potentially disturb their bodily functions and even awake dark magic that still resides in their body
—
“Oh, gods,” Hermione sighs, loud and clear, and Draco’s eyebrows shoot up in concern. She drops
the book and walks back to the shelf, cursing Aberfield’s name as she searches for that damned
plant, that abominable name labeled on the side of a jar.

Fuck him. Fuck her inattentiveness. Fuck everyone and everything that has contributed to this
blatant mistreatment of these people. Her heart is on fire, and the smoke and spirit of her anger
pour out of her flaring nostrils as she pushes through jars and containers, unbothered at the way
she’s purposely mislaying and disorganizing the compulsive system Aberfield has created.

And then, shoved in the far back corner of the shelf, she finds it.

A tiny jar—smaller than all the others by a longshot—full of that purple plant. The lime green
stems are separated from the petals, taking up the top half of the jar, while the purple petals flood
the bottom.

Hermione knows her back is lifting up and down in abject anger, but she can’t help it.

“He’s been using that, hasn’t he?” Draco asks from behind her.

She takes the jar in her hand and stares at the wretched plant. Her teeth chatter as she feels a surge
of uncontrollable anger and guilt hurricane through her body, tormenting her heart the most while
they vie for dominance within her.

Hermione doesn’t answer him, because how can she? She’s let them down; she’s let this happen to
them. She was complicit in this abuse, and now they’re suffering and they were in such terrible
agony that their bodies forced the dark magic still within them to wake up and find a way to
corrupt them, torture them, maybe make them wish that they were dead—

“Granger” she hears from behind her. She turns around, holding the jar in her shaking hand.

“He’s been…”

She’s so angry that she can barely speak; she has to force the words out.

“I should’ve insisted on making it with him. I should’ve checked the second Pansy told me about
her mark. I should’ve been so much more attentive to you all and your pain, damnit.”

Draco walks to her and cups his hand around her shaking fingers. He removes the jar from her hand
and sets it back on the shelf behind her. “It’s okay,” he says quietly.

“No, it’s not,” Hermione argues as his hand falls to her shoulder. “I should’ve known what he was
doing sooner—”

“It’s not your fault—”

“I should’ve barged in here earlier and demanded that he show me what he was doing—”

“Stop,” Draco hisses, his fingers curling around her shoulder a little tighter as a means of impeding
her incessive quivering, quivers that come from just how angry she is at herself.

“I should’ve done something—”

“Hermi—Granger—”

“I could’ve stopped this. I could’ve saved you before this all happened. I could’ve done anything at
all—”
Draco breaks her sentence with his lips, slamming them against hers. And suddenly her words are
usurped and pulled out of her before she can self-deprecate any further.

And she doesn’t realize it, but Draco ultimately takes them for himself.

His hands wrap around the back of her thighs, and Hermione seethes into his mouth when he digs
his fingers into her and lifts her from the ground. With a mind of their own, her legs wrap around
Draco’s waist, and he spins them around and props her onto the desk—Aberfield’s desk.

She kisses him back, matching the same level of passion that he has for her. It’s ferociously ardent,
the way they kiss one another. The way Hermione’s hands jolt up to rake through his hair. The
way Draco parts her legs and places himself between her. Even the way he tosses papers and books
and quills and objects onto the floor to make more space for them.

She can’t help that her mind, for a brief moment, focuses on the location.

“Malfoy,” she whimpers through awarded breaths, breaths that taste like the opposite of oxygen
when they’re not from his lips, “In here?”

Through kisses, he moans, “I don’t care where we are, Granger. You—”

His hand finds the back of her head and lightly tugs on her hair so that her chin lifts up. And he
looms over her in that position, his chest heaving, and his lips swelling into a rouge color.

“You deserve to know just how valuable you are.”

Directing Hermione’s head to tilt to the side for maximum access, Draco cranes his head the other
way and begins to lap his tongue around her neck. His teeth graze across her skin lightly, and he
oscillates from those rough sweeps to more soft caresses with his lips across her skin. Her skin,
which she can feel grow pink with bliss and with the stamp of his mouth.

“But I’ve… I’ve poisoned you,” she whimpers, closing her eyes and knocking her head back as he
makes contact with the heartbeat that moves upon her throat.

“No,” Draco almost growls, shaking his head and continuing his passionate streak of kisses.

But Hermione continues, because no matter how much Draco is demonstrating his admiration and
desire for her, she can’t seem to dispel the terrible thoughts from her head.

“I didn’t monitor him enough—”

“Stop—”

“I should’ve known—”

Suddenly, he pulls away and takes Hermione’s jaw between his thumb and index finger, and the
tips of his other fingers rest on the left side of her upper neck. Her skin prickles at the action, and
she shudders at the heat that surges from his digits.

“Listen to me very closely,” he starts, hovering his lips just in front of hers so that what is only a
centimeter away feels more like miles. “You have done more good for us than anyone ever has. Do
you understand?”

She nods, her forehead colliding with his a few times.

“For that, you deserve the world and everything beyond it.”
He’s speaking to her in poems again, and at the sound of such beauty, Hermione feels her limbs
relax. She drops her head against his and closes her eyes, savoring the taste of his breath lingering
on and teasing her lips.

“So do you,” she whispers. “So do all of them.”

The way that Draco smiles and sighs is perfectly tender and sweet, and it both matches and
deviates from his hungry dynamism. She can feel his heart in his mouth, beating and releasing
honeyed words to soothe her bothered thoughts.

“That,” he whispers, nodding against her head. “That’s what I mean. You have and continue to
show us over and over again in your own faultless way just how much you want to help us. You
can’t expect me to not want to shower you with veneration when all you do is continue to show me
that I still have that ability left inside of me.” At that point, Draco cups Hermione’s cheeks in his
hands and raises her head to look at him. She feels him study her eyes and match the glisten upon
the irises. “It’s not your fault that the rest of the world hates us. They were going to do this to us
anyways. But you, being there, was all we needed. So don’t let anyone convince you that this is
your fault. If anything, you were meant to be a part of this with us.”

Hermione opens her mouth to apologize as her hands snake down his chest, then back to the top of
his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, one final declaration of her pity before she allows Draco
to swaddle her in more smooth words.

“It’s not your fault. None of them back home think that. I don’t think that. It was always him that
we resented. Never you.” He swallows, and Hermione remembers his words from earlier today.
How saying things makes them real. How letting them fester in the space between two people can
either burn or destroy whatever is being built. Those words—they build skyscrapers, foster
mountains, deep valleys, supernovas, and everything beautiful in between. And she finds truth in
them like it’s their main component.

“It’s not your fault,” Draco says again and again as he reconnects their lips and slides his arms
around her back. He tugs her close to him, their centers pressing against one another in a shock of
heat. “Just keep telling yourself that. Okay, Granger?”

“Okay,” she whispers before brushing her lips against his again.

And as they kiss a little while longer, shared veneration and united affirmations driving their lips
more than anything else, Hermione wishes that Draco could just hear those very words for himself.
 Chapter 26
Chapter Notes

tw // mild drug use

Oddly enough, the person Hermione felt as though she let down the most was Pansy.

There was something about the way that Pansy confided in Hermione that day at the Ministry that
led her to believe that Pansy was just beginning to accept her help as something genuine. Even
trust her. Hermione had taken that information, attempted to do something about it, and then when
she failed, she neglected to follow up.

How could she do that to Pansy? How could she let all the distractions in her life steer her away
from something as serious as the conditions present on her arm?

It stopped burning during the holidays. That should’ve been another sign that Aberfield was
tampering with the potions. That’s when Hermione should’ve done something.

Instead, she was playing cat and mouse with Draco.

Hermione might never forgive herself for that negligence.

Draco and Hermione had returned to the apartment and explained the faulty Draught of Peace to
the others. How the Nulliwinkle acted as a counter-ingredient to the potion itself, and how it
seemed more than likely that it was the reason for the pain that awoke their Dark Marks.

The Slytherins were undoubtedly frustrated. Hermione expected that. But she felt it strange that
they weren’t resentful. They put Hermione’s nerves to ease with sympathetic responses and gentle
affirmations, all singed with a sweetness that seemed unique to each one of them as individuals, as
Slytherins, as close friends who still, after everything, trusted Hermione.

Hermione found herself watching Pansy the entire time that Draco explained the situation. The way
Pansy’s jaw tensed and the way her lips pursed at the news—Hermione feared that she’d lose her
new friend. She'd failed to protect her, after all. Had learned something secretive about her and
neglected to act to the best of her ability. It had taken so long to build that trust between them; with
this one fault, Hermione feared the worst.

But the worst never came.

Instead, Adrian, cheeky as ever, put forth his own terms: “You can make it up to me by planning
me the best birthday party ever, yeah Granger?”

Pansy had smiled and laughed at that proposition, easing Hermione’s concerns with each breath
that came with the chuckle.

And a week and a half later, on the day of Adrian’s birthday, Hermione speaks to Pansy again.

It’s on a walk through Hogsmeade in the afternoon in search of a present for Adrian. Pansy insisted
that Hermione join her on the excursion, citing that “Granger now has such a sharp eye for pretty
things, all thanks to me.”

And although it’s not a particularly cold day, Hermione still hugs the cuffs of her jacket around
herself tighter to mask the shame of it all.

“I know exactly what we should get him,” Pansy says, lifting her finger to point down the block.
“Adrian thinks he’s royalty, and that’s not just on his birthday. Why not get him something to
match that aura?”

Once inside the shop, Hermione discerns exactly what Pansy means by that. It’s a quaint boutique,
home to several shelves lined with brilliant accessories. Pansy darts to the third row of shelves,
Hermione following close behind. By the time she turns the corner and enters the small aisle
between two shelves, Hermione sees that Pansy is holding a crown with jewels lining the rim of the
base. She balances it on her finger and shows Hermione.

“Let’s give the king something to further boost his ego,” Pansy chuckles, spinning the crown on
her finger.

When they leave the store, Hermione feels the weight of the apology on her shoulders and in her
stomach. She has to say it again.

“Pansy?”

Pansy turns around, and Hermione takes a deep breath.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Granger—”

“No, I really am.” Hermione looks at her feet, then back up at Pansy. “You trusted me that day
enough to tell me what was happening to your mark, and I didn’t do anything about it. I let you all
continue to be poisoned because I was distracted and selfish and because I wanted to give all of
them the benefit of the doubt—”

“It’s alright, Granger—”

“I just feel awful that you trusted me with that information and I… I totally let you down.”

Pansy sighs and purses her lips. She begins to fidget with her fingers and search for her response.

And when she finds it, Hermione is at a loss for words—something that normally doesn't happen.

“The reason I told you what was happening to me was not because I expected you to save me. You
don’t always have to be the hero, Granger.”

Hermione listens intently, because it’s happening again—Pansy is opening up in a way she never
thought feasible.

“I told you because…”

She falters for a moment, and Hermione watches as the outline of Pansy’s tongue circles around
the inside of her mouth.

“I told you because I don’t want to go through life without surrounding myself with people I can
tangibly trust.” Another pause. “I don’t want to push people or feelings away anymore. I just want
some… peace.”
Peace. That word again. The one that Draco spoke about. Pansy desires it too.

“It brought me a sense of peace telling you what was happening to me. So—”

Pansy steps towards her and wraps her arm underneath Hermione’s.

“No need to worry, Granger. Okay?”

With her head craned to the right to look at Pansy, Hermione nods and smiles. “Okay.”

“Seriously, Granger. If anyone should be apologizing…”

Pansy hesitates, lifting the side of her lips in a trying smile. “It should be me. For a lot of things.”

Mirroring the expression, Hermione squeezes Pansy’s arm around hers. “It’s in the past.”

She responds with a shrug. “Still haunts me.”

With a sigh that tries to sound like that sliver of peace which Pansy craves, Hermione smiles and
gestures her head forward. “Come on. How about we buy each other a butterbeer and call it even?”

Pansy smiles—a real, authentic smile—and nods. “That sounds great.”

Only a two-minute walk, the Three Broomsticks is not incredibly busy at this time of day. Friday
afternoons usually bring upper-year students and regulars only, but when Pansy and Hermione
enter the pub together, it's like the entire world is staring at them. And it feels as though the earth
stops spinning, the sun stops shining, and the tides stop flowing. They’re met with the stares of
several witches and wizards, most of whom glare at them with perplexity and disgust. Who assume
that the two of them together means the apocalypse is among them.

But none of those guests compare to the one that sits at the main bar against the far wall.

He sits on a stool towards the end of the bar, throwing back the remainders of his pint of beer.
When he drops the glass back on the counter, he wiggles a finger in the air to signal a refill, which
comes rather quickly from the eager bartender.

The ruffled brown hair and checkered vest give him away instantly, and as Hermione passes
behind him on the way to her table with Pansy, she confirms the identity by noticing the temples of
his distinguishable glasses.

“Harry?”

Harry turns over his shoulder at the sound of his name—he spots Hermione, gasps, and stretches
his arms to his sides.

“Hermione!” he exclaims, hopping off of the stool and stumbling towards her.

Pansy turns and stares in shock. “Is that Potter—”

“Oh, ‘Mione!” Harry exclaims, hurling himself into Hermione’s arms in a jovial embrace. “How
did you know I was here?”

Hermione can smell the stench of alcohol on his breath as he laughs near her. As she pulls away
from the hug, she takes a closer look at Harry’s face. His cheeks and ears are painted rouge, and
his careless and enormous smile is representative of his level of inebriation.
She knows the answer, but she asks the question anyway: “Harry, are you drunk?” She cups his
cheeks and lifts his sagging face up to meet hers.

With a snort, Harry replies, “Nothing gets past you Hermione, does it?” And then he laughs, and
his eyes wander aimlessly over Hermione’s head until they reach Pansy. “Oi! It’s Parkinson!”

Hermione prepares herself to apologize, but when she turns around to do so, Pansy has an
enormous smile on her face and is mid-laugh.

“You have got—” Harry points his finger at Pansy— “such lovely bone structure.”

“And you’re only just noticing, Potter?” Pansy retorts, tipping an eyebrow down in a tease.

“Pft,” he mumbles, flailing his wrists in the air. “I’ve always known, Parkinson. It’s just been a
while since I’ve had the pleasure—”

“Alright, Harry!” Hermione cries, rolling her eyes and scoffing with a mix of embarrassment and
utter amusement. “Why on earth are you drinking like this on a Friday afternoon? Don’t you have
classes to teach?”

He shakes his head as Hermione’s hands drop to grip his shoulders—steady him as his feet start to
wobble and his cheeks puff with air. “Not today. I've cancelled them.” He leans forward to whisper
in Hermione’s ear. “Technically, I’ve got a wee stomach bug I'm dealing with.” He ends his
explanation with a chortle and a high-pitched, “Don’t tell McGonagall!”

She fights with every fiber in her being to not laugh at the sight. Harry is as whimsical and amusing
as a circus performance, his bright red cheeks as brilliant as strobe lights and his upbeat smile as
captivating as acrobatics. But as hilarious as his demeanor is, Harry is also drinking at levels which
Hermione has never seen him drink at before, and that worries her.

“Well, why are you here?” Hermione asks, and then she realizes that they’re in the middle of a
crowd of tables and that they’ve caught the undivided attention of the customers around them, all
of whom stare at the scene with puzzled expressions.

She begins to tug Harry through the crowd of tables towards a booth nestled in the corner of the
pub. Pansy follows closely behind, stretching her arms forward as a safeguard should Harry
accidentally fall backwards.

Instead, he falls upon the bench that’s appended to the wall, and Hermione slides in after him.
Pansy pulls out the seat opposite of them and sits, grinning at the sight of a smashed Harry Potter.

Harry hiccups and leans against Hermione’s shoulder. “You want to know why I’m here?”

“Enlighten us, please,” Pansy says, raising her eyebrows in intrigue.

Clearing his throat and pounding his chest, Harry sits up and shouts, “My girlfriend would rather
play Quidditch than have sex with me—”

“Oh, gods, Harry!” Hermione exclaims, the shade of pure embarrassment flooding her cheeks as an
array of guests turn to glare at their table.

“It’s true!” Harry cries, slamming his palm against his forehead and sniffling for effect. “I told her I
was feeling lonely and that I didn’t like how she refused to come home for the New Year to
celebrate with me, and she—she got angry with me, and we fought, and now things are looking
quite bleak and hazy for us, and I’ve just gone and made a proper mess of it all, and she’s probably
going to leave me at any moment now, and, gods, did I ever really love her? Do you think I ever
really loved her, Hermione? Because if this is love, then I just—I can’t understand why the world
is pulling us apart like this when it seemed to want to bring us together—”

He continues in the same manner, spewing thought after thought as they come into his mind, and
Hermione listens with her mouth hanging slack. Eventually, Harry tires himself out and drops his
head upon Hermione’s shoulder.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighs, wrapping her arm around his back. “It’s alright. She’ll come around
eventually.”

He sniffles. “I don’t even know if I want her to! I mean, we haven’t had sex in months!”

At the confession of a dry spell, Pansy leans over the table and reaches for Harry’s hand. “There,
there, Potter,” she coos, rubbing her hand over his. “I’m sure the sex couldn’t have been that good
to begin with, judging by the fact that she’s a Weasley—”

Hermione shoots Pansy a quick looking, cinching her eyes in a silent plea.

Pansy swallows her sentence. “Sorry. Erm…” Her face tightens as she searches for the right words.
Then, she takes a deep breath. “Chin up, Potter!” she commands, her tone stronger than before.

Harry immediately shoots up, his chest out and his head up straight.

With a curt nod, Pansy continues to deliver her pep talk. “You say that you haven’t had sex in a
while. That… is unfortunate. I have sex all the time so I can empathize with how you are feeling. I
know I would feel like rubbish if my partner didn’t want to have sex with me.”

Hermione smiles, appreciating the effort on Pansy’s behalf and wondering if, perhaps, this is a
moment of reconciliation that Pansy was referring to—one where the past is shed, and the future is
borne out of something brighter and lighter.

“Tell you what, Potter,” Pansy continues, removing her hand from his and clasping her fingers
together in a manner that is… suggestive. To say the least. It’s the way that her fingers slowly tap
against the back of her hands. “We’re going out tonight. Perhaps you’d like to… join us?”

Hermione gawks at Pansy.

No—that’s the moment of reconciliation.

“Yeah,” Pansy continues, straightening her back and nodding her head, “You need to go out and
forget about the Weaselette for a bit. We’re going to a club tonight to celebrate Adrian’s birthday,
which you know is guaranteed to be a riot.” Her right eyebrow inclines in a cunning fashion, and a
devious smile takes shape. “You remember Adrian Pucey, don’t you?”

Harry lifts his eyebrows at the mention of Adrian’s name. “I—yes—I do.”

“Well then, it’s settled! You’ll come out with us tonight. We’ll have lots of fun together, you’ll get
to dance with Hermione and maybe even the birthday boy himself, and perhaps you’ll indulge in
some drinks, and maybe you’ll also—”

Pansy stops, leaning her head to the side and furrowing her eyebrows to gaze at Harry’s shifting
expression.

Harry’s eyes water up. He begins to cry.

She cringes, her shoulders tightening and her smile morphing into an uncomfortable grin. “Oh,”
she sighs, “no need to cry… Potter.”

“It’s just—” he hiccups— “that would be really, really, nice.”

“Okay,” Pansy says, creasing her nose at the bridge and nodding.

“Right, I think we ought to get you into a bed, Harry,” Hermione suggests, taking his arm in her
hands and shaking him lightly. She turns to Pansy. “Do you think it’d be alright if he came back
with us?”

Pansy nods. “Of course. Might be a shock to the others, but they can sod off.” She rises from her
chair as Hermione begins to drag Harry off of the bench and into a standing position, one that is
only attainable when she’s holding his arms tight to his side. “You think he’s alright to apparate? I
really don’t feel like lugging him through Hogsmeade like this. Not that it wouldn’t be fun or
anything, but if we could avoid it—”

“No, I agree,” Hermione responds, biting her lip and looking down at Harry. “Harry? Do you think
you have enough energy to apparate? It’s not a far trip at all. It should barely take three seconds.”

Harry offers a shrug. “We’ll see whether I end up there in pieces or not, won’t we?”

Leaning forward to pat him on the shoulder, Pansy says, “That’s the spirit, Potter.”

He looks up at Pansy with dreamy eyes, his smile like that of a puppy whose just been pampered.
“Have you always been this warm and welcoming, Parkinson?”

She snorts. “Only to people I like.”

Harry tuts and smiles. “I am very likeable.”

And then his smiles fades as he reminds himself of his unfortunate reality. Harry begins to cry
again. “Except for my girlfriend—”

“Alright, it’s time go to,” Hermione mutters, taking Harry’s hand in hers and waiting for Pansy to
grab his other before squeezing tightly and imagining her desired location. The air bends to her
wishes and sucks the three of them up in a cloud of white smoke, and after a few seconds of
passing through the atmosphere in a series of twists and coils and shrieks, the three land in the
living room of the apartment.

Harry’s first act is to groan in agony, releasing his hand from Pansy’s and clutching his stomach
tightly as he leans over in a fit.

Quick to respond to the uninvited visitor, Draco rises from the couch he’s sitting on and creases his
eyebrows to the center of his face. “What the—”

“Surprise!” Pansy cheers, reaching for Harry’s arm again and elevating it in the air as if he’s some
Olympic medalist, though the image couldn’t be farther from that appearance.

Draco’s eyes trek from Harry to Hermione, his countenance vexed. And though she forces a smile
to alleviate the tension, Hermione fears that her bringing Harry here might not have been the best
idea, at least for Draco’s sanity.

Adrian, on the other hand, is quick to shoot up from the couch and extend his arms to the sides in
astonishment. “Potter,” he says, shock ringing through the sound of the name as it comes hoarsely
from his throat. Hermione detects a sliver of nervousness. “You look—”

Harry interrupts him with an audible lurch that echoes in the cavern of his closed mouth and blown
cheeks.

“Oh, that’s not good,” Adrian comments, lowering his arms and wincing at the sight.

From the left where he sits with Daphne, Blaise rushes over and stops in front of Harry. He leans
over and inspects his sagging head, searching for a source of life in the boy before him. “Is he
alright?”

“Drank too much, I’m afraid,” Hermione explains as Blaise uncurls his back and places his hands
on his hips. “He just needs to lie down for a moment—”

“He can use my bed!” Adrian offers all too excitedly, stepping forward and shooting his finger in
the air.

At his eagerness, Hermione smirks and giggles. For the first time, she witnesses Adrian’s cheeks
turn a pinkish hue, signaling his mounting awkwardness.

Quick to turn back the tides and regain his sense of composure, Adrian clears his throat and adjusts
his chest. “I mean, you know, it’s been unused for the past few weeks anyhow—”

“You are insufferable,” Draco mumbles, bending his head back and staring at the ceiling.

“Well, I’m not letting Granger have the upper hand, here!” Adrian exclaims, poking Draco’s arm
and then gesturing towards his room. “Go on. Seriously. Let him rest in there.”

Too weak to say a proper thank you, Harry just mumbles incoherent words as Blaise takes hold of
one of his arms and Hermione secures her grip on the other. As a team, they support Harry’s
scattered strides as he ventures to the door.

Once inside, they lie him on Adrian’s bed, and Harry immediately turns to the left, warms up to the
pillow, and snuggles his face into the soft fabric. He mumbles again, his right hand crossing over
his body to lay against the pillow as he deepens his ascent into the plush mattress.

Blaise snorts and turns to look at Hermione. “Adrian is probably doing cartwheels as we speak.”

Hermione smiles back. “And why do you say that?”

He returns the look, steeped in an obvious explanation. “Come on, Hermione. Put two and two
together, just like all of us have. Adrian’s a secretive guy, but he—”

“Adrian?”

Hermione and Blaise turn their heads to gaze at Harry, who is still resting on his side. He yawns
and continues his mumbling.

“I have to… tell him…”

The words start to falter as Harry grows more tired, closer to sleep than before.

“Tell him what, Harry?” Hermione asks, seating herself at the edge of the bed and placing her hand
on his quivering calf.

“At the… Pensieve… he asked a question…”

But before Harry can finish his sentence, he’s snoring. And the snoring turns to wheezing, and then
Harry is fast asleep, and all it takes is a matter of seconds between standing loosely on his feet to
lying in a comfortable bed with a scent so sweet to him to make him fall into this peaceful state of
being.

“A lovely little mystery for us to solve, then,” Blaise says.

Hermione smiles as she watches Harry’s chest lift and fall in a steady pattern.

“Come on,” Blaise says, nudging her shoulder. “We’ll check on him once in a while to make sure
he’s alright. For now, he should just sleep. I may have some antidotes left over that will help with
the aftereffects.”

Sighing and nodding, Hermione rises from the bed and exits the room with Blaise.

“Is he alright?” Daphne asks as Hermione quietly closes the door.

She nods and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Why was he so bloody tossed?” Theo asks, tugging Pansy into his side as the two recline on the
couch.

Hermione considers brushing over the real reason for Harry’s state. It’s not her information to
gossip, and she doesn’t want to put Harry in a position that would make him uncomfortable being
around the Slytherins who know something that normally would be a rather private matter.

But there’s something about the expression on Adrian’s face—it’s curious and anxious, like he has
to know, or his insides will explode—that leads her to answer the question.

“He’s, erm, got some relationship issues with Ginny Weasley—”

“Again? Oh, fuck yeah!” Adrian cheers, pumping his fist at his side. But when he recognizes the
astonished looks of his friends, Adrian purses his lips and recedes his impulsive reaction. “Sorry,”
he says with a laugh, “but, I mean—let’s be honest here—could my birthday get any better than
this?”

Draco crosses the room and meets Hermione by the door, his expression stoic and blunt. “How
long is he staying for?”

“As long as he bloody wants!” Adrian calls out, flapping his arms in the air.

Not even bothering to turn back around, Draco stares into Hermione’s eyes and asks again. “How
long, Granger?”

She forces a smile, hoping that her response doesn’t compel Draco to have an aneurysm. “He might
be coming out with us tonight, actually—”

A dramatic sigh falls from Adrian’s lips as he tumbles onto the couch where Daphne sits. His head
drops into her lap, and the back of his right hand slaps his forehead. “Daph—pinch me, darling!
I’ve got to be dreaming!”

Draco huffs out of his nose, and Hermione can see the palpable discomfort with it all as he stares at
the door behind her. She understands his reservations—she would’ve had the same if she were him.
But there’s a sliver of hope within her that says that he’ll come around, that the happiness of his
friend is more important than his silly, lifelong feud with a boy he grew up with. They’re adults
now; Draco already proved to Hermione that he could change his views and opinions on people.
Hell, if he’d done it for her, he could certainly do it for Harry as well.

When he looks down into Hermione’s eyes, she can tell there’s a difference to them. They glimmer
with this sentiment that assures her that he’ll work for peace, because peace is what he wants, after
all.

“Why do you always have to be so bloody kind?” Draco asks, shaking his head and smiling softly.

“Someone once told me that it’s in my nature,” she responds, raising an eyebrow and the side of
her lips in a congenial smirk.

Draco flexes his fingers, licks his lips, and sighs.

“He’s harmless,” Hermione continues in a whisper. “And… Adrian…”

Draco turns over his shoulder to look at Adrian, head settled in Daphne’s lap, laughing like a little
boy on Christmas morning who’s just woken up to dozens of delicately wrapped presents and
sweets. And when Crookshanks leaps up and lies upon his chest, Adrian laughs even further.

Draco returns his gaze to Hermione, who pleads with her eyes.

“I think that Adrian would really like it if you could give him chance.”

“What happened that day that you two went to Hogwarts?” Draco asks. “Ever since then he’s
been… referencing then as a sort of golden day for him. Like it awoke something that was maybe
on its way to wilting for good.”

Hermione considers that—how Adrian might have wilted were it not for that day.

“I think something happened between them while I was in the Pensieve,” Hermione whispers. “I
don’t know what, but there was something different about the way they interacted when I came
back from McGonagall’s memories. Like they’d just had some conversation of grand meaning.”
She shakes her head. “I just think that whatever they talked about, it brought something out of both
of them. And maybe… maybe they could be good for one another right now.”

She’s shocked she says that, because what about Ginny? She knows nothing of what Adrian and
Harry spoke about, yet here she is, seeing the way that Adrian revels in the knowledge that Harry’s
just a few feet away, and she’s head over heels in love with the idea of her closest friend and this
new lifelong friend making one another happy.

Draco sighs and studies Hermione’s eyes before rolling his own in submission. “I will try to get
along with Potter. For him—” Draco gestures his head back, and then reaches his hand forward to
clandestinely stroke Hermione’s cheek with his thumb— “and for you.”

Hermione smiles, even as Draco drops his hand back to his side.

“Thank you. And who knows,” she continues with a shrug, “he might even be too tired to come out
with us after all.”

Harry’s anything but tired, and it has to do with the brilliant antidote that Blaise offered him when
he ventured out of Adrian’s bedroom a few hours later, just before the group planned on dispersing
and preparing for the evening Bacchanalia.

“He must have an iron liver,” Pansy comments as the girls slip into their outfits for the night. Pansy
throws a red dress over her practically naked body, pulling down the tight fabric and adjusting the
sleeves along her arms.

“I honestly didn’t know he was capable of drinking that much in the first place,” Hermione adds,
slipping on another one of Pansy’s dresses—a forest green slip, because that’s what Pansy insists
that Hermione looks best in, crediting the way that the fabric fastens to her figure and accentuates
the natural curves present along her hips.

“Poor thing,” Daphne adds, adjusting the bust of her indigo dress in the mirror on the wall.

“I don’t know, perhaps he should stay in tonight,” Hermione contemplates, sitting on the edge of
the bed as she slides on a pair of black heels. “I just don’t want him to get too careless.”

Pansy shakes her head in objection. “No, no! He needs to get out and forget about what’s
happening in his personal life. It’ll be good for him to be around us—you know, as distractions.
Some of us being more distracting than others.”

Daphne giggles, and Hermione smiles at the insinuation, reveling in how pleasant it is to be on the
other side of the inside joke.

“Don’t worry, Hermione. We’ll take good care of him!” Daphne says, spinning on her heels and
placing her hands upon Hermione’s shoulders. “He’ll feel right at home with us—nothing less!”

And when the three exit the bedroom and enter the living room, Hermione sees that Harry has
already made himself rather comfortable.

He’s in the kitchen with Adrian, and they’re conversing in a whisper with smiles on their faces.
Adrian carries the conversation with his suave disposition, leaning his body against the divide that
exists between the kitchen and the living room, while Harry engages to the best of his ability,
nodding and smiling and laughing whenever Adrian finishes a sentence. The way their
conversation flows—Adrian as the lead and Harry following along with admiration—looks wholly
natural. It’s even further represented with the crown perched on top of Adrian’s head.

Blaise, who sits on the couch furthest from the bedroom door, welcomes Daphne onto his lap as he
plants a kiss on her cheek. Across from them, on the couch near the wall to Pansy’s bedroom, Theo
and Draco sit idly, occupied in a conversation that’s too quiet for Hermione to decipher. Pansy
breaks the banter between them, flagging to the back of the couch and wrapping her arms around
Theo’s neck. She leans forward on her toes and kisses the top of his head, and upon feeling that
gesture, Theo smiles and turns over his shoulder to gaze at his her.

“There’s my girl,” Theo coos, beholding the sight of Pansy as she spins, giggles, and shows off her
dress. “Heaven has absolutely nothing on you, Pans.”

“Does it not?” she purrs, leaning forward and placing her lips on Theo’s in a brief kiss.

Turning over his left shoulder, Draco rises from the couch and walks towards Hermione, whose
feet have her planted at the foot of space just outside of Pansy’s room. He stands in front of her,
admires her up and down, and smirks.

“You look amazing,” he says, the intent in his voice as strong as ever.
“Thank you,” she responds with a sly smile, gazing at the ensemble that Draco sports—black
slacks, a white button-up with the buttons only halfway done so that his tattoos peek through the
slip, and a chic, black sportscoat.

Draco’s fingers suddenly begin to toy with the hem of Hermione’s dress. “I like this dress. The
color, especially.”

“I do too.”

At her confident remark, Draco raises his eyebrows in delight. And then he slowly licks his lips,
and for a moment Hermione believes that he’ll lean down and kiss her right in front of everyone.

But a figure appears to her left, and before she can take matters into her own hands and lean
forward, Hermione turns her head to see Harry. Draco pulls away and grinds his teeth.

“Hermione, you look great!” Harry says, offering a gentle touch on her arm.

She smiles. “Thank you, Harry. You look wonderful as well.”

He’s changed out of his outfit from earlier today—transfigured some new clothes, most likely.
Navy slacks and a tight knit cream sweater. Hermione feels sentimental for a moment as she
admires Harry’s choice of outfit—it’s similar to what she wore her first night at Amortentia, too.
Moderate and reserved but still present of effort and intrigue. It’s as if she is passing some
metaphorical baton to Harry now—she only hopes that there’s less drug use and awkward advances
for him than there was for her.

Harry rocks back and forth on his heels, producing small noises with his mouth as he attempts to
draw out the tension that comes straight from Draco’s death stare.

“So,” he finally says, breaking the silence between them, “I am, erm, sensing something here—”

“Oh, fuck’s sake, Potter,” Draco groans.

“No, no, I think I ought to say something—”

“So help me—”

“Really, I just want to say one thing, Malfoy.”

Draco ceases his bickering and shrugs in consent.

“Hermione’s told me a little bit about your situation. And… I just want to say that… I respect you
all very much for the way you’ve treated Hermione. Her kindness is indispensable. I just hope that
you recognize and understanding how lucky you are to have someone like her care about you.”

Draco’s stare softens by a miniscule margin, but Hermione does witness a moment of relaxation.

“I’m fully aware of that reality, Potter.”

Harry nods once. “Fine. As long as you all know that fact, then I’m happy and grateful to be here.”
He sticks out his hand towards Draco, waiting to seal their fate and bring an end to the years of
contention. And after a moment of looking at Harry’s hovering hand, Draco takes his hand and
shakes. Briefly. He withdraws his hand quickly, and Harry turns to walk away.

Draco blows air out of his nostrils in a moment of vexation, and Hermione boldly reaches for his
arm with her right hand.
“You can’t exactly blame him for what he said,” she teases, shoving that same arm.

He twists the side of his lips into a half smile. “No. I can’t.”

“Try to relax.”

He inhales through his nose and nods.

“Malfoy, are you rolling with us tonight?”

Hermione peers around Draco and sees Adrian holding a small baggie of green pills in his hand.

Suddenly, she’s brought back to Halloween night, and the ghost of Draco on her neck and back and
waist returns and glides up her spine. She stares at the pill and remembers just how close she was
to receiving it from him that night in a manner so seductive and erotic that she physically couldn’t
breathe.

She adjusts her eyes to look at Draco, who gazes at the spare pill left in the baggie.

“Not tonight,” he responds coolly, and Hermione feels her stomach contract at his denial.

“No?” Adrian asks, tilting his head. “Not even for the birthday boy?”

Draco shakes his head. “Sorry, Pucey. Not really looking for that kind of experience tonight.”

As the others turn back into a circle and indulge in the ecstasy, Draco turns back to look down at
Hermione. And with a clever smirk on his face, he leans over and whispers, “Not when I know you
taste and feel far better than whatever that pill could give me.”

Hermione grins and giggles as he pulls away. “Malfoy—”

“Granger,” he murmurs back, that smirk still defining his expression and intentions.

Before she can respond to his suggestive tease, Adrian interrupts with a cheer. “Right! Let’s get
going, shall we? Tonight is going to be all about me!”

“Try not to flirt with the entire club tonight, yeah?” Theo teases, shoving Adrian’s shoulder and
successively wrapping his arm around Pansy’ shoulder.

“If I can get free drinks from people in the club on the basis that it is my birthday, I will bloody
turn on the charm in order to do so!” Adrian calls back, stampeding towards the door in large,
powerful strides. “Besides, being the kind and generous person that I am, I’d be willing to pass
them on to all of you. Granger, you in for some shots tonight?”

Hermione smiles and walks with Draco to the door. “For you? Of course.”

Adrian slaps his hands together with an enormous smile. “Fucking brilliant! And Potter—you’ve
got to let me swindle you a drink or two, yeah?”

Harry nods at the offer. “It’d be an honor to further impair my body and forget the catastrophe that
is my life in the name of your birthday, Pucey.”

Adrian falters at the rather depressing statement, but then pumps his fist in the air in solidarity and
shouts, “Alright! I’ll bloody take it!”
 -

The glow of Amortentia’s many strobe lights electrifies Hermione’s skin, but what really drives her
entire being and spirit to coincide with the bass of the club and the flow off the dancers is that shot
that she takes at the bar, Harry at her side with a shot of his own.

The tequila stings when it reaches the back of her throat and even more when it trickles down,
leaving its burning mark in her mouth. She scrunches her nose for a moment, shoves the wedge of
a lime into her mouth, sucks, giggles, and watches Harry do the exact same thing. The taste of the
lime spreads and conceals the burn of the silver liquor.

Slamming his empty shot glass on the bar’s slab of mahogany wood, Harry shakes his head in one
rapid motion. “Woo!” he roars, slamming his cheeks with his palms and jumping up and down, a
sight Hermione never would’ve thought she’d see Harry do in all of her life. “That hits the spot!”

The bartender loops back around and leans over the counter. “Another one?” she calls out over the
music.

Harry looks at Hermione, and she can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s already decided that he
wants more.

“Absolutely!” he responds, turning back to the bartender.

“And you, hon?” she asks Hermione.

She sees the enormous smile on Harry’s face and the plea in his eyes, and so she nods and throws
her arms in the air. “Sure!”

The bartender pours two new servings of the silver tequila into tall shot glasses. She retrieves two
new lime wedges and fixes them so that they hang upon the rims of the glasses. Finally, she slides
the drinks across the bar for Harry and Hermione, who receive them willingly.

“For Adrian?” Harry proposes, his eyes traveling past Hermione’s shoulders to where the birthday
boy is dancing freely on the elevated platform near the DJ’s box. Crown on his head and body
alive with the effects of the ecstasy, Adrian glistens in the strobe lights as he sways his body back
and forth, invigorates the crowd with his charismatic personality, and dances like tomorrow was
never guaranteed in the first place.

Hermione smiles at the way he commands a room full of people. Revels in his ability to exude
positivity even when everything seems bleak and uncertain. She admires Adrian Pucey, not
because he’s outgoing and daring and a natural leader, but because he’s taken everything dark in
his life and sought happiness in the form of lights, merriment, and comradery.

And so in that moment when he commands the attention of the clubgoers and spans his arms in the
air like a bird for everyone to cheer and hoot at, Hermione can’t help but grin at the man before her
in a way that speaks beyond where most of her friendships ever landed. Adrian’s amicability
stretched beyond theirs, and that’s something she never thought possible.

Hermione turns back to Harry, picks up her shot glass, and holds it out between them. “To
Adrian!” she shouts, clinking her glass against Harry’s and then throwing down the alcohol. It
burns all the same, so she reaches for that fresh piece of lime and sucks the juices right out of it.

“These drinks are on me, Stella, alright?”

The familiar Scottish accent draws Hermione to twist her head to the right. Titus stands just a few
feet from Hermione and Harry, and he smiles as Hermione makes eye contact with him.

“How are you tonight, Ms. Granger?” Titus asks, leaning forward and grinning.

She places the shot glass on the bar and chuckles. “I’m well, Titus, and yourself?”

“I’m well! Just—you know—enjoying the free entertainment for the evening!” Titus responds,
nudging his head towards the stage where Adrian continues to flaunt himself wildly. He’s now
engaging in a strip tease of some kind, his hips rolling up and down as his fingers fiddle with the
first few buttons of his shirt. Titus laughs and shakes his head. “Bloody kid is such a little attention
seeker!”

“It’s his birthday!” Hermione laughs.

“All the more reason I let him have his little fun up there!” Titus responds with a wink, and then he
glances over at Harry who’s been watching the pair converse. Titus’ eyes widen, and his mouth
hangs open for a second as he discerns who the celebrity before him is. “Do my eyes deceive me
under these lights or is that the famous Harry Potter in my club?”

Harry extends his hand with a smile. “Pleasure, sir!” he exclaims, shaking Titus’ hand in his.
“Many thanks for the drinks.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Potter,” Titus responds. “Welcome to Amortentia. I hope you have an enjoyable
evening tonight.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” Harry replies. “Been here for thirty minutes now and I already never want to
leave this oasis!”

Titus laughs, his cheeks beaming under the now cherry lights. “Well, drink! Dance! Do whatever
you’d like! Amortentia is a safe place for you lot. But—”

He leans forward, gesturing Hermione and Harry to lean in with him.

“You two make sure those crazies don’t mix too much of anything, you hear?”

Hermione nods—feels herself be brought down from that cloud of pleasure to reality for this
moment. “Of course, Titus.”

Titus winks at Hermione and straightens his back. “Alright, you two enjoy yourselves! Order as
much as you’d like—it’s on the house. Just be sure to take care of yourselves!”

“Perhaps you’d like to take one more with us?” Harry asks just as Titus is preparing to turn and
leave.

He stops in his tracks and laughs. “Why not!” he cheers, and then he settles himself between Harry
and Hermione and orders three shots, one for each of them. They clink their glasses, throw back the
alcohol, and subsequently suck on the sweet limes.

Titus places his empty glass back on the bar, thanks the bartender named Stella, and places his
hands upon Hermione and Harry’s shoulders.

“Take care of yourselves tonight,” he says again, and with a final nod and wink to each of them,
Titus turns and disappears into the crowd of dancers.

Hermione reaches for Harry’s hand and begins to drag him towards the dance floor. “Come on,
that’s enough drinks for now.” Harry doesn’t object as Hermione tugs him through the sea of
sweaty and crammed bodies who jump in the air and wildly sway their torso and arms to the
beating bass of the music, the bass that Hermione can feel pound up and through her feet.

They catch up with Theo and Draco, who stand just before the platform and watch with amused
expressions as the others enthusiastically dance on stage.

From left to right, Daphne, Adrian, Pansy, and Blaise form a dance line, each one of their backs and
chests pressed up against someone else’s. The four grind and wave their bodies against one
another, smiles of ecstasy growing larger and larger with each passing moment of bliss.

In a moment of conviction, Blaise bends over and edges his behind against Pansy, who chuckles at
the way he sweeps his body against hers. There’s something utterly amicable and organic about
the way in which Blaise and Pansy interact, as if there’s this unspoken understanding about the
boundaries of their platonic relationship.

Pansy continues to chuckle as Blaise transitions to swaying his chest left and right in wave-like
motions, his arms following the direction of his body in one fluid dance. And then she leans back
into Adrian’s broad chest for support, and Adrian’s arms jut out and wrap around her neck in a tight
snuggle. He peppers kisses along Pansy’s head, to which she laughs with pure merriment.

Daphne’s little hands hold Adrian’s waist tightly as he simultaneously backs himself up against her
in a joking manner, same manner as Blaise to Pansy. She screams in wholesome pleasure and
willingly grinds back against him, running her fingers through her hair and letting herself flow
freely to the music.

The sight is precious to Hermione—one she wishes she could freeze and remember forever.

It only gets better when Pansy decides to turn around, grip the flaps of Adrian’s half-undone shirt,
and yank it open entirely so that his entire torso is exposed. With Daphne’s enlistment, Pansy tugs
the shirt off of Adrian, and he howls like a wolf as the shirt falls from his arms. She stuffs a corner
of it into the side of his waistband and cheers along with the clubgoers who watch the scene
unfold.

Adrian's built like a Greek sculpture, his chest firm and his arms defined. Beneath the heat of the
lights, his torso glimmers and shines with an indescribable source of magic—perhaps, Hermione
considers, it's just him and his effervescent personality shining through. It's coupled with the way
he engaged with the crowd and dances like his life depends on it. He's the embodiment of joy and
pleasure and kindness submersed into one body.

As she turns to head to witness the expressions of the others, Hermione notices Harry's bright red
face and curious expression. He stares intently at Adrian, unmoving and in a state of total fixation.
Beside him, Theo laughs in glee and nudges Harry's arm, to which Harry breaks from his hypnotic
state and laughs back.

Draco snorts and drops his head in a fit of laughter at the sight of his friend onstage, and that’s
music to Hermione’s ears.

She reaches for Draco’s hand.

Takes it in hers and laces her fingers between his.

He rotates his neck and stares down at her, and the way his lips slowly bend up leads Hermione to
assume that he has intentions for the evening. The comments about the dress and the pill run
through her mind as Draco suddenly pulls on Hermione’s hand, leading her through the crowd
towards one of the walls near the hallway to the back offices.

Mirrors and neon signs line the wall in an array of wonder, and when the two arrive just in front of
them, Draco spins Hermione in front of him and places himself taut against her back. It’s that same
position as always—the one that drives her mad with lust and now longing—that Draco creates
right in front of a wide mirror.

He leans into Hermione’s ear and whispers, “Let me show you something, Granger.”

Hermione never denies a demonstration.

With the index finger of his right hand, Draco lifts Hermione’s chin so that she’s looking at herself
in the mirror. She catches Draco’s eyes wondering at her in the reflection—he’s looking at her like
he's sure to devour her.

“You see yourself?” he asks, a hint of seduction in the rasp of his voice.

Hermione smiles and looks closely at herself in the mirror. Her reflection has never been
something she’s particularly enjoyed, but it seems that with every new adventure and step out of
her comfort zone, she’s coming to accept everything that she is more and more. And Draco’s
words only make that newfound reality easier to accept.

“Mhm,” she answers, feeling Draco’s slow hands wrap around her waist and pull her in against his
body. His warmth is addicting—it heats her as well, and she’s well on the way to melting into his
arms if he continues holding her this way.

“You don’t understand what you do to me, Granger.”

A shaky breath escapes her lips as Draco begins to kiss her neck.

And she watches it happen through the mirror. Watches the way Draco’s lips press firmly against
her neck, witnesses at certain points his tongue push through his lips to acknowledge the sweet
taste of her skin, and even whimpers at the moment when he finds her pulse point with his mouth
and grazes his teeth against it.

His lips begin to migrate as he speaks to her.

“You have no idea—” he laps his tongue around her neck— “what this dress does to me—”
suddenly he’s traveling down to her shoulder with staggered kisses— “and how good your skin
tastes—” he bites down lightly on the space where her neck and shoulder meet, and that garners
another whimper from her that’s as light and fluttery as a cloud – “and how badly I want you. How
badly I've wanted you since the first day I saw you again.”

A development. A peek into the origins of this fire between them. Hermione sighs at the realization
that it's been there all along.

She smiles and takes her eyes off of the scene in the mirror for a brief moment to look at Draco, but
when he sees that she’s looking away, he reaches with his right hand and yanks her chin back to
face the mirror.

“Watch, Granger.”

His hand falls from her chin to her neck, and he lightly presses his fingers against her skin, enough
to draw her back into a smile that screams pleasure and satisfaction. Then he’s kissing the back of
her neck, shifting slowly to her bare shoulders, toying with the strap of her dress with his teeth—an
action that causes Hermione’s breath to waver and her back to shiver—and then he jumps from
there to her ear, whispering affirmation after affirmation in each new location, each part of her
body that he so preciously worships.

“You taste so sweet… You are fucking incredible… I’m addicted to you, Granger…”

He’s hard to resist. In the midst of the eroticism, Hermione takes matters into her own hands. Turns
around and presses her lips against his without fear. Their teeth collide and click with the fervor of
the kiss, but it goes by unaddressed, because they’re both far too focused on the way that their
mouths feel swollen from the enthusiasm already, and they can only focus on so much at a time.

And then, Hermione thinks about the way that Draco’s hands, still desperate to be all over her
body, snake up and down her back. They venture down until they reach her backside, and his
fingertips dig into her skin, which produces a small yelp from her mouth to his, followed by one
word that somehow gets lost upon his lips:

“Bathroom.”

“What’s that Granger?” he sighs, biting her lower lip and dragging it sweetly through his teeth.

“Bathroom,” she begs, latching her hands through his and tugging him a few paces over to where
the entrance of the lavatory is. She flings open the door, but it’s Draco that guides them both inside
with his eager steps and cautious hands. He shuts the door as quickly as she opens it and then
drives Hermione against it with enough force to draw out a hollow bang.

Before Hermione can breathe, Draco’s lips are back on hers. She hears the click of a lock from
below her, and then his hand is winding down her side and gripping her bare thigh, just below the
hem of her dress. Deepening the kiss with the tilt of his head and introduction of his tongue, Draco
lifts Hermione’s leg to wrap around his waist. Their centers brush—she whimpers again.

“Remember last time we were in here?” Draco asks, his hand still ferrying its way up and down the
leg that’s now wrapped around his waist.

“Mhm,” Hermione answers, not willing to speak any longer than she has to in fear of his lips not
caressing hers.

“And the time before that?”

She produces a giggle against his lips. “Yes,” she moans, followed by a yelp when Draco suddenly
lifts her from the ground and balances her against the door. Instinctively, her legs cloak his waist
and interlock behind him, and now he’s pressed fully against her, and she can feel every single part
of him heave and lift and throb with this coursing desire, desire that feels much like fire and ice and
stars and every single celestial being in between.

“Each time I have you in here,” he says through kisses, “You are somehow more and more
beautiful.”

Another giggle, because she simply can’t help it. She can’t help feeling any of it. And she certainly
can’t help the way her mouth often takes control of her actions.

“What?” Draco asks sweetly, the smile on his face only an inch from Hermione’s lips.

She shakes her head and rakes her fingers through his hair, staring into his eyes and admiring the
way that they sparkle in the dim light.
“I’m just looking at you, and… I feel like I have this whole new understanding of who you are.”

Draco gulps, his fingers drawing shapes across the bottom of Hermione’s thighs.

She laughs again, trying to find a strong enough breath to say everything she needs to say. “Every
time you show me another part of yourself, I just want to remember the moment forever.
Scrapbook it and remember every little thing about the way you act, how you speak in poems, how
your touches feel so warm, even when you think that they’re frigid. They’re not. You’re not.
You’re so warm. And I don’t exactly know where this came from, or how it happened, but I feel
like I just understand you so much better—”

“You just talk and talk and talk, don’t you, Granger?” Draco asks, tilting his head and smiling.

She laughs sweetly, smoothing her forehead against his and closing her eyes. Inching forward to
tease her lips upon his, Hermione whispers, “You could stop me any time you want. You know
how.”

Draco snickers. “I want you rambling on and on, Granger.”

“Oh?” she chuckles, placing a small kiss on the corner of his mouth.

He nods against her head, and suddenly she feels his fingers dig even deeper into her thighs, and
his shoulders tense with the conception of a blaze inside of him. “I want to make you do more than
that, actually.”

“What are you—”

Hermione pauses. Almost stammers over her words as they fall from her lips.

“In here?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Draco huffs and shrugs. “Well, I suppose I can take you back to the Ministry if you prefer
Aberfield’s desk—”

Hermione playfully shunts his shoulders and scoffs, and Draco laughs and dips his head into her
neck, continuing to suck and kiss her skin with fire.

“I want to show you—” his teeth scuff against the curve of her neck— “just how warm you truly
are.”

She knocks her head back against the door, because that truly sounds like the most wonderful thing
she could ever receive. And then her response comes out in a whimper, and it’s when Draco’s
mouth climbs up to the spot just below her ear.

“Please.”

In an instant, Hermione’s back on her feet, her lips being nipped at by Draco’s.

“You’ll let me touch you, Granger?” he asks in between those perfect kisses.

She nods and moans an affirmation in his mouth.

“Burn me.”

It’s at that comment that Draco removes his lips from hers. Stares at her with an even brighter
sparkle in his eyes, a sparkle that the moon envies on nights like this, nights where the sky is pitch
black and all the attention is on one being that would do anything to keep the world moving the
way it is supposed to move.

Suddenly, he drops to his knees.

Hikes up her dress.

Tugs her underwear aside.

And with precise excellency and a touch that could melt even the sun, Draco’s tongue begins to
stroke her core.

She doesn't expect it—couldn't care less, though. Not when it already feels like her soul is being
sucked out of her body.

Hermione knocks her head back and whimpers at the subtlety of his motions, the alternation
between delicate flicks and moments of extreme vigor. Draco is soft but exacting, his tongue
swirling and his fingers raking up and down her legs.

She spreads herself further to feel him plunge deeper, and it’s like she’s orbiting in outer space,
passing by planet after planet and star after star on this warm cloud, this soft and supple swirl of
moisture in the sky.

He’s so warm—everything is warm—how can he not think that he is warm?

Hermione can’t help herself. A quiet “oh, gods” spills past her teeth and lips and flutters through
the air as an echo, and from below her she can hear Draco snicker. And it’s like a vibration against
her heat, and so she sighs with desire and grasps the back of his head, tugging his hair for the
added friction of the kiss.

He contests with the introduction of his fingers. At first, he’s just teasing her, the tips dancing
against her entrance. But in a matter of seconds—seconds that seem to take an eternity—Draco’s
dips two fingers into her while simultaneously sucking and lapping his tongue around her clit, and
she can’t hold it in—she has to whimper and hum again.

“Good girl,” Draco whispers against her in a breath of hot air, and that’s when she knows that he’s
burning her in the way she pleaded for.

She looks down, intoxicated on the sight of him below her. Reminiscent of the same lustful looks
he gave her in the mirror just a few moments before. It’s clear that he delights in all of this—
praising her. Appreciating her. Exalting her.

And then while she's admiring him and the way his tongue labors upon her, a force unlike any
other begins to grip the muscles in her stomach, and she frantically reaches for the handle of the
door and the back of Draco’s head to steady herself as her legs begin to tremble.

Draco knows she’s almost there, because he begins to speed the motion of his fingers and the rate
at which he flicks his tongue against her clit. She shuts her eyes, hangs her mouth open, and tips
her chin to the ceiling while simultaneously burying his face further upon her. And she imagines—
for a brief moment—gliding through a continuum so long and warm that time itself seems to leap
forward, thrusting her with it.

She rides the crescent curve of the moon as an orgasm rips through her body.

His tongue rides her out. And as her thighs clench and her teeth grind, Draco streaks his tongue
across her one more time—a nice, warm, long motion upwards—until all that’s left of Hermione is
just her staggered breathing and dumbfounded headrush.

When he pulls away from her, Draco takes the side of his thumb and swipes it against his lips, and
that image drives Hermione crazy. He’s standing straight again in moments, his eyes glued to hers
the whole time, and then he inches closer and closer to her and hovers his lips just before her own,
teasing her with the promise of another kiss.

“Finally have you speechless,” he whispers, brushing his lips against hers as he speaks.

“I’m sure you can guess why,” she teases back, her hands finding his cheeks in a warm touch
before she drives her lips against his. Their lips pulse in a steady kiss for a few moments before
there’s a hearty knock at the door.

“Fuck,” he groans into her mouth, “Not yet. I don’t want to be done with you just yet.”

Hermione rolls her head back and sighs. “Come on,” she says, taking his hand in hers and lifting
herself off of the door, “I want to dance now. Don’t you want to dance with me?”

The alcohol begins to talk for her.

He smiles. “I can think of a lot of things I’d like to do with you, Granger.”

Hermione grin stretches across her face. “Well, we have plenty of time.”

She turns within his arms so that her back is up against him again, and then she pulls the door
open.

At the entrance is Theo standing with his arms wrapped around Pansy’s front and his chin nestled
upon her shoulder. They sway in the music, their heads turned inwards as they smile against one
another’s lips, but when they realize that the door opens, their heads twist to behold the sight.

“Beat it, lovebirds!” Theo shouts, thrusting the door open wider and gesturing for Hermione and
Draco to leave. “Pans and I have a little business to attend to, if you don’t mind.”

“Right. ‘Business,’ huh?” Draco asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Pansy points her finger in Draco’s face and puckers her lips. “Don’t act like you didn’t just have a
little briefing of your own, darling. It’s written on those sweet little rosy cheeks!”

With his free hand, Draco lifts his fingers to his cheek and rubs. Hermione bites her lip to conceal a
smile as she drags Draco away. Pansy and Theo prance into the bathroom behind them with
devious laughs and shut the door.

Once she’s pulled them far enough in the crowd, Hermione lets go of Draco’s hand, turns around,
and coaxes him towards her with kittenish gestures and tempting hips as she rocks her body to the
music. He crosses his arms and watches her dance for a moment in a crowd of people, a smile
creeping slowly on his face. Hermione beckons for him once more, and he obliges, reaching her in
a matter of moments.

Her arms find his neck while his find her waist. Draco pulls her in close, centers pressed together
and mouths only an inch away. She dances against him, spins through his arms, and savors this
bubble with Draco.

And then, over his right shoulder, Hermione sees something else.
Adrian and Harry. Dancing.

Or, at least, Adrian’s dancing. And he's still without a shirt.

Harry struggles to keep with the beat of the music, but he’s trying his best. Each step is robotic
more than it is smooth, and it appears as though he focuses more on counting the steps in his head
than just letting the music guide him.

“You’re way off rhythm, Potter!” Adrian shouts at Harry, glancing down at Harry’s unkempt feet
and laughing at the way he trips over himself with each step. “Here—” Adrian takes Harry’s hands
in his and begins to physically guide him with the proper steps— “it’s like this. Just follow me,
yeah?”

Hermione watches in awe as Harry slowly begins to warm up to Adrian. A smile grows on his
flushed cheeks as he begins to comprehend the rhythm, and then Hermione watches as one of
Adrian’s hands dips to Harry’s waist.

She’s even more shocked when she witnesses Harry’s do the same upon Adrian's bare torso.

And suddenly the space between the two closes, and their chests sway against one another as they
travel in a circle. She catches a glimpse of Adrian’s face—he’s beaming with delight, more than
she’s seen him glow in a long time. And he’s talking to Harry, right in his ear, unquestionably
charming him with something sweet, because a moment later, when they're flipped around in the
circle, she catches a look of pure bliss on Harry’s face.

And then the Gryffindor lifts his head to meet the eyes of that Slytherin as they continue to spin in
their little circle, and there's something endearing about the way that Harry looks up at Adrian with
such admiration, such curiosity, such passion and fire and desire—

Hermione stops breathing when Harry impulsively shoots onto his toes and kisses Adrian.

Her nails dig into Draco's shoulders to mask the gasp that comes out of her mouth.

She witnesses the look on Adrian’s face when it happens—Hermione can see that he is shocked
based solely on his wide eyes. But then, when Harry pulls away and frantically apologizes, Adrian
places his hand on the back of Harry's head, pulls him in abruptly, and plants his lips upon his
again.

To one, it might seem like a drunken act. Like in the middle of their bubble of bliss and ecstasy, the
two just needed an outlet. Needed an impetus that could break through what’s been hidden and
resisted for so long—for the both of them.

But then there’s the way that Adrian cups Harry’s cheeks, and the way that Harry has to lift
himself higher and higher every other second to reach Adrian’s height that suggests that maybe
none of it is accidental or by chance. There's the quiet conversation from earlier today, the trip to
the Pensieve, the secretive agenda which the two have played at ever since, the tumultuous
circumstances which Harry finds himself in with Ginny, Adrian's strong desire to have someone
hold him and care about him—to Hermione, and to anyone who knows them, all of those things
manifest here stronger than just 'chance.'

Maybe they’re exactly what one another needs.

Maybe they’ve known longer than she has.

Maybe they discussed it at the Pensieve.

They have to have discussed something at the Pensieve.

Maybe Adrian—

“Do I have to stop that little mouth of yours from rambling again?” Draco teases, leaning into
Hermione’s ear and kissing the top of it.

“Sorry,” she responds, blushing and pursing her lips. Watching as the two continue to kiss,
Hermione tugs Draco’s neck towards her further.

“What are you up to, Granger?” he tuts, journeying again across her neck with his tongue and teeth
in those fluctuating patterns of admiration.

“Nothing!” she squeals, tilting her head further so that he has more access to the crooks of her neck.

He huffs near her ear and then peppers kisses along the rim, to which she giggles and dips away.
His eyes reach hers, and she finds it much harder now that he’s staring at her to contain her secret.

“What are you hiding? What did you see?” he probes, inching closer and closer to her with each
word.

She smiles against his lips. “Your friends dancing and being happy. That good enough?”

With his hand cupping her cheek, Draco tugs Hermione in for a deep kiss, using his other hand to
support her lower back. He pulls away, shakes his head, and tsks at her.

“That’s good enough.”

And in that cornucopia of pleasure, Hermione presses her forehead against his and thanks the stars
for a night so perfect, so endearing, and so beautiful that it feels like anything and everything good
is attainable. Just an arm’s reach away. She’ll take that leap the moment she can.

But elsewhere, under those same stars and sky that seem to give the Slytherins and their Gryffindor
companions everything, the luck of the group seems to run its course. And the stars do nothing to
stop it.

“Just watch, Quincy. The time will come.”

Quincy Aberfield paces across the back of his desk, teeth fixed against one another and fists
tightened.

“Not soon enough,” he says, agitation driving his steps and his mind.

Seated on a chair in front of his desk with her legs crossed, Healer Bruiser taps her foot against the
air in a nonchalant manner. “Stay on course. Watch them with the trackers.”

“How—” Aberfield slams his fist against the desk— “am I supposed to continue when they’re not
attending meetings? And when they are constantly together?” He scoffs. “It was easier with that
weak son of a bitch Montague. Always alone.”

“Patience, Quincy.”

She rises to meet him behind the desk, and while stroking his arm and tapping her fingers against
the wood, Bruiser says,

“Our time will come.”

 Chapter 27
Chapter Notes

I did double update, so make sure you read chapter 26 first :)

The last thing Hermione wants to do is wake anyone up, especially Draco.

She’s swathed in his arms later that night, sound asleep for the first few hours of the night. But the
alcohol in her system suggests a more tumultuous turn of events, and suddenly Hermione is
opening her eyes and feeling her stomach drop with a heavy exertion of pressure.

Carefully, she rises from Draco’s chest and creeps off of his bed. Tiptoeing towards the door,
Hermione’s wary of waking up Draco—the way he sleeps with peace strewn across his face is a
sight far more pleasant than any other could possibly be. She’s cautious of the way her feet creak
against the floorboards as she reaches for the handle of the door.

She just needs some water. That’s what she tells herself. A glass of water to soothe her tense
stomach, and then she’s straight back to bed. No need to linger on what ifs or unfortunate
possibilities when she can simply tell herself that she’s fine. Just get some water and go straight
back to bed—

When she opens the door to the living room and beholds the scene on the couch, Hermione’s
mouth drops, and her eyebrows lift in a brisk motion.

It’s Harry and Adrian, curled up on the couch together.

Adrian lies horizontally, leaning his back against two pillows that are set upright against the arm of
the couch. Between Adrian's legs, with his back against his chest, lies Harry. His head is rotated
and lies on Adrian’s left shoulder. While Adrian’s right arm hangs off of the couch, his fingers
almost touching the floor, his left arm is crossed over Harry’s body in a manner that exudes
protection and comfort in one singular way, as if Adrian invented that position and sentiment
specifically for Harry.

She wonders at the scene for a moment, then decides that venturing into the kitchen for a glass of
water just isn’t worth waking them up. So, she steps backwards, closes the door, and edges back
into Draco’s bed.

When he feels her nestle against his chest again, he stirs.

“You alright?” he whispers into her hair, and it sounds as though he’s still half asleep when he
asks. His voice is like that of an angel upon her frizzy locks.

Hermione nods as he takes her right hand in his left and sets it against his heart.

“Perfect,” she responds.

“Is Potter in there?”

Her breath hitches, but she answers truthfully. “Yes.”

“With Adrian?”

She takes a gulp. “Mhm.”

Draco doesn’t respond—just huffs a soft breath from his nostrils and pulls Hermione in tighter.

Moments later, when she’s breathing sweetly against his chest in the midst of sleep, Draco finally
responds.

“Good,” he whispers, and then he dips his head into hers and allows the tacit kiss of sleep to claim
him once more.

Adrian’s favorite song is “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees.

He likes to imagine that he’s Travolta straight out of Saturday Night Fever as he prances down the
streets of Barnet, his hands dipped in the pockets of his jacket and his steps jovial with the rhythm
of the tune in his head.

It’s the natural strut in his step that helps him command the same amount of attention from
passersby as Travolta once got. Heads turning, eyes wandering up and down his tall figure, soft
giggles from groups of young women who take one look at him and swoon. Reveling in that
attention, Adrian often winks back, offers a double take, even sometimes flips on his heels and
walks backwards once they’ve passed by him in order to get one more good look.

As he continues today’s promenade, the song ringing in his head like his own personal record
player, Adrian fiddles with the packet of cigarettes in his pocket before removing it, picking out a
single smoke, and fastening it between his lips. Glancing around briefly to make sure no one sees
what he’s about to do, Adrian snaps his fingers to light the end of the cigarette. He inhales and
blows, painting the air around him with the tricks of the smoke.

A few minutes later, when he’s finished with the cigarette, Adrian holds the butt between his
fingers and snaps it into thin air. He leans against the back of a brick building, hands shoved in his
pockets and eyes scanning the alleyway for Andrew, his muggle dealer.

He appears moments later, sauntering towards Adrian with slow steps. And when he stands before
him, Andrew offers a brief nod, nothing more.

It’s odd, because he’s usually more upbeat. But Adrian brushes it off, assuming that he’s just had a
rough go of it recently.

“Here,” Andrew says, removing a small pouch from inside his jacket. Adrian receives it and nods.

“Thanks, mate,” he responds, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of his saved
banknotes. He unrolls the stash of cash and hands Andrew the usual amount. When Andrew
receives the money rather quickly and begins to tremble around his lips, Adrian tilts his head to the
side. “You alright?”

Andrew nods and removes something else from his pocket—a single dime bag of cocaine.

“I’m fine, yeah. Look, if you ever want to try some really strong stuff, this is for you. It’s premium,
practically pure, and it’s free of charge. I know your birthday was a few days ago, so—”

He shoves the baggie into Adrian’s hand and forces a smile. “That’s from me to you.”
Adrian smiles and nods his head. “Hey, thanks. Same time in three weeks?”

Andrew nods and gulps. “Yeah. See you in a few weeks.”

And Adrian watches as his dealer scurries off from the same place he came.

The interaction was odd, undoubtedly. Andrew’s demeanor was a lot less engaging and pleasant.
Unwilling to dwell on it for too long, Adrian sighs it off and turns out of the alleyway to continue
his own journey.

He walks several blocks north towards the more residential district of Barnet, arriving at a side
street called Dickens Avenue. He turns down the road. Walks past twelve houses before reaching
the one he desires. It’s small, just like the others, and painted white with bold, red outlines around
the window frames. Hiding behind a bare tree, Adrian peers through the open windows into the
house before him.

She sits in that front room, beautiful as ever. Chocolate hair that reaches past her shoulders, dainty
fingers wrapped around a cup of tea, legs folded up onto the couch that she sits upon. There’s a
little black cat that walks along the windowsill and then leaps onto the couch next to her, and she
takes the feline in her lap and begins to scratch the crown of its head. And then there’s a man that
sits next to her—draws her into his chest and kisses the top of her head as they watch a program on
the television.

He pulls out another cigarette and lights it. Inhales the contents and watches as his mother laughs
with her new family.

Without him.

Adrian remembers those moments with her quite vividly. She had only left them when his father
took the Dark Mark, and that was just a few years ago, really. She gave up her magic and walked
right out in the name of morality.

Adrian doesn’t blame her—not one bit. He just… misses her. Sometimes needs her.

It’s in these moments every three weeks that Adrian is able to see his mother. When the drugs run
low and he has to fetch more, it’s funny that this picture right here—of his mother in her nice little
home on Dickens Avenue—is the one he’s addicted to the most.

Barnet has the drugs, the quaint tattoo parlor for Draco, and the charm that the Slytherins hoped to
find in the muggle world.

But above all, Barnet has Adrian’s mother.

He thinks this town holds her captive, but really he knows that it’s what set her free.

“Count the stars, Pans.”

Theo and Pansy lie on the field just outside of the Shrieking Shack. In the peak of the night, the
stars are impossible to miss, and it’s one of Pansy’s favorite pastimes to watch them in a clear,
evening sky. So, they sneak out of the apartment, hand in hand, heart clasped to heart, and they lie
in the field under a warm blanket and admire the stars because it’s the most important wonder of
the world to them.
Theo often says that the freckles on Pansy’s cheeks remind him of stars. That she is his universe,
and that the sky simply stole inspiration from her beauty and manifested it for itself. But that no
matter how hard it tries, the sky will never outshine her.

Pansy always laughed at that and thought it was quite cheesy—but coming from Theo, it means
everything.

She chuckles at his request. “There’s an infinite number of them. I can’t count them all.”

“Do you know how much love I have for you?”

She turns her head to face his, already inferring the cheesy line he plans on spewing. “I can take a
guess.”

“I have more love for you than there are stars in this universe.”

Pansy rolls onto her stomach and leans against her forearms for support as she props her chin on
the left side of Theo’s chest. The back of his index finger strokes her rosy cheek over and over,
each caress more proof of how much he simply adores the woman before him.

“You’re teasing me,” Pansy whispers.

“Never,” Theo responds. “Not about this.”

Her chin drops to his chest, but her eyes remain fastened to his. His eyes, which venerate her more
than she believes that she deserves. More than anyone in this world deserves. Because Theodore
Nott holds this predisposed proclivity to shower his loved ones with generosity whenever he sees
them falter in their own self-worth. That’s part of the reason why Pansy holds onto him so tightly
—he reminds her day after day that there’s still something within her that beats and loves in the
same way that he does.

“Do you think we’ll ever be truly happy again?” Pansy asks.

Theo sighs and shifts his fingers to Pansy’s hair, raking them through the soft locks.

“Yes. I do.”

“When?”

Theo gulps. “Soon. Just hang on a little longer.”

“I’m tired, Theo,” Pansy whispers. “I’m tired.”

“I know, Pans.”

“I don’t want to argue. Not with you, not with Draco, not with… Hermione. I don’t want to push
people away. I just want to feel better.”

Sitting up and guiding Pansy to her knees in front of him, Theo takes hold of her cold cheeks and
presses his forehead to hers.

“You complete me,” he whispers, followed by a series of supple and forgiving kisses all across her
face. “And I will do everything I can to make you always feel as whole and as perfect as you truly
are. Do you understand?”

Pansy nods as her mother’s words ring in her ears—ignore your pain. Your pain doesn’t exist.
Those emotions aren’t real, just force yourself to be better.

“I’m sorry,” Pansy croaks, feeling her eye water and her lips quiver.

“No, you’re perfect,” Theo mutters, placing his lips on her forehead. “You’re perfect, Pansy.”

She’s not perfect—she’s known that for a while now. She’s flawed in every way possible. Takes
responsibility in the fact that a lot of her choices did bring her to this place of despair.

Wrapped in Theo’s arms, enamored with his flowing stream of affirmations, Pansy thinks she’s as
close to perfect as she’ll ever be.

“Alright, Theo, we’re doing a cover-up today, that right?”

Lying reclined on the large chair in the middle of the tattoo studio, Theo holds out and flips his left
forearm to the ceiling. He rolls his sleeve up to reveal his Dark Mark. It’s faded, disgusting, and
not something he wishes to look at ever again.

“Yeah, right here,” he says, exposing the tattoo for the artist to see.

The artist rolls on his chair to take a close look at the mark. He cocks his head to the side and raises
his eyebrows. “Cool tattoo you’ve got there,” he comments.

“At least one of us thinks that,” Theo mumbles under his breath as the artist prepares his tools.

“The image you’ve given me works rather well,” he says, lifting the printed piece of paper with the
image of Theo’s desired tattoo. “The shape of the flower aligns quite well with the shape of that
skull, and then I can cover the rest with smaller patches of flowers cascading down where that
snake is. It’ll look great. But it will take some time.”

“I’ll sit here for hours if I have to,” Theo teases with a smile.

The artist grins as he prepares his disinfectant, and then he begins to dab a wet cotton ball against
Theo’s arm to clean the area. “Any particular significance of the flower?” he asks, wiping his arm
clean and turning back around to prepare the ink.

“They’re pansies,” Theo responds, “the most beautiful flowers in the world. And no one can tell
me otherwise.”

“I won’t try to,” the artist laughs over his shoulder. “You seem to have your heart set on pansies.”

Theo snickers and smiles, the memory of his beautiful girl flashing in his mind as the artist begins
to outline the flowers atop his Dark Mark.

“Trust me, I do.”

Daphne’s head hangs in the toilet.

She isn’t sure what it is today. The amount of chemicals working overdrive in her body makes it
difficult to keep up with how she actually feels. Things are moving too fast, emotions are high, her
brain feels like it’s going to explode any second from the pressure building in her body. Everything
is a haze.
But one thing is clear: her stomach isn’t having it.

And so, she throws up the contents of her stomach, but she does it quietly—as quietly as possible,
that is. Because Blaise doesn’t need to see this anymore. He shouldn’t have to always give up
everything in his life to help her. He should be focused on himself, his own needs, his own issues.
He needs to—

Daphne hurls again. She can’t help it.

And then there’s a knock at the door, and she panics.

“Daph? Is that you?”

She wipes a tear from her eye because the pain of throwing up is unbearable, but it’s equally worse
that the man who’d do anything for her is standing outside the bathroom door, begging to see her
and hold her and take care of her, yet all she wants to do is be alone.

Her voice is shaky as she responds. “Yes.”

“Will you let me come in?”

She believes herself to be utterly weak in this moment. Wishes that she could’ve resisted the drugs
the first time around, because then she wouldn’t have to deal with this agony, this torture, these
demons in her body that are purposely driving her to an edge that she believes she won’t be able to
balance upon.

“Daph—”

“Come in,” she relents, holding her hair back as she shamefully lowers her head into the toilet bowl
again. She refuses to turn around as he enters. Can’t bear to look at him while she does this.

But she does feel Blaise’s hand take her hair from her own grip, and she also feels his soft caress
against her back and hears the hushes from his mouth that are steeped in delicate love.

“Shh, you’re alright,” he says calmly as she practically turns her insides out, “you’re alright,
Daph.”

I’m not, she thinks to herself. I’m not alright.

Once she’s had enough, Daphne falls back and collapses into his arms. Her knees find her chest as
he sways her back and forth, slowly, like a newborn. She squeezes her eyes shut to stop the crying,
but that seems to produce the opposite effect—more tears escape from behind her heavy lids as she
whimpers and sniffles.

She’s tired. So tired.

“I’m going to get you help,” Blaise whispers, rocking her back and forth and kissing the top of her
head over and over. “I swear. I swear to Salazar that I’m going to do it. And you’re going to be just
fine.”

Daphne nods, but she has a hard time believing it.

“Just remember this, okay?” Blaise asks. “Remember how it feels to be loved by everyone here,
me especially. Remember that fact when everything hurts.”

“I will,” Daphne whispers, nodding her head.

She supposes, though, that promising Blaise that simple fact is like swearing on a false reality.
Lying to the sun and moon and stars about who they will continue to serve each and every day.

But for now, she’ll do what she must. She’ll paint picturesque mirages for her and Blaise to hold
onto when things become too hard. And she’ll try—truly try—to remember the love her friends
have for her.
 Chapter 28
Chapter Notes

TW // graphic scene of a drug overdose. viewer discretion is strongly advised.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

What Adrian loves most about Amortentia in the prime of the night is that it feels like the safest
place in the world. It’s a haven, nestled in a corner of his own universe—a universe that bends to
his needs and curves to accommodate his fears. And in moments like this, it is exempt from pain
and suffering—liberated from the binds that tie him to his shameful past.

At Amortentia, he’s just a boy who loves to dance, who loves his friends, and whose life steadily
ascends the rays of sun as they beam down on him in the form of strobe lights, and all he has to do
to reach that nirvana is give in to the sensations and the heat of the glow. He mounts those rays,
makes that journey upwards, and finds heaven and peace.

So, when he excuses himself from the group for a moment to use the lavatory, Adrian sees no issue
in letting the light carry him alone. He views the moment as a time to embrace what he feels around
him. The sights, the sounds, and the heartbeat of the club itself energizes every step he makes
towards that lavatory door.

Right before he goes, he passes by Draco, holds his index finger in the air, and mouths the words
“one minute” to his friend—his friend, who is all-too consumed in the sweetness of the woman
before him. Granger smiles and knocks her head back against Draco’s shoulder, and in that
moment, Adrian actually witnesses happiness glimmer in the radiance of Draco’s cheeks and the
curve of his lips. He steps past the two, patting Draco’s back as he goes.

Leaving his friends in their pocket of peace isn’t something that Adrian overthinks.

It’s just for a moment, anyway.

As he pulls open the door of the lavatory, Adrian’s other hand dips into his pocket to fiddle with
the dime bag. His fingers flick the plastic as he closes the door, and then he removes the bag
altogether, locks the door, and makes his way to the counter.

He just needs one more quick line. One more can’t hurt. It’ll only make things better—make the
lights feel warmer, make his blood flow faster, make the pads of his fingers more susceptive to the
invisible bits of matter that float through the air.

It can’t hurt.

It can only make things better.

Rationalizing it all is important.

When he steps in front of the mirror, Adrian tosses the bag onto the counter and places his hands
on the edge of the cold, granite countertop. He leans forward, studying his reflection in the mirror.
Beneath the violet glow of the bathroom, Adrian gazes at the chiseled outline of his cheekbones
and jawline, the light amount of perspiration that glows upon the creases of his forehead, and the
dimples that form around the corner of his mouth. Reaching his hands forward, he pulls on the
knob of the faucet and splashes some cold water onto his face. His cheeks are on fire from the heat
of the dance floor, and so the fresh feeling of water against his balmy skin is his best option for
cooling down before indulging in more cocaine.

It’s just a quick moment to regain himself before undergoing more pleasant sensations.

That quick moment in time cedes to another as Adrian perceives a discreet gust of wind reverberate
behind him. It’s a snatch in the air, quick and quiet against the loud boom of the music outside the
door, but it’s audible, nonetheless.

When Adrian lifts his head and looks through the mirror, he spots two new bodies—new but
recognizable.

Perhaps his mind is playing tricks on him—it can’t possibly be them.

“Whoa,” he mutters, turning around slowly and making eye contact with the man on the right,
“what the fuck—”

“ Muffliato .”

The two individuals dart towards Adrian, and he has little time to pull away before they grip his
arms and thrust him onto his knees.

“What the—hey!” Adrian shouts, struggling beneath their constricted grips. He whips his arms
around as wildly as possible, begging to break free from the bounds of their fingers. And as he tries
to rise to his feet, he feels the soles of their shoes dig into his calves to keep him down.

Adrian keeps shouting in the direction of the door—crying for his friends, begging someone to
hear him. But deep down, he knows that his efforts are wasted against the Silencing Spell.

He doesn’t realize just how powerless he is until the dainty hand of the woman holding him down
tilts his chin up and forces his mouth open by squeezing the corners of his mouth.

Adrian cries once more, a muffled sound this time: “Hey—help! Help !”

But they don’t hear him. The rest of the clubgoers—none of them can hear him.

No one ever does, really.

Adrian hears the pop of a vial to his left and feels the cold rim of the glass skim against his mouth.

“Drink,” the man instructs, tugging his arm again to contain Adrian’s persistent thrashing.

Gods, it is him. He’s found them, and he must’ve used the trackers to do so.

Adrian shakes his head and spits against the vial. “No way—fuck you!” he shouts back, grinding
his teeth to try to startle his unwelcomed visitors.

The man looks at the woman. “Open his mouth further.”

The fingers that compress his lips wring his skin tighter until there’s little Adrian can do to close
his mouth. A small circle forms, and the vial finds the aperture.

Adrian takes a deep breath as the liquid is poured into his mouth.
It slides down his mouth, stinging and burning the walls of his throat in the way that firewhisky
would. He gargles, chokes, and tries to spit it back up and out of his mouth, but underneath the
strain of being held down, the pads of those fingers forcing his mouth open, and his inability to
fucking breathe, Adrian has no choice but to swallow the mystery substance.

Almost immediately, he feels placid. He can feel his body lose any sort of rigidity as the drink
glides through and permeates his system.

“That’s it,” the man says in that same condescending tone, the one that fucking tortured Adrian
and his friends at those monotonous meetings. “Do what your body tells you to do. Don’t fight it,
Adrian.”

“Don’t fight it,” the woman says sweetly. “It’ll only make you feel better, in the end.”

Fuzzy spots begin to take over Adrian’s line of vision. He holds on to whatever sliver of
consciousness he has left, begging himself to remember where he is, who he is, who is holding him
down, who is just outside the door—

That same gust of wind sounds against his eardrums, and through his unsteady vision, Adrian is
able to recognize his solitude.

There’s one moment of clarity that he’s rewarded before Adrian begins to feel a foreign spirit
colonize his body. And then, there’s a voice that echoes in his head.

Go on.

A cold shiver crawls up his spine.

You know you want them. The drugs.

Without full autonomy over his body, and with his mouth slack and eyes heavy, Adrian slowly
turns on his knees and spots the bag of cocaine on the counter. He swears that there’s something
different about this bag—a violet tinge to the drug’s aura.

A pressure builds in the bridge of his nose as he gazes at the already crystallized powder.

It’s perfect—perhaps, too perfect.

It’ll make you feel so much better .

It’s true.

No, no, no. It’s not true. He doesn’t need these drugs. He needs to leave the lavatory. He needs to
find his friends. He needs to tell them what happened, he needs to be with someone, he needs help
—

You know it’ll make you feel better.

It’s true.

With perhaps a little too much tenacity, Adrian rips open the bag and dumps almost the entirety of
the contents onto the counter. And then without thinking—simply following the adrenaline in his
fingers—Adrian removes his I.D. card from his pocket and begins the process of cutting lines.
Carefully separating the contents into as many lines as he can, Adrian feels beads of sweat drip
from his forehead. His hands shake, but he manages to separate the cocaine without leaving much
out.

Look at those perfect lines. You know you want them. They’ll make you feel so much better, just like
they always do.

Adrian’s heart begins to race as he drops the card onto the counter. He counts the number of lines
in front of him.

There’s nine of them. Nine.

The whole fucking bag now exists in nine lines of cocaine, all lined up nicely in front of him.

Do it.

There’s an iota of resistance in Adrian as he leans his nose over the first pile of cocaine.

A small part of him realizes the direness of the situation, but it’s miniscule. It’s nothing compared
to that voice in his head, tempting him to swipe his nostril over the powder and just let whatever
this is happen.

He tries to speak for himself—audibly decline the voice in his head or warn himself about what
will happen if he inhales this much—but every time he even attempts to regain control, that other
voice overshadows him.

Go on. It’ll feel fucking fantastic.

Adrian knows it’ll feel fantastic. It’s felt fantastic since his first day.

But he… he knows other things too—

It’s so simple. So, so, simple.

Is it that simple? There has to be something else happening here—

Do it.

With that last command, a switch clicks inside of Adrian.

He leans down, plugs his left nostril, and messily inhales the first line of cocaine.

When he comes up for air, he tips his chin back and stares at the ceiling, letting the feeling seep
down his throat and spread against his gullet. He flaps his eyelids as he looks down at the rest.

Go on.

Gods… please… is anyone listening?

Adrian does another line. Lifts his head again for that breath of fresh air as it drops down his
throat. Begs his body not to bend down again to do any more.

But it doesn’t listen.

He swipes two more messy lines over the same nostril. Holds his breath. Can feel his brain beg for
oxygen as he fills the cavity of his nose with cocaine.

One more line—he’s done five, now.

And suddenly, his body starts to burn, and it’s not in the pleasant way that cocaine creates. It’s on
his arm—his left forearm—and it feels like his skin is being singed right off of the bone. It’s worse
than anything he’s ever felt. And that unbearable pain creeps its way up the skin of his arm until it
reaches his shoulder, and then his collarbone, neck, cheeks, and head.

He considers the possibility that the drugs are laced—

Keep going. It feels fucking fantastic, doesn’t it?

As he leans down once more, a single tear drops from his eye and lands next to that sixth line of
cocaine. He swipes it up through his nostril.

Abruptly, Adrian falls onto his behind and clasps his hand over his chest. He can feel his heart leap
and cartwheel and spin within the barrier of his ribs, and then it slows down and moves as slow as
a snail, but then after a few seconds it speeds up again. He can’t keep track of the fluctuating
pattern of his heartbeat. It dances to a rhythm that he’s never learned before and never truly
expected he’d face one day.

With the flutter of his eyelids, Adrian begins to succumb to a new darkness.

His arm throbs and burns.

You were never worthy enough .

The pain on his arm is too much to handle. He’d do anything to slice that mark off of his skin.

Adrian needs the pain to go away. Needs it all to be over.

With another deep, deep breath, Adrian tries gasping for air. Fucking begs for it.

You’re mine.

Tepid tears fall down his cheeks—Adrian can hear himself sobbing. Even if it’s something he can’t
process having control over, he can still hear the quiet whimpers fall from his lips.

He faints onto his back.

His chest rises up and down, up and down, up and down. Catching his breath feels like trying to
catch a cheetah—fucking impossible due to the unyielding endurance of whatever courses through
his system, whatever was in the drugs and the potion.

“Shit,” he is finally able to whimper, followed by a gasp for air. Air that he can’t seem to find.

His vision begins to falter further. And his fingers feel less energetic and more like weights on his
body that are just… unnecessary.

All of it happens so fast—too fast. Every time he feels an inkling of autonomy again, his heart rate
speeds up, and he only recognizes the terrible, terrible voice inside of his head.

In a brief moment of clarity, he thinks about his friends… they’re right outside…

The words he once said to Granger drown out the voice in that moment: I never do drugs alone.
It’s a social process. It’s meant to be done with a support system.

Gods , they’re just outside… his support system… he needs them… he needs their help…
Another gasp for air. Any air.

His heart leaps again.

That’s it, Adrian…

No, gods , not that voice again. Where is that voice coming from? Go away, go away.

He doesn’t want to die.

Please.

He doesn’t want to die yet. He’s not ready.

It’s the last thing Adrian thinks before his body lets gravity fasten it and everything else to the
ground. His eyesight falters, his limbs wilt, and he takes one last breath before going still.

A lot of things are beautiful to Hermione Granger in this moment, but what is easily the most
beautiful is Draco Malfoy. And that’s all she can think about as she dances in his arms, feels him
pepper kisses against her neck, then shoulder, then collarbone, and lets him sway her side to side
on the dance floor.

She cranes her head to the left to catch a glimpse of his face glimmering under the indigo lights of
the club, and it only further confirms how she feels about him. To her, Draco looks like the ocean,
and drowning doesn’t seem as scary as it once did.

Near them, Blaise and Daphne dance with their chests pressed against one another. It’s in the same
manner as usual. Enamored with one another—like they’re the only two that exist in the world—
Blaise and Daphne withdraw into their own treasurable sanctuary.

Pansy and Theo do the same, completely enraptured with one another. Eyes fixed and souls
meshed in that moment, the two would reaffirm to anyone whose eyes passed over them the true
power that love has in this world.

And it all seems so perfect to Hermione. This moment is right out of a textbook—right out of the
chapter of what it means to live and breathe and appreciate life.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” Draco whispers into Hermione’s ear, followed by a quick
kiss on her lobe and an even quicker nip.

It’s those few words and playful actions which never fail to make Hermione giggle, sigh, and fall
flatter against his chest. Draco has this way of making her feel special. The sentiments slip from his
warm breath and breeze down her neck, and fuck’s sake , Hermione feels like a goddess when he
tells her things like that. Feels like she could conquer the world with Draco at her shoulder.

“Where the hell is Adrian?” Blaise shouts, disconnecting eye contact with Daphne and scanning
the dance floor. “He should be here!”

“He’s probably off flirting with some poor girl or fella!” Theo responds, followed by a laugh.

Draco’s hands tighten around Hermione’s waist—she can feel it clear as day. She almost stops
swaying because of the tenacity of his grip.

“No,” Draco answers from behind her, “I think he’s just using the restroom.”
“Is he with someone else in there, perhaps?” Pansy teases with a cheeky grin, continuing to dance
against Theo.

Draco slows down his movements, and now Hermione can feel the tension in his hands and body.
She pulls away just a few inches and cranes her head to take in Draco’s puzzled expression.

“I don’t think so,” he answers over the music. “He said he’d just be a minute.”

Pansy removes herself from Theo. “Shall we see if we can hear the action?” she giggles, tugging
on Theo’s hands and dragging him in the direction of the restroom.

“What a gross invasion of privacy, Pans!” Theo teases with a fake gasp. “Abso- bloody -lutely!”

“Save Daph and I a spot!” Blaise shouts, dragging Daphne by her waist in the same direction,
cheeky smiles falling upon both of their faces.

Hermione turns around and inspects the look on Draco’s face. There’s something questionable
about the way his tongue darts every which way within his mouth. He avoids eye contact, shaking
his head and speeding up his breathing.

“Adrian’s not in there with anyone,” Draco asserts. “He would’ve made some sort of scene to
denote that. And he’s… he’s bloody mesmerized by… Potter. I don’t buy it.”

“Do you think he’s alright?” Hermione asks. “Perhaps he really is just using the restroom—”

“It’s been several minutes,” Draco interrupts. “How long does it take to use the fucking loo?”

Hermione purses her lips in response, recognizing just how on edge he is. “Malfoy—”

“I don’t like how long he’s been in there.”

She takes his hand in hers. “Come on. Let’s just knock, then. If he’s really just… going to the
bathroom… then I’m sure he’ll respond in his usual fashion. Nothing to worry about.”

Draco finally looks at Hermione, and with a forced smile, he nods and turns on his heels, tugging
her through the tight crowd of bodies towards the lavatory. When they reach the others, Draco
pushes past his group of friends to knock on the door.

“Pucey?” he calls over the music.

There’s no response. Hermione assumes it’s because the music is too loud—too loud for Adrian to
hear, anyhow.

Draco bangs on the door with the side of his fist, this time with more purpose. “Adrian?”

There’s still no response. A pang of anxiety surges through Hermione’s gut, causing her stomach to
contract lightly and her exhalation to come out shaky.

Daphne purses her lips. “Don’t you think he would’ve called out by now?”

Draco ignores her question, shaking his head. “I don’t like this—”

Theo tuts in a comforting fashion. “He’s probably fine—”

“I’m not taking a bloody chance,” Draco snaps, jerking his head to address Theo briefly and then
reverting his attention back to the door.
Blaise enters the conversation. “No, Malfoy’s right.” He clears his throat and knocks on the door,
calling, “Adrian? You in there, mate?”

The lack of response is more than troubling—it’s torture.

“Maybe he’s not in the restroom?” Pansy suggests, lifting her eyebrows in a trying optimism.

“And where else would he be, hm?” Draco snaps again. “Look around! The guy’s a fucking giant!
We’d be able to see him, no?”

Pansy recoils at Draco’s tone of voice. “I’m sorry, I was just proposing the possibility that—”

“I’m not willing to take a fucking chance!” Draco repeats, resorting to pounding his fist against the
door repeatedly. “Adrian? Open the door, mate. Adrian?”

Instinctively, considering that magic might be able to solve the mystery, Hermione reaches for her
wand to open the door. But she realizes quite quickly that it’s not on her. She didn’t bring it with
her to Amortentia tonight. Why bother bringing it when she’s never felt safer in her life? When the
walls she built around herself years ago seem to fall every day she continues to surround herself
with the Slytherins’ loyalty and love?

Draco seems to have a similar idea and outcome. He bends down to pat where his wand usually
rests on his ankle, but the expression on his face denotes that it’s missing as well.

Missing on purpose. Draco must feel safe, too.

Hermione wonders how much longer that safety will last.

Draco begins to thrust his shoulder against the door and twist the handle with intensity, hoping for
a budge or click.

Blaise cocks his eyebrows. “Where’s your wand—”

“I didn’t fucking bring it!” Draco shouts, throwing his arms in the air. “If any of you did, I’d invite
you to fucking use it right now.”

Removing his wand from his pocket, Blaise points the wood at the handle and mutters the spell: “
Alohomora .”

The lock clicks, and Draco throws the door wide open.

There, trembling and jerking on the ground of the restroom, is Adrian.

The first thing Hermione notices is the pool of vomit to the side of his head, little traces dribbling
down the corner of his mouth and chin. Adrian’s chapped mouth trembles incessantly, and his
teeth chatter and chew down on his tongue. His fingers spasm at his side, and his chest jerks up
and forward at various intervals. Sweat pours down the side of his face, dampening his hair and
the collar of his shirt.

And the sound he makes the moment they open the door—it’s this chilling choke, lodged in his
throat, like a gargle. He almost foams at the mouth, but instead saliva just continues to drool down
the corner of his mouth and onto his face.

Hermione’s knees buckle at the sight; she falls into someone’s arms behind her.

“Woah, Granger!” she hears behind her, but she doesn’t offer much of a reaction. Just gasps and
falls back into whoever’s arms she has found herself lodged in.

“Fuck—hey!” Draco shouts, darting into the bathroom and towards his friend—no, his best friend,
his fucking brother’s —side. He drops to his knees and reaches his hands forward as if to
instinctively steady Adrian’s shaking limbs.

“Don’t move him yet!” Blaise shouts, dropping next to Draco and hovering his hands above
Adrian’s body. He stares at the trembling figure, stutters over his words, and emits a flustered sigh.

“What do—fuck—what do I do?” Draco asks with a rickety voice.

The image of that website on the computer screen returns to Hermione’s unsteady brain:

If someone is having a seizure, do not forcibly restrain the individual. Instead, they should be—

“On his side,” Hermione mutters, but it’s not loud enough for Blaise nor Draco to hear. She
whispers it to herself. “On his side.”

“Move, move !” Blaise shouts, reaching over Adrian’s body, gripping his arm, and slowly rolling
him onto his right side. Holding him in place on his side, Blaise turns around and points at Pansy.
“Get Titus! Go !”

Pansy rushes out, her hand fastened over her mouth as she disappears into the crowd.

And then it’s Daphne’s turn to enter the scene and offer her assistance. As if she knows exactly
what Blaise would want in this situation, Daphne immediately lunges for Draco and pushes him
out of the way.

By process of elimination, Hermione finally realizes whose arms she’s wrapped in: Theo’s.

“Let me go, Daph!” Draco shrieks as Daphne wraps her arms around his body and pulls him a foot,
then two feet, then three feet away from the scene. Blaise leans down and attempts to converse
with Adrian, keep him conscious, ask him questions and understand what is happening. All the
while, Daphne exerts every ounce of strength within her frail body to hold Draco in her arms. He
thrashes and kicks, but in the end, his efforts prove futile. And perhaps that’s an internalized
response to the situation—perhaps it’s all too much, and in truth, he can’t stand to be that close to
his friend.

Hermione watches it all in horror, struggling to lift herself to her feet. Adrian’s face is daunting and
horrific, and she just can’t find the fucking strength to rush forward and help Blaise. There’s
something about the way that Adrian’s mouth hangs open, his pupils dilate, and his body shakes
and squirms that forces Hermione to just watch in shock.

From his pocket, Blaise removes a small vial of clear liquid, and with his shaking fingers, he pops
the top of the vial off and holds it near Adrian’s lips.

“I can do this,” Blaise says through a shaky voice. “This will work, this will work.”

Through stifled tears, Hermione forces out a sentence: “I can—I can help—”

“Stop, stop,” Theo says, struggling to hold Hermione in his arms. “It’s okay, Granger. It’s okay—”

“No, no, let me help—”

“S-stop,” he chokes out, struggling to hold Hermione in his arms as she attempts to smack her way
out of his grip. Her palm strikes Theo’s arms for a few moments, but then she becomes exhausted
fighting his grasp on her, and he becomes exhausted with it too, because she can hear him start to
cry. Tears roll down his cheeks and onto the top of Hermione’s head.

And Hermione, whose head is taut against Theo’s chest, whose legs shake with trepidation, and
whose heart beats so fast that she can barely breathe, gives up fighting. She instead feels gravity
weigh her down further.

Theo tries to hold her up to the best of his ability, but they instead drop and succumb to the floor.

Hermione cannot stop crying.

Frozen, she feels Theo tug her into his chest, cradle her, and then shield her eyes from Adrian’s
convulsing body by turning her head into his chest.

And he whispers to her through his own sobs, “It’s okay, Hermione. It’s okay.”

She can barely process the slip of her name from Theo’s mouth—it’s all too overwhelming. It’s all
too overwhelming and crushing because she should be with Blaise. She should be helping. She
should be whispering those words to Adrian—“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay”—and yet
she lies motionless on the ground in Theo’s arms, and she knows that she looks so fucking weak
right now. She’s weak, she’s pathetic, she’s a sad excuse for the Brightest Witch and the Golden
Girl and the Gryffindor Princess—

“D-deep breaths, Hermione,” Theo says with immense comfort in his voice. “He’s going to be
okay.”

“I have to help,” she cries, attempting one more time to wiggle out of Theo’s arms and crawl
towards her friend. But he yanks her back before she can free herself and begins to run his fingers
down her hair to soothe her.

“You don’t,” Theo says. “It’s okay. B-Blaise knows what he’s doing. Shhh, it’s okay. Blaise
knows what he’s doing.”

Theo repeats that phrase to himself over and over again. With each stroke of Hermione’s head, he
says those words to himself. Whispers them just loud enough that Hermione can hear the
affirmations but still quiet enough that they sound more like distant echoes from his head.

“Blaise knows what he’s doing.”

“Blaise knows what he’s doing.”

“Blaise knows what he’s doing.”

In the midst of the chaos—of their world falling apart—Hermione’s eyes find Draco again.

He shields his face behind quivering hands, hands which are usually so strong and firm and
comforting. But in this moment, Hermione recognizes the frailty of his fingers, the way they
compulsively shake and occasionally grip his face for some sort of stability. Draco drags his
fingers up his scalp and through his hair, and that’s when she sees red, puffy bags under his eyes
and beads of tears form at their corners. With everything he has, Draco tries to keep those tears
pocketed in himself, but a sharp choke from Adrian and a panicked whimper from Blaise send
those tears down the side of his face—dye his already pale skin an even less colorful hue.

Daphne, with immense courage, has her arms wrapped around Draco’s shoulders, her body settled
in front of him in order to shield the scene. As little as she is, Daphne somehow keeps Draco stable
in his seated position—knees bent and up near his chest, elbows glued to his thighs, back arched
like a terrified piece of prey. She strokes her right hand against the back of his head and gently
hushes his muffled cries.

And then she turns her head over her shoulder to look at Hermione. Her eyes are bloodshot too,
tears streaming down her pink cheeks.

But she’s calm, in a sense. It’s odd how calm she is.

When Draco finally looks at Hermione and notices that she’s watching him cry, he takes his right
hand and covers his face with his palm. Dragging his hand down his face and pulling his skin with
the curl of his fingers, Draco wipes the tears on his cheeks and avoids eye contact yet again.
Deducing that there’s an insurmountable amount of shame in the way he must assume that he
appears, Hermione doesn’t try to push her way towards him. Doesn’t force anything.

She simply lets that invisible string between them tighten in the hopes that he feels it too.

Suddenly, Pansy rushes back into the bathroom with Titus on her heels. As she darts to where
Daphne and Draco sit, Titus immediately drops to the ground next to Blaise, muttering profanity
after profanity in that sharp, Scottish intonation.

“Fuck,” Titus says for what feels like the millionth time in a row, inflected with a pain like no
other in his voice, “Did you use your antidote, Blaise?”

Blaise nods with a whimper as he continues to tilt the same vial into Adrian’s slack mouth. “It
should work,” he cries, desperately trying to steady his hands as he administers some sort of
antidote. “It has to work. It has to work. It has to—”

“It will work,” Titus responds, helping to steady Adrian’s shaking body. “You’ve done all the
research and labor to make this possible—”

Adrian coughs and splutters the liquid in his throat, and that chilling sound garners everyone’s
attention. Heads turn and eyes widen as Adrian coughs a few more times, occasionally gargling and
kicking his foot too.

And then, Adrian’s eyes rip wide open, and he stares right at Hermione.

Hermione covers her mouth with her hand as the veins in Adrian’s forehead distend, as his fingers
flex and go intensely rigid, and as his chest lurches up and out.

He gasps for air.

Hermione can’t look away. It’s like a car wreck—frightening and alarming yet impossible to avoid.

“Adrian? Can you hear me?” Titus asks, shaking Adrian’s bicep.

And it’s like a gift from heaven—from the fucking gods themselves—when Adrian slowly nods his
head.

“You need to stay conscious for me, okay?” Titus instructs. “We’re going to take you to St.
Mungo’s right now to get some help—”

“Wait, no!” Daphne suddenly calls out. “No, you have to take him somewhere else!”
“What? Why?”

“They’ve said that we’d be treated like dogs there—”

“Daph, it’s okay,” Blaise starts, shaking his head.

“No!” she cries. “No, it’s not okay! He can’t go there.”

“The third floor of St. Mungo’s treats potential poisoning, Daph,” Titus tries to explain calmly.
“Whatever is in his system will be filtered out properly. We don’t have another option here,
Daphne. He needs medical help this instant.”

“They’ll try to take him away from us,” Daphne insists. “We need him. Please… please don’t let
them take him away.”

Another gasp for air startles everyone’s senses, and again Adrian wheezes and coughs.

Titus fastens his hand around Adrian’s left forearm, and that’s when he notices something more
unnerving.

“Salazar…”

Through the commotion of the overdose, noticing the redness under Adrian’s sleeve is like
noticing a four-leaf clover in a lush, green field—practically impossible. With the focus on
ensuring that he breathes properly through his scattered wheezes and coughs, everyone there
overlooks the sizzling sound coming from the skin of his forearm. Until now.

Titus lifts Adrian’s sleeve and uncovers the sight of burning flesh, right atop of Adrian’s faded his
Dark Mark.

“Holy fuck—”

Titus barely makes contact with the welts on Adrian’s skin before the boy lets out a painful cry.
The reverberations of the shriek shake the entire restroom. Almost immediately, Titus twists his
head to face Pansy, whose arms cradle Draco against her chest.

“Get me a wet paper towel—cold water—now !”

Pansy leaps to her feet and pulls several sheets of paper towels from the dispenser down. And
while she runs them under cold water, she takes note of the lines of cocaine still lined in front of
the sink—three of them, aligned next to several other traces of scattered cocaine. She runs the
towels under cold water for a few seconds and then rushes to Titus’ side, shoving the damp towels
into his hand and stumbling backwards.

“I’m sorry,” Titus says to Adrian before pressing the towels onto his burns.

Adrian lets out another tear-jerking and ear-splitting scream, and that forces Hermione to cower
even further into Theo’s chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Titus repeats as he drags the cold towels over his arm.
Nothing seems to work to cool down the skin, though, and so Titus tosses the towels aside with a
frustrated grunt and takes Adrian’s cheeks in his hands. Blaise holds Adrian steady. “Can you still
hear me, Adrian? I’m going to take you to the hospital. I think… you must’ve been… poisoned—”

Adrian nods and grunts with every iota of energy left in him, and Titus scrambles to his feet.
“He can’t possibly apparate right now,” Theo questions.

“What choice do we have?” Titus responds, twisting his head abruptly to face Theo but instead
landing his eyes on Hermione. Titus sighs and crouches in front of them, reaching forward to
stroke Hermione’s cheek.

“Hermione,” he starts, his voice as soft and calm as possible, “everything will be alright.”

“I can help,” she yelps as Theo holds her tighter. “Let me—let me go with you—”

“No, no,” Titus says, shaking his head in disagreement. “You must stay here with your friends.
You all need each other right now.” Titus turns over his shoulder to glance at Draco, then back at
Hermione. “You don’t have to pretend to be strong right now. It’s okay to be scared.”

Hermione croaks on her tears, trying to fight them from rolling down her cheeks.

“We’re going to take care of him, alright?”

It takes a moment, but Hermione ultimately nods. And with one last stroke to her cheek, Titus
returns to Adrian’s side. He begins the process of taking Adrian’s left arm and swinging it over his
shoulder, and with Blaise’s help they settle Adrian on his knees. His head hangs limp, chin glued to
his chest—his chest, which at least moves up and down with the promise of oxygen.

“Are you sure it’s safe to apparate?” Pansy asks, her voice quaking with anxiety.

Titus sighs. “It’s the only option right now. They’ll immediately stabilize him at the hospital—
fuck , that burns!”

Titus removes Adrian’s left arm from his shoulders. The mark continues to sizzle, heat emanating
from the design and leaving a small blister on the back of Titus’ neck where it was originally
secured. Balancing Adrian to the best of his ability, Titus maneuvers to the other side and wraps
Adrian’s right arm over his shoulder, followed by securing Adrian’s waist in Titus’ left hand.

“I’ll check in with you first thing tomorrow morning, alright? You’ll hear from me one way or
another. Until then, he’s in good hands. I promise you all.”

The Slytherins and Hermione hold their breaths as Adrian and Titus apparate out of the bathroom,
the last thing they hear being a distinct cry from Adrian.

The tension is unnervingly palpable. Muffled sniffles from the Slytherins mixed with the pounding
music blasting into the wide-open restroom door consume the audible environment. No one stirs—
just cries and occasionally blubbers from tears they try to force within.

Finally, when Blaise collapses to his knees and screams into his hands, Daphne lets go of Draco
and runs to wrap her arms around him. His hands search for her as she cradles his head against her
chest, and he cries into her shoulder in a moment of rapture. Like all the walls he’s ever built have
just been beaten with a sledgehammer, and nothing of his tough or pieced-together façade remains.

Pansy fills the void around Draco, placing her hand on his shoulder and guiding his head against
her own shoulder.

Theo clears his throat and rubs Hermione’s arm. “We… we should go—”

She suddenly finds the surge of strength to leave Theo’s arms and crawl towards Draco, because
fuck if that invisible string isn’t tugging her heart like crazy. Fuck if she doesn’t feel like the world
 will cave in if she’s not comforting him.

She knows she doesn’t have to be strong—she wants to be.

So when Hermione reaches his side, Pansy unsheathes him and delicately maneuvers his wilting
body into Hermione’s now open arms. As Pansy rises from the floor and approaches Theo,
Hermione guides Draco’s forehead to rest against hers. They cry together.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, brushing her forehead against his in horizontal shakes.

Draco doesn’t respond—just sobs quietly in Hermione’s arms.

She looks up and at the counter in front of her, haunted by the cocaine that lines the granite.
Unwilling to be away from him for too long, though, Hermione returns to secure her forehead
against Draco’s, hushing his cries and caressing his cheeks with her thumbs. Soft, long strokes
wipe away his warm tears.

They seem to sit there for what feels like forever. Hermione’s heart races in her chest, and she can
feel Draco’s own heartbeat soar through his body and manifest in every pulse of his movements.

And after that forever, Hermione finally hears the others speak.

“Blaise, what did you give him?” It’s Theo’s voice—calm and collected but still harboring an
insurmountable force of sorrow.

Clearing his throat, Blaise responds, “An antidote I’ve been… working on… to counter an
overdose.” Hermione hears him sniffle behind her but refuses to remove herself from Draco.
“Just… just in case we ever needed it.”

“How did you know to have it tonight?” That’s Pansy, strong and resilient as ever, even if the
delivery of her last word—tonight—is more of a croak than anything else.

“I didn’t. I’ve kept it with me everywhere we’ve gone for weeks now. Just in case.”

“You’ve had it all this time? For us?” Theo asks.

“For us.” He pauses, and when Blaise finishes his sentence, Hermione takes that moment to pull
Draco tighter into her arms, as if the promise that Blaise makes is one that she inaudibly makes to
him as well:

“Nobody here is dying. Nobody… here… is dying.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm sorry. don't kill me. I love you all.

 Chapter 29

Shame. It’s an emotion that Draco doesn’t normally feel. Partly because it’s rather embarrassing,
but also because every time he does start to feel that way, he resorts to drowning it out with
cocaine. Who has time to feel this disgraceful and useless, anyhow?

Not Draco.

So, he fights it.

But loses the battle.

He sits in his bed later that night, legs outstretched across the mattress and head resting against the
headboard, waiting for Hermione to return from comforting the others.

Of course she’s strong enough to do that. There’s something entirely golden and effervescent about
her and her soul. Because even in the most difficult times—even when she breaks down in tears
and shakes—she is still strong enough to pull herself out of that dark place for the sake of her
friends.

Draco wishes he could be that strong too. But his resilience comes in parcels, and he’s exerted
everything possible tonight trying to just stay conscious. Trying to not falter under the unbelievably
heavy weight of the world as he thinks about his friend—his best friend—almost fucking die right
before his eyes—

He’d seen Hell before. Draco had looked the Devil in the eyes many times. He’d undertook
unspeakable tasks, suffered torture and coercion at the hands of actual villains, fallen victim to a
crippling drug addiction that pits him in a black hole every second of his life. But never—never—
had Draco felt as afraid as he did just twenty minutes ago.

It was the stench, the blank look of Adrian’s eyes, and the evidence of it all—puddles of vomit
surrounding Adrian’s body and coating his lips, cocaine spread on the counter in frantic lines.
There were three lines visible, but Salazar knows how many Adrian has already taken by the time
he succumbed to his seizure.

It was also the fact that it could’ve happened to any of them, even himself—

Draco tightens his eyes to dispel the thought. Bends his knees and drops his chest to rest upon his
thighs. Almost cries, but not quite. He resists those tears to the best of his ability and instead
compels another emotion to wash over his body, take charge, colonize him. Anger, rage, wrath—
all synonyms for the way his blood feels as it courses through his body. It’s hot with the promise of
flames. Flames that could reach the sky, should he exert them.

But when the door to his room finally opens, and Hermione quietly slips inside, that anger
dissipates and drowns in something else: need.

She turns slowly, leans her back against the shut door, and purses her lips. “Sorry,” she finally
whispers, glancing down at her feet and then back at Draco. “Everyone’s asleep now, but
Crookshanks was being rather stubborn.”

He doesn’t respond. Can’t find the strength in his lungs or throat to do so.

Fuck’s sake, the cat? The cat is going to bring him to tears? The fact that he shares that connection
to Adrian with a fucking cat is going to lead him to sulk and scream and cry? That bloody kneazle,
that little shit—that’s what’s going to break him right now?

He hears Hermione’s quiet footsteps tap against the wooden floorboards, and then a moment later
he senses the mattress dip beside him, adjacent to where his legs are bent. Her own legs hang off
the side of the bed. Draco glances at her for a moment; she’s staring at Adrian’s bed. The corners
of her eyes grow moist with tears, but she quickly swipes her fingers across the bottom of her
eyelids to dispel those tears.

Strong, strong, she’s so fucking strong.

“I think it’s best for now if we all just go to sleep,” Hermione starts. “We’ll hear from Titus in the
morning.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep.”

Hermione turns her head to look at Draco. She hesitates, but then reaches her hand over and
sheathes hers over his.

“What do you need from me?” she asks in that sweet, sweet voice—that voice, which makes
Draco’s insides feel as light as snow.

He has to think long and hard about that question. What is it that he needs, truly? Because right
now, his anger could enflame the whole world in one exhale. His rage could swallow all the
oceans and seas and lakes that cover the earth. His hands—crazed and voracious with a desire for
revenge—could wrap around a neck and wring it dry. And what could Hermione possibly do to
hinder those intense cravings? How could she possibly bring him back from that?

“Nothing,” he says, retracting his hand from hers and dipping under the duvet.

Draco knows he’s shutting down. But perhaps that’s better than wielding his anger against her,
especially when she, of all the fucking people in the world, doesn’t deserve it.

Although, to be honest, his sentiments haven’t changed. Draco would do anything to watch
Hermione Granger surrender to his passion and fury. Succumb to the blazing touch of his hands,
the fierce press of his lips against her body—any and all parts of her body—and the skintight grip
of his fingers around her waist, face, legs, arms. His desire for her had grown so strong over the last
few months and only escalated even further in the past few weeks. With her tepid stares and warm
touches, Hermione made Draco feel deserving of admiration. To give that back to her—to make
her feel as warm and alive as he does when he’s around her—it would be like a fucking dream. An
honor. He’d wear that badge with pride.

Hermione doesn’t even ask if she can stay in his bed tonight—just crawls around the foot of the
bed to reach her spot next to him. Shuffles under the covers to share in the heat.

He whispers a word of gratitude to the gods that she wasn’t spooked and offput by his curt
response. And when her arm wraps over him and she once again sheathes his hand within hers, and
she presses her body up against his back and exhales against his neck a nice, slow, tepid breath,
Draco lets that breath lodged in his throat dissipate and closes his eyes.

But he doesn’t sleep.

Not for hours.

There’s far too much anger within him to do that.

He can hear Hermione breathe softly behind him, and those sounds help in scattered moments. But
they’re fleeting, temporary, impermanent. Because each time he begins to think that things will be
alright, he’s once again reminded of what happened today—what he witnessed unfold in the
restroom of Amortentia—and suddenly sleeping is the last thing on his mind.

All he can think about is what was in those drugs, if anything.

So, he slowly and carefully unwraps Hermione’s arm from his body.

Sits up and steadies himself at the edge of the side of the bed.

And he stands up.

He creeps to the dresser just past the foot of his bed, lifts his wand from the wooden countertop,
and transfigures his pajamas into appropriate street clothes. Craning his head over his right
shoulder, Draco gazes at Hermione as she continues to sleep peacefully, her chest rising and falling
in a balanced rhythm, and her hair slipping down her cheeks and forehead.

He wishes he could kiss her and tell her that he’ll be back soon—that he just has to take care of
something very quickly. That he’s doing this for her, for them, for Adrian, for himself.

Draco considers approaching her—just speaking the words into existence: don’t worry, Granger.
I’ll be right back. That’s all he’d have to say.

No. She looks so peaceful. He’d do anything to keep her in that state.

And Draco—he feels like an inferno. He still worries that every time he touches her, he burns her.

So instead, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and apparates into thin air.

He lands effortlessly on a side street in lower Barnet.

And immediately begins to wander down the street.

The roads are bare on a Sunday night—perhaps it’s even Monday morning—with only loose
stragglers stumbling around the sidewalks after an evening at the pubs. They’re sporting football
jerseys with similar colored scarves wrapped around their necks, having likely just finished
watching reruns of matches from earlier in the day. A group of six laughs and cheers, tripping and
skipping and wrapping their arms around one another in pleasant spirits.

Draco passes them quickly and quietly.

He uses the streetlights and the dimly lit lampposts to maneuver his way around the town. He
knows it relatively well—the tattoo parlor he occasionally stops by is only a few blocks away.

But he’s not looking to get a tattoo tonight.

With all the energy he still has within him, Draco intends to find Andrew.

A task that might appear daunting and impossible—how on earth is he to find one drug dealer in
the middle of this massive suburb?

Draco knows what Andrew looks like: tall, lanky, brown hair that’s shaved to a buzzcut, owl-like
eyes with hollow cheekbones. He’d seen him twice before while picking up the drugs with Adrian.
He knows where Andrew likes to hang out at night: in an alley behind Al’s Records, in the parking
lot of the public library, or against the brick wall on the side of the Red Lion Pub.

And he knows—Draco is fucking sure of it—that Andrew laced those drugs.

Or, at the very least, that someone messed with them.

Draco considers that he’s trying to convince himself of that reality. It could just be that Adrian’s
body reacted poorly to the sheer amount of cocaine that flowed through his system. But then again,
there’s something off-putting and terrifying about that fact. There has to be a deeper reason for the
severity of the overdose. Because coming to terms with that simple possibility—that any one line
of cocaine could lead to one last breath, regardless of whether the batch had been tampered with—
that’s far too fucking scary for Draco to think about.

It could’ve been him. It could’ve been any one of them. Fuck, it could’ve been Hermione.

Draco grits his teeth at that thought. Tightens his fists and digs his fingernails into his palms to
oust that dreadful possibility.

He scopes out the library first. Wanders around the parking lot with his hands shoved into the
pockets of his slacks. But he has no luck finding Andrew. He moves on quickly.

Al’s Records is only three blocks away. When he reaches the closed storefront, he swings around
the back by way of the sidewalk, peers down the alley, and sighs despondently when he finds it
empty.

Andrew can’t be far. He’s out here somewhere—he has to be. And Draco will return to this town
every fucking night for the rest of his life if that’s what it takes to avenge what happened to Adrian.

He lets his anger continue to guide him down the dim streets of Barnet until he reaches the Red
Lion Pub—a quarter of a mile away from the record store. He loiters outside the front of the pub,
peering left and right occasionally in the hopes that Andrew will appear out of the darkness. After
several minutes of waiting, Draco closes his eyes, shakes his head, and dejectedly knocks his fist
against the brick wall which he leans upon. He pushes himself from the wall and turns to wander
down the street more.

That’s when Draco sees him—Andrew—crossing the road with his hands dipped into the pockets
of his leather jacket. He has the hood of his sweatshirt up and hanging off the back of his head, but
as Draco analyzes the features of his face, he’s sure that it’s him. Skipping across the empty street
with hurried steps and wide eyes.

Draco’s chest tightens with the amalgamation of all the anger that has festered in him all night.
Briskly inspecting the street for muggles and sighing in relief when none appear to be present,
Draco lowers his head and awaits the moment that Andrew will inevitably pass him.

It’s like the heavens are finally giving him a fucking win after what they put him through tonight.

Just as Andrew is about to dart past him, Draco steps forward and cuts off his path.

“Hey,” Draco mutters under his breath, “You Andrew?”

Andrew furrows his eyebrows and drags his hood further over his head. “Depends who’s asking,”
he responds, crossing his arms over his chest.

Draco’s voice is husky. “You know my good friend. Adrian.”

At the sound of the name, Andrew’s eyes widen. His back shoots up from its slouched position.

Draco raises his head and clenches his jaw.

“You might remember me too.”

Andrew lets out several shaky breaths and takes a large gulp. “I, uh… I’m not sure I—”

“I think you remember me,” Draco says menacingly, taking a step towards Andrew and wrapping
his fingers around the wand in his pocket. Andrew paces backwards, scouring the streets for
witnesses. “And, judging by the look on your face, I think you know why I’m here.”

Andrew’s eyes bulge with fear as he steps backwards slowly, and Draco can see calculations being
made behind his distorted and dilated eyes.

All of a sudden, Andrew turns and breaks into a sprint in the opposite direction.

But Draco is quick. With his hand already on his wand, he yanks it from his pocket, aims it at
Andrew, and mutters a purposeful “Stupefy.”

The stream of white light hits Andrew’s back and blasts him several feet into the air. His arms and
legs flail, and then when he lands face-first on the pavement, he’s completely motionless. Stunned.
Still as a rock.

Draco takes slow steps towards him, much like a predator stalking its paralyzed prey. He bends at
his knees, cranes his head, and inspects Andrew’s face. He’s unconscious, those wide eyes now
closed and his mouth hanging slack.

Draco huffs. “I’m sure you won’t forget me after this.”

He takes Andrew’s forearm, scours the area for witnesses one more time, and when he’s confirmed
that they’re just as alone as they were only moments ago, Draco apparates yet again.

He lands in Amortentia with a sharp crack in the air, and all of a sudden, it’s like he’s been
transported back to that catastrophic and horrifying moment. The moment things fell apart. The
moment Adrian almost died.

The smell of the club is different. It’s like steel—dead, glacial, unnervingly asphyxiating.

Andrew hangs limp in Draco’s grip, so he adjusts his grip—shifts his hands to hold him by the
hood of his sweater—and drags him across the dance floor towards Titus’ office. The club is
empty, just as Draco assumed. He can do his bidding in private. All the better, honestly. Should
anyone know about this, it could put him in a precarious position.

Once at Titus’ office, Draco swings the door open, hurls Andrew’s limp body into the office, and
takes pleasure in the sound of his body collapsing against the hard ground. It’s the sound of his
skull colliding with the floor that feeds Draco’s anger—multiplies it tenfold. He huffs with
pleasure at the sight, then pulls the chair from behind Titus’ desk over his head and places it next
to Andrew.

With immense strength, Draco bends down, lifts Andrew from the ground, shoves him into the
seat, and while holding him upright with one arm, Draco reaches into the pocket of his pants to
remove his wand again. He aims it at Andrew, mutters a quick “Incarcerous,” and watches as
ropes fly from the tip of the wood and snare themselves around Andrew’s limp body—around his
torso, his thighs, his ankles, and then around his hands, shackled behind the chair.

Draco steps back. Admire the sight. Chuckles to himself and then balls his fists.

He takes on that draconic persona—lets the anger within him stream down his arm and then
manifest in his fist.

And then he strikes Andrew’s cheek with his knuckles at full force, triggering his consciousness.

Andrew gasps as he spins his head to face Draco. He struggles underneath the ropes, adrenaline
gushing through his body.

“Morning,” Draco says calmly. “Sleep well?”

“W-where am I?” Andrew asks, his voice unsteady and his lips quivering.

Outstretching his arms to his sides and looking around the dusky office, Draco sardonically
answers, “Look around. You’re at Buckingham Palace, of course.”

“What’s going on? Who the hell are you—”

“A real Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”

Andrew sniffles and lowers his head. “Look, man, if you want money or drugs, you can have them
—”

“No,” Draco interrupts. “That’s not what I want.”

Andrew lets out a sorrowful whimper. “Shit, man, alright. Look, I—I’ve got a kid—”

“Yeah?” Draco interjects, leaning forward slowly. “I have a family, too. People that I love. And
you… you almost killed one of them.”

He creases the dimensions of his face—squeezes his eyes and wrinkles his nose. “God, please
man, I—”

“Nobody’s going to help you,” Draco says, shaking his head. “Nobody is going to save you. It’s
just you and me tonight.”

Out of some sort of animal instinct, Draco’s hand juts out and fastens around Andrew’s neck. He
mercilessly digs his fingertips into his skin and can feel the unsteady, reckless pulse of his neck.
“You’ve fucked with the wrong guy.”

Draco cocks his arm behind his head.

“W-wait!”

Andrew doesn’t finish his sentence. He instead cries out in abject pain as Draco punches him in the
face yet again. And as he begins to cry, Draco shakes off his fist. His knuckles are already red and
bruising.

“Want to go again?”

“Please, you’ve got to listen to me, okay?” Andrew begs through tears. “I didn’t know what was
going to happen to Pucey, o-okay?”
“Excuses, excuses!” Draco exclaims, slamming his fist into Andrew’s jaw on the beat of that last
word. Pain explodes through his hand—sharp and excruciating—but the thrill of it all supersedes
the agonizing, burning sting in his hand. And then, just for kicks, as Andrew sluggishly recovers
and lifts his head, Draco slams his knuckles against his face yet again. Gods, it hurts like a bitch,
but he hopes it hurts more for Andrew.

“Fuck, man!” Andrew chokes, spitting out pools of blended saliva and blood onto the floor. “I can’t
tell you—”

Another strike. Another piercing cry.

“I can’t—”

Another one.

But then he’s bored of beating Andrew in the face, and he’s intent on giving his dear knuckles a
break. Instead of continuing to punch him, Draco whips out his wand and holds it firm against
Andrew’s forehead. He recoils in the seat—his feet squirm back and his hands tremble beneath the
binds.

“No!” he shouts with the last bits of energy he has left, shaking and rotating his head to the side to
avoid eye contact. “No, okay, look man! Some—some guy approached me a few days ago, right?
He corners me, threatens me, says I have to give Pucey this fucking 8-ball.”

As he listens, Draco relaxes the pressure of his wand against Andrew’s hand by just a tad.

Andrew continues. “Alright, so, I do it. Because he—he threatened to kill me, man. Kill me. He
was insane, okay? He and that woman. I mean, she was fucking hot, right? But, Jesus Christ, they
were both so terrifying—”

“A woman?” Draco asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

Andrew wheezes for a morsel of oxygen. “Yeah, man. She had these fucking crazy eyes—”

“What was her name?” Draco demands through gritted teeth. “Did she tell you her name?”

Andrew hopelessly scoffs. “I don’t remember—”

Crash.

“Fuck!”

“Her name!” Draco shouts, shaking Andrew’s slack shoulders. “His name! Tell me their names!”

He realizes that Andrew’s eyes are growing weaker by the second. That his head is hanging down
and his chin is glued to his collarbone. That the blood gushing from his nose and lips is now
staining his face. He’s fluctuating in and out of consciousness.

“Not so fast,” Draco seethes, his palm shoving Andrew’s forehead back so that he can look into his
eyes. His eyes, which barely have life in them. “If you won’t tell me their names, then tell me what
they looked like. Or better yet, tell me what was in the drugs. Was it laced with fentanyl? Huh?
What the fuck did you give to my brother?”

Andrew only has enough strength to mumble incoherent words.

Draco curses under his breath at his insipid victim. “Give me something,” he entreats, grabbing the
back of Andrew’s neck and holding his head upright.

But the longer he stares at Andrew, the more that Draco begins to realize the destructive
consequences of his anger.

Andrew’s face is swollen, purple, scarlet, and cracked. His nose is bent, his pink lips are stained
with blood, and his eyes are rolled into the back of his head. Sweat glistens on the creases of his
forehead and down his temples. And bits of drool trickle out of the corner of his sagging mouth.

He looks about a second away from death.

Draco lets go of Andrew’s head. It drops limp, his chin fluently falling to his chest. Draco looks
down at his own hands, notices how they’re bruised and bloody, and realizes another thing: they’re
nothing like Blaise’s.

They don’t heal or comfort—they mutilate.

How can he touch anyone with these hands? How can he do any good with them? How can he…
hold Hermione. Touch her, embrace her with these vicious hands that come straight from Hell
without hurting her too?

While he reflects on what he’s done, a sharp gust of wind wails behind him, followed by a severe
crack in the air. Draco turns on his heels and jumps at the sight of Titus, who simultaneously
jumps and shouts in shock. Titus grips his chest with one hand and leans his other hand against the
edge of his desk.

“Fuck’s sake, Draco!” he shouts, steadying his breath. “What the hell are you—”

He looks past Draco’s right shoulder before finishing his sentences, his eyes falling on Andrew’s
tied up, bloodied body. Titus’ lips unseal in shock, and the look in his eyes morphs from surprise to
utter disbelief.

“Surprise,” Draco mutters with a dull snarl.

“What have you done?” Titus asks, circling around his desk and approaching Andrew’s side. He
bends his knees and inspects his face from below.

Draco flares his nostrils and tightens his fists, like he’s not done quite yet. “What I had to do.”

There’s a beat. Titus looks up at Draco, mouth open and eyebrows furrowed. He stands, towers
over Draco, and then like a father would do to his son, he briskly slaps the back of Draco’s neck
with his palm. Not enough to hurt him, but just enough to scold his careless exploit.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Titus reprimands. “How is taking your anger out on a random
person going to benefit the situation in any way?”

“He’s anything but random,” Draco responds, gesturing his index finger towards Andrew. “He’s
our dealer. He gave Adrian the drugs that almost killed him. And he’s going to tell me why.”

“You think he’s going to be able to speak to you after the number you’ve done on him? He looks
about a moment away from being pronounced dead.”

That inkling of shame and that swarm of anger collide within Draco, vying for power in the
moment. Anger wins again—like it normally does—and out of his mouth falls a spiteful
declaration:
“Good. He should be dead.”

“Draco—”

“I could fucking kill him for what he did to—”

“What good does that do?” Titus insists, digging his finger against Draco’s heaving chest. “Huh? It
doesn’t change what happened to Adrian. It doesn’t change the shite situation you’re in. It doesn’t
help any of your friends. And it certainly doesn’t make you look like a hero. Not to any of them.
Not to Adrian. And certainly not to Hermione.”

“You don’t know anything,” Draco whispers, his neck and jaw churning and pulsing with anger.

“I know that this isn’t really you.”

“Spare me that tacky excuse,” Draco responds, and suddenly he finds himself rambling and
spilling words like never before. Like some foreign presence takes over his body and forces all of
his emotions and feelings to course out of him like a waterfall. There’s no direct line of thought, no
organized ideas—just words and feelings and sentiments that represent exactly how
discombobulated the moment feels:

“This is me. After years of trying to protect my friends but failing time and time again, this is what
I can resort to in order to feel better. In order to have just a sliver—” he balances the pads of his
index finger and thumb next to one another— “of control over something. And you know what? It
works, damnit. But this entire charade—this role of a dragon—fuck’s sake, I’m not a fucking
dragon like they say. I don’t protect. I destroy. I’m just a washed-up arsehole with anger issues.
Anger issues that I can barely fucking control. Anger issues that are heightened when I’m on
drugs.” He huffs out of his nose. Continues almost immediately. “I’m always angry. Always bitter.
Always resentful. I hate everything that this world has made me. I hate myself. I hate it all. But this
—this is how I let that anger go. This is how I find my source of control and autonomy. This is
how I feel better. This is how I keep myself from ending everything. This is how I fucking
survive!”

Titus is silenced. In utter awe. His mouth hangs slack as he stares into Draco’s invigorated eyes.

Draco takes four deep breaths—he counts them in his head. And then he sighs. “It’s the only time I
feel… alive. Like I have a purpose. Like I can do some good. Like I have actual feelings inside of
me. That I’m not some useless bundle of cells, but an actual fucking person with actual fucking
feelings.” Draco turns his neck slowly and glares at Andrew. “He deserves it for what he did to
Adrian. What he put all of us through.”

“This isn’t the right way,” Titus mutters. “You know that.”

“Do I?”

Titus drags his hand down his face, clawing at his skin and ignoring Draco’s terse remark. “Listen
to me. None of them would want this. They’d want you to try to relax, to get some sleep, to take
care of yourself. Not seek vengeance.”

“As long as Adrian is lying somewhere in St. Mungo’s in pain, I’ll engage in all the revenge I
want.”

Titus shakes his head and tiredly rolls his eyes. “That bloody stubbornness of yours gets you into
too much trouble.”
Draco runs his tongue across the inside of his bottom lip. Scuffs his bloodied knuckles with the
palm of his other hand.

He knows that’s true. His stubbornness being in the way of everything—it always has been. He
was just figuring out how to control it, too.

Titus steps forward with a sigh. “Look, they’ve stabilized Adrian. He’s alright, for now. But they
escorted me out of the hospital. Said I couldn’t wait there because I wasn’t family.”

“What?” Draco asks, creasing his eyebrows in confusion. “How the fuck is that possible?”

Titus shrugs concededly. “I don’t know. But I’ll be back first thing in the morning to see how he is.
For now, you need to go home and sleep.” His eyes glance over at Andrew, then back to Draco.
“I’ll take care of him. You… you need to be with your friends. And control that anger or channel it
into something else.”

Something else.

Perhaps someone else.

All that runs through his mind in that moment as an option is Hermione.

Because he remembers feeling rage around her, then feeling passion at the same time, and then
considering that those emotions could be synonymous. Two edges of the same sword.

It’s something about the way that she places her hand on his body that seems to bring him back to
earth—or perhaps transcend it. He loves that feeling—he really does—but he doesn’t want to be
calmed by her right now. He wants to be angry. He wants to let that fury out while being cognizant
of the power and heat of his flames. He wants… he wants…

He wants her.

Draco lets out the breath trapped in his throat. “He has information,” he says, pointing at Andrew.
“You have to keep him here. Please. I’m… begging you.”

Titus nods after a moment. “Fine. But no more violence. You hear me? If you want to know what
happened to Adrian, then we take this slowly and justly. Understood?”

Eventually, Draco concedes and nods.

Titus steps forward and places his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Go home,” he whispers. “Be kind to
yourself. This isn’t your fault.”

“Feels like it is.”

“It’s not. You have to stop telling yourself that.”

Hermione says that to him all the time.

He’s sure of it again—he wants her. The only thing that can calm him down is somehow also the
best at bringing out the fire within him—they’re the best at doing that to one another, in fact. And
he needs that.

He’s not done feeling this heat.

Draco nods. “Tomorrow, we all go to St. Mungo’s.”

Titus nods in agreement and drops his hand from Draco’s shoulder. “Until then, get some sleep.”

He silently agrees with a bow of his head, and with one last look at Andrew, Draco closes his eyes
and apparates back to his room.

Hermione hears a gust of wind at the foot of the bed, and when she jerks up from the mattress to
check what’s just appeared, she exhales in relief when she sees that it’s Draco.

She’d been in his arms one minute and then alone the next, and that itself sent her in a spiral for the
whole night. Exhaustion tried to distract her—she fell in and out of sleep multiple times, stroking
with her fingertips the side of the bed that he should have been lying upon.

It was the events of the night that drove her to this sheer fatigue, and as much as she wanted to get
out of bed and search for him—wherever he was—she couldn’t bring herself to move her limbs.
She just kept thinking about Adrian seizing and Draco crying.

But now that he’s here, standing right in front of her, she suddenly feels energized enough to sit up
in the bed. And then another burst of liveliness washes over her, and she scuffles out of the bed and
walks towards him.

She makes it to his side. Opens her mouth to speak.

“Malfoy, are you alright?”

Draco just stares at the wall in front of him. And after a brief moment of silence, he scoffs quietly
and turns to look at her. “Do I look alright?”

Not the response she expected. There’s something curt and blunt about the way he answers her
genuine question. She half-expected him to crumble in her arms like he did in the restroom, or at
least answer sincerely and sweetly. Instead, his answer is coarse and sour, and it takes her back to
those first few months of dealing with him at meetings when he’d shut down, lash out, strike the
air and environment with chaos and resentment. She fears a relapse of emotions—worries that as
the lumen in his eyes dims, so does his will to stay strong.

Her eyes trail down his body to his hands—they’re scraped and bruised. Even in the dim room she
can detect the outline of patches of blood and cuts.

She takes one careful step towards him. “What can I do to help you?”

Draco scoffs again, shaking and lowering his head. “Fuck, Granger.”

“What?” she asks, her eyebrows dipping to the center of her face.

“Why do you always resort to sympathy?” he questions, gritting his teeth.

Hermione sighs, trying to see things his way. “Well, sometimes it’s better to just step back, take a
deep breath, and analyze the situation—”

“Who has time to analyze things when the world is falling apart?” Draco asks, taking her arms in
his hands and shaking her. His fingers dig into her shoulders, and she takes a quick, sharp breath.
He dips his head to be closer to hers, and she can practically feel the ire embellished in this breath.
“Aren’t you pissed about what happened to Adrian? Don’t you hate our dealer for doing that to
him? Don’t you just fucking hate Aberfield and Bruiser and all those fuckers that put us in this
position? That forced us to... that... Salazar, Granger, how—fuck’s sake—how are you not as angry
as I am?”

“I am angry,” Hermione responds with a hint of fire in her tone. “Of course I’m angry. But I’m
more so concerned about you and everyone else than I am vengeful—”

“How can that be?” he asks, shaking his head and glaring into her eyes. “How do you have so much
fucking patience? With everyone? With me? How do you not want to just scream and cry and give
up?”

She gulps. “Is that what you want to do?”

Draco’s lips quiver. “There’s a lot of things I want to do. A lot of ways I want to release this anger
inside of me.” He blinks and looks away. “But they’re probably not that healthy.”

Her breathing speeds up as she lifts her right hand to cup his flushed cheek. It’s hot to the touch.

“Perhaps I could help.”

Draco exhales this beautiful sigh, dipping his head into her hand and pressing his lips against her
palm. She shifts her hand forward, her thumb finding his lower lip and pulling it down slowly. And
she locates that sense of confidence in herself again. Clutches it within her grasp and runs with it
before it dissipates.

“You can’t help—”

“If you need someone to soak up all that anger,” she whispers, stepping forward and pressing her
chest against his, “use me.”

He stares at her. Hermione witnesses the way Draco’s face morphs from total anger to this state of
awe and wonder. His lips part slightly to release a breath.

“You can use me,” she says with several nods. “I’ve told you once before that I don’t mind being
burned. That you’re not as dangerous as you think. That your touch doesn’t hurt me, but instead it
invigorates me. Makes me feel alive.” Hermione closes her eyes and leans forward. “So, use me. I
can handle it. Do whatever you need to do to me. And don’t hold back.”

He sighs again, his hands dropping to grip her waist and pull her against him with a quick tow.

“I want you,” he declares.

She gulps. “You have me. All of me.”

He tuts, and it’s almost silent. Chilling. But so, so tempting. “Give, give, give, Granger,” Draco
whispers, shaking his head. “That’s all you do, isn’t it? I was right about you.”

Hermione lifts herself onto her toes to reach him—he’s not that far, but gods does she wish he was
closer.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, desire in the rasp of her throat and in the exhale of her velvety whisper.

Draco sighs out of his nostrils and closes his eyes. “You’re sure?”

Her hand on his cheek snakes to the back of his head. She tugs him towards her, and just before
their lips connect, and as she hears his breath hitch, she whispers, “Use me. All of me.”
In the next moment, she can feel his lips linger just centimeters away from hers. He pulls back—
forces her to chase him just a few more inches. But once she catches him—once Hermione traps
his lips between hers—he sighs and gives in. Wraps his arms around her back and clutches her
tighter than ever against him. As he pulls her in, Hermione trips over her own foot, and she has to
dip her head to the side to keep their lips connected during that misstep. Entirely worth it—the trip
only leads her to be nearer to him, anyhow. Compels him to part her lips with his tongue and run it
across her own over and over.

He’s warm. So warm. Like flames, yes, but they’re controlled. Strategic. Purposeful. She can feel
the drive of his spirit latch onto her lips and oscillate into her skin through his touches, caresses,
kisses, and sighs.

Before she knows it, Hermione is hoisted in the air, her legs wrapped around Draco’s waist and her
arms latched around his neck. She gasps in his mouth, spreading her lips open further for more
access. He spins her, props her on the wooden dresser with a thud, parts her legs by way of his
knee, and centers himself between her open legs. Hermione releases a quiet moan into his mouth as
his hands trail up and down her side, exploring every inch of her figure like he’s memorized
her. She inches herself forward to press against him—glue herself to him.

And since she’s desperate to memorize him in the same way, Hermione grips the hem of his shirt
with her fingers and lifts the fabric off of his torso, arms, neck, and head, until that soft pile of
blonde hair emerges from the black shirt in a ruffled state. She barely has a second to gaze at the
way he looks before he’s on her lips again, like a second away from her would push him over some
metaphorical edge.

Hermione enjoys it on the dresser, but her eagerness takes over. Dropping her hand to his chest, she
shoves Draco backwards. As his lips disconnect from hers, he stumbles backwards and drops
himself onto the bed. She chases after him with spirited steps, straddling his waist and prodding his
chest with her palm once more. He falls back on the bed with a satisfied moan, and Hermione
pursues his lips yet again.

Her hair gets in the way—Draco ignores it. Ignores the curls that fall against the sides of his face.
Ignores the loose mess of mousy-brown hair strewn along the path to Hermione’s lips. Instead, just
focuses on the ebb and flow of their kiss.

Hermione’s hands dip to Draco’s belt. She’s purposeful in her actions; sitting up straight and
pulling the strap out of the loop, she whispers over and over, “Use me. Use me. Use me.” The belt
comes loose out of the loops, and she tosses it to the side quickly to make way for the button, then
the zipper, then the waistband itself.

Draco shoots up in the air and meets Hermione in that seated position, one hand pressed against her
lower back and the other cupped around her breast. She sucks in a sharp breath at the way he feels
around her—the vigor of his grasp, the softness of his palm above that loose, grey t-shirt of
Draco’s she wears to bed every night, and the curl of his long, nimble fingers.

“You’ll let me have you,” he sighs against her mouth, to which Hermione vigorously nods. “I can’t
believe you’ll let me have you.”

“Accept it,” she whispers, shifting herself further onto him, so much so that she can feel him
growing against her. “Stop convincing yourself that you don’t deserve this.”

They have the same idea in the next moment: clash their lips and kiss again. That’s what they do,
followed by vigorous palpitating and pulsing against one another. Their kissing is deep and
insistent, almost aggressive. It’s as if their lives depend on the tension, the uncompromising
consolidation of their lips and bodies.

“I’m pissed,” Draco moans against her lips between their frantic kissing.

“I know, I know,” Hermione responds, fastening her hands to his cheeks.

“I’m so fucking angry,” he seethes, and Hermione can feel his lips stiffen and his nose flare. She
bites down gently on his lower lip and knocks her teeth against his.

“I know,” she continues, brushing her nose against his. “Here, come here—”

She spins herself onto her back and drags him down on top of her. “Use me,” she begs, her hands
falling to his waistband and pulling him taut against her. She can feel him harden against her thigh,
and so to deepen the way they’re connected, Hermione bends and lifts her legs to curl around his
legs.

Draco presses himself against her center, and they both let out a solemn sigh. He dips his head into
her neck and lays kisses across her beating veins, then travels down to her collarbone as he tugs the
collar of her shirt down.

“Use me,” she begs one more time.

Draco takes his time dragging her silky, evening shorts down her legs, his breath shaky and his
hands unsteady as he tosses the fabric aside. The tips of his fingers lift her shirt by gliding up her
skin, leading Hermione to exhale an equally trembling breath.

Her hands take control—shoot forward and tug down his pants at the waist. She looks up at him,
eyes begging for consent, consent that he gives through a purposeful nod and a kiss against her
lips.

She pulls the fabric down.

Lays back on the pillow.

Composes herself and nods one more time when Draco seizes her eye contact.

With his eyes on hers, Draco reaches to the right and grabs her wand on the nightstand. Holds it
over her stomach and mutters a perfect contraceptive charm. She feels a warm sensation rise in her
lower stomach as he tosses it to the side of the bed.

And then with one final nod from the both of them, Draco shifts forward and slowly pushes
himself into her.

There’s a pang of mild discomfort—it’s been almost a year since Hermione has been in this
libidinous position. She tenses around him, shutting her eyes and knocking her head back onto the
pillow with a soft moan.

Draco follows that motion, burying his face into the pillow next to her to let out a low groan and
then craning his neck to face her and plant a deep kiss on her neck.

“Are you okay?” he whispers against her skin.

Hermione gets chills from the way his warm breath meets her skin. But she nods, pursing her lips
and closing her eyes.

“Yes,” she sighs, rotating her head towards his and catching his gaze. She takes his face in her
hands and pulls his face to hover on top of hers. “I’m more than okay. I promise. Keep—keep
going.”

Draco exhales a sigh of relief and smiles ever so softly. “You’re everything.”

He drops down and places a bold kiss on her lips.

It’s with that kiss that Hermione loosens the tension in her body. Releases every nerve and
inhibition and just lets go. She sighs in soft pleasure as Draco sinks a little deeper into her, and
suddenly the pain is gone. There’s no discomfort. He creates a slow and steady rhythm with his
hips, shifting himself further and further into her with each push, and it doesn’t feel uncomfortable
or untimely, but rather like the world is erupting into a supernova, like the sun and moon are
meshing and becoming one all-powerful star and force, like the tides are singing and the sky is
opening to swallow them whole in its cataclysmic but innocuous rapture.

She reaches for his shoulders. Digs her fingernails into his skin and runs them coarsely over his
tattoos. Exhales as he continues to steadily flow in and out of her.

He’s smooth against her. Bewitches her, claims her, adores her with the influx of his varying
emotions. And the way his heart leaps against her chest as he drags it across hers with each thrust
upwards is a testament to that—she can feel it beating through the fabric.

“Y-you can go faster,” she whispers in a stammer, peppering kisses against his neck. “Don’t hold
back. Please. You’re not hurting me.”

He releases a groan against her collarbone. Sucks in a quick breath between his teeth. Speeds up
the cadence of his hips against hers. Hermione spreads her legs a little further to take it all in, her
whimpers starting to grow and her neck extending up and out as her back follows in an arch.

The bed begins to squeak.

“Damnit,” Draco groans, slowing himself down.

“No, no,” Hermione begs, and then she reaches her hand over, grabs her wand, and waves it in the
air. “Don’t stop. Please—muffliato—keep going. Go—go faster.”

There’s a snap in the air as the spell binds to the atmosphere and creates this pocket of privacy and
pleasure for just the two of them.

And then Draco begins to mercilessly fuck her harder, his anger steering his motions.

And she likes it.

She really likes it.

She thinks it’s because he’s unconditionally and unapologetically himself in this moment. His
walls break in a way that was different than just a few hours ago. He’s angry—he has a right to be
angry. He’s unwinding and untangling himself for her. And he’s letting it out in a way that
practically worships her. Because before, he would’ve scowled at even the thought of her help. He
would’ve laughed and walked away. Now, she’s below him, he’s above her, they’re fucking in
these tumultuous circumstances, and yet it’s still so damn perfect.

Hermione’s mouth falls open as she releases a pleasurable moan, one saturated in fiery desire and
matchless gratification. Never—never in her life has she felt this warm and important. And the way
Draco mutters sensual affirmations to her— “gods, you’re so perfect for me,” “you’re mine, all
mine,” “I’m unconditionally addicted to you”—she could unravel with just those velvety words if
need be.

One particularly rapturous slam against her sends Hermione’s right leg into a bend; her thigh
practically meets her chest. Draco’s left hand scrapes up and down that thigh with his nails, and
then his right hand finds the top of the headboard as it creaks and bangs against the wall.

But he continues to thrust unsparingly, rage spilling into her with every motion.

And then her toes begin to curl as he hits a deep spot within her. She keens—bites down on her
fingers to keep from being too loud. The build-up moves from her toes to her thighs, and her
muscles contract.

“You—” she tries to talk, but the overwhelming construction of her orgasm traps her voice in her
throat.

“Say it,” he begs with a hint of a growl. “Come on, sweet girl. Say it.”

The words are lodged in her throat. She almost chokes on them because of the excruciating
pleasure of it all.

“Wait,” he instructs, dropping his arm from the headboard and wrapping it underneath her back. In
one swift motion—gods, how is he even able to do it so effortlessly—Draco flips the both of them
over so that Hermione now straddles him again—has the power to set the tempo.

It’s like a restart button. The orgasm that was building falters, and she finally catches her breath.

Draco sits up, pushes her hair out of her face, then sheathes her back with his arms and slowly
guides her up and down his cock.

“Take your time,” he whispers into her neck. “Say it when you’re ready.”

Hermione gulps, cloaking his neck with her arms as she musters all the strength in her thighs to
handle him in this position. She’s breathless at the way he fucks her—at the way she fucks him—
but she manages to say what she wanted to say:

“You make me—oh gods—you make me feel alive.”

He exhales in ecstasy. “Gods, if only you knew how you made me feel,” Draco starts, burying his
face in her neck and eagerly sucking on her skin. His teeth indent against her beating pulse, and she
parts her hair to the other side to give him total access. “All the drugs in the world could never
make me feel as good as you do right now—”

He croaks on that last word, and Hermione can feel him twitch inside of her.

And it’s something about that—something exhilarating about feeling him move within her—that
guides her to her own edge. Compels this thrillingly intoxicating feeling to wash over her body, her
mind, her fucking soul at this point. Her toes begin to curl again, her thighs tighten, her stomach
contracts, her mouth falls open, her breathing totters out of control, and then—gods—there’s this
release that she’s never felt before that sweeps across her body. She dives forward, against him,
clutching his shoulders to balance herself as she comes undone with a sonorous sigh.

Draco follows close behind. She has only a moment to compose herself after riding the curve of a
crescent moon before Draco unfolds—spills everything he has into her, coupled with a carnal
groan.
When he dips his head against her shoulder to catch his breath, Hermione simultaneously cranes
her neck to match his position. Places kisses up and down the back of his neck. Smells him.
Admires him.

Maybe even loves him.

Draco takes her cheeks in his hands and brings her to look at him. He gulps when she stares back
into his eyes, parts his lips to exhale a shaky breath, and then places a gentle kiss on her lips.

When he pulls away and looks down, Hermione takes that as her cue to climb off of him. As
difficult as that is—for this position is everything she’s ever hoped and dreamed to be in—she
finds the strength to swing her legs off of him and slowly recline on the bed. He follows close
behind, turning her so that she lies on her side and his chest is pressed against her back.

His heart is still beating so fast. She can feel it.

She feels so many things, truthfully. Scared. Sad. Angry. Satisfied. In love—

“Don’t leave again,” she whispers, closing her eyes and crowding up against his chest with her
back. “Please.”

He sighs into her hair, pulling it out of her face and securing it behind her ear.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here.”

They finally sleep, their chests rising and falling in a synchronous pattern, much like the way stars
fluctuate their luminosity in the night sky.
 Chapter 30
Chapter Notes

a nice, 14,000 word long chapter for you all :)

It burns.

Holy fucking shit, it burns so bad.

Behind the lids of his eyes, Adrian can just barely make out the luminosity of a white light. A
white light that’s dancing in rickety flickers.

Great. Unsteady lumen is just what he needs to overcome this throbbing headache. The light flashes
and taunts him with its instability, unpredictability, impulsivity. It’s like a metaphor for his fucking
life at this point—holding on for dear life, desperate to grasp onto any sort of permanence left. If it
could just be screwed—twisted a little tighter—then maybe that promise of stability would feel
more like a possible reality.

But then that burning sensation returns, and it’s all over his fucking left forearm.

And there’s a sharp ringing in his ears—distant, vague, but audible enough to make his nose
crinkle in discomfort. Make his eyes, fingers, and chest contract.

Adrian slowly opens his eyes.

Casts his pupils down, angling them to the left.

And stares at the monstrosity on his left forearm.

Splotched across the white bandage that insulates his forearm are patches of dried blood, but it’s a
dark color—almost purple, like red wine. The veins that run up and down his arms swell against
his skin, so much so that he can make out the way they pulse and push blood through his body.
And Adrian smells burning flesh—his own, it has to be his own—and that chilling, burning,
charring smell causes him to gag.

When he tries to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he realizes that his hands are shackled to the
side rails of the bed, and as he looks even closer, he notices a needle pricked right through the back
of his hand, held down by a strip of clear tape where it connects with a small tube.

He follows the path of that tube with his eyes up his wrist and then right off the bed. His eyes trail
up until his head tips back and rotates slightly to look at the bag of fluids hanging from a silver
pole to the left of his bed. The end of the tube connects to a pipe at the bottom of the clear bag.

His eyesight is blurry—that’s unquestionable. And he could just be imagining things. But he
swears—Adrian fucking swears—that he sees little purple flecks floating in the liquid.

What the hell are those—

Suddenly, the ringing in his ear intensifies.

“Hello, Adrian.”

His eyes fight to adjust properly to the new source of light in the room. He squints and recoils in
the hospital bed, using every iota of energy he has to shuffle his legs back and glue his back to the
sturdy pillows.

A figure with brown hair that runs just past her shoulders, a clipboard held tightly in her hands, and
a pristine, white coat draped over her body appears to his left. She stands there for a moment,
watching him, tilting her head condescendingly, and then she slowly places the back of her hand on
his damp forehead.

“Still have quite the temperature, I see.”

Adrian opens his mouth to groan, to cry, to make any sort of fighting sound, but all that comes out
is a muffled choke.

“Don’t try to talk,” the visitor says sweetly. “Just relax. We’re taking good care of you.”

That cannot possibly be true. With the last bit of sanity that he has within him, Adrian knows her
statement to be complete and utter bullshit.

“You must be in a lot of pain.”

He doesn’t care to nod in agreement. Just frowns and indignantly huffs out of his nostrils.

“Let’s make you feel better.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Adrian watches as the woman reaches for that IV bag that hangs from
the pole. She squeezes it, compelling the liquid within to bubble and ooze down the tube, and after
a few seconds of that pressure, Adrian begins to feel an even harsher burning sensation manifest in
his left forearm. He grits his teeth, jerks his torso up to the ceiling, and flails his legs.

And when she finally relents, he drops his head onto the pillow and body back onto the bed,
heaving in utter depletion.

“Don’t worry,” the woman whispers, “It’s supposed to make you feel better. Eventually.”

It’s that voice, that stature, and that fucking condescending way of speaking that forces Adrian to
become alert and suspicious of the identity of his visitor. He thinks, in that moment, that he knows
exactly who it is.

But then she spins on her heels and turns away, ambling towards the door several feet from the foot
of the bed.

“Y-you,” he starts, sensing just how dry his mouth is from the dehydration, the faulty fluids, and
the heat both steaming from his arm yet suffocating his entire body, “you won’t g-get away with t-
this.”

The woman halts. Turns over her shoulder and smiles manically.

“Your childish tenacity is endearing. Very entertaining.” She spins fully and stalks towards the
bed, and when she reaches it, she wraps her hands around the base rail. “It’s why you were chosen,
Adrian. Such fire in your eyes and in your heart. All the more sweet to watch you burn and
crumble.” With a scoff, she pushes off of the bed and walks away. “Your days are numbered,
darling. And your strength? It’s being eaten away at every second. But don’t worry. We really are
taking very good care of you. Just like we’ve always said.”

A moment later, she’s out the door, and Adrian is alone yet again.

He wishes he could scream. Tear himself from the shackles around his wrists and break free from
the metaphorical chains of the bed itself.

Instead, all he is capable of doing is weeping.

He hopes, somehow, that the echo of his tears carries itself to his friends.

At the crack of dawn, the Slytherins and Hermione all convene outside the apartment to wait for
Titus.

The energy is somber, the attire is bleak, and the quietness of the group is unsettling.

It’s all in their own distinct ways. Pansy, with her eyes swollen and her hair a tossed mess, holds
Theo, whose hair is equally as scruffy and whose lips look like they’ll stiffen into an eternal,
desolate frown. Well, they hold each other—arms cloaked around one another’s backs, heads
dipped against one another's, and sides glued like they never plan on separating.

And then there’s Daphne and Blaise. Hermione thought that no one in the world could ever surpass
Draco’s look of despair and guilt. Yet Blaise, usually so composed and poised and prepared, looks
like he’s being suffocated by his memories. Looks entirely guilty for what transpired last night,
even though he’s the one that was strong enough in the moment to act and save Adrian.

Daphne’s sharp features hang sullen on her normally perky face, the bags of her eyes enflamed and
her cheeks hanging slack. She doesn’t have that strident confidence in her demeanor anymore;
instead, she appears completely terrified. Fragile, but not in the normal sense of the word. She’s
frail and small, yes, but this fragility is one of the mind—like it’ll snap at the next calamity—and
somehow this mindset has manifested itself in her peculiar stature—arched shoulders, empty, dim
eyes, and brittle, pale lips.

It’s as if fatigue holds all of them prisoner.

Hermione’s one source of comfort in the midst of the somber dereliction of the group is Draco’s
protective hand, firmly sealed to her back. It slowly snakes to her side, grips her waist, and tugs her
towards him. She molds to his figure and dips her head against his shoulder. With an exhale, Draco
clenches her waist a little tighter, his fingers settling against the dip of her waist like they belong
there. She feels wholeheartedly safe—wishes he’d never let go, especially in this excruciatingly
gut-wrenching moment.

When Titus appears out of thin air just a few moments later, the silence between them persists. His
eyes reach each and every one of them, harboring this concerned yet optimistic mien. It’s like he
has all the faith in the world yet no clue what to expect at the same time.

“Are you all ready to go?” he asks.

It takes a moment, but the group silently yet collectively nods.

“Mind the anti-apparition wards. You’ll want to aim for just outside of the hospital. Remember, it’s
right in the center of London, so stealth whilst apparating is of the utmost importance. Land
quickly and quietly, and then we’ll make our way into the building together. Alright?”
Another silent chorus of nods.

“Hey?” Titus implores, once again ensuring that he takes the time to gaze at each person.
“Everything will be alright. We’re going to go there together and come out together.”

Theo sighs and finds the bravery to speak. “This is just… scary.”

That confession leads Titus to take a step forward. Settle his hand on Theo’s shoulder and respond
placidly, “I know this is frightening. But I need you all to be strong for me. Yeah? Can you do that
for me?”

Daphne’s hand drops to seize Blaise’s. “Yes,” she responds, squeezing his hand. “We can.”

Titus steps back. “Good. Whenever you’re ready.”

The air cracks around Titus as he spins into himself and disapparates into a burst of white light.

Pansy and Theo go next, followed quickly by Blaise and Daphne, and then it’s just Draco and
Hermione left, lingering on the pavement outside of their apartment in the brisk, January air. She
cranes her neck to gaze at him and study his features. His cheeks are rosy, the pale of his skin
chilled under the brittle, glacial air. But they’re beautiful, tinted like roses on the first bloom of
spring.

With a snug squeeze of his hand, Hermione pulls Draco with her into the travel spectrum, and then
after moments of soaring through time and space, they land just outside of a red, brick department
store called Purge and Dowse. A grimy, white sign with that store name is fastened just above the
large revolving doors in the center of the structure, in front of which are three lines of durable,
yellow, cautionary tape that run diagonally, the words Do Not Cross plastered on the tape in bold,
black letters over and over again. The display windows on either side are obscured by cream
tapestries, but situated in front of them are several bare mannequins.

Hermione’s eyes veer to the left where Titus stands. He’s close to the window, muttering
something incoherent to the mannequin—the mannequin that’s just moved slightly to address
Titus. She watches as the expression on Titus' face shifts from optimistic to perplexed. That’s when
she takes Draco’s hand and walks closer to Titus to heed the conversation.

“Only family members are allowed to visit Mr. Pucey.” The voice is like an echo in her ears, even
though she’s far from the source. It’s cold, stern, and uninviting, and it seems to be coming directly
from the mannequin’s mouth, which at one second is immobile and the next agile with words.

Titus huffs. Scans the area for muggles and then leans closer to the window.

“That boy is like a son to me—”

“But he is not your son. He is under strict surveillance by order of his Healer, who has expressed
that only family members are allowed to see him. You are not allowed to enter the premises, as
you are not a family member.”

“He is over the age of eighteen, why should it matter—”

“You are not a family member, and therefore you cannot see Mr. Pucey. Good day.”

With that curt response, the mannequin shifts back to its stagnant position.

Titus bangs his fist against the window. “Now—now wait a damn minute! You come back here!”
But the mannequin remains completely still. And the more Titus throws his fist against the glass
and screams into the void about the atrocity of the hospital’s policies, the more likely he is to draw
attention to the group as they loiter outside this rundown, department store.

Hermione turns to the right—down the quiet street, she sees two muggles standing and watching in
bewilderment as Titus yells at the storefront and crashes his fist against the glass over and over.
One of them points, and that leads Hermione to charge forward and pull Titus back from the
window. Theo is quick to help, too.

“Titus—Titus!” Theo exclaims, dragging him back and holding down his left arm. “You’re
drawing attention.”

Titus is quick to recover. He straightens his shoulders yet furrows his eyebrows in frustration.

“What sort of regulation is that, huh?” he questions. “‘Family only’—as if we’re not the closest
thing he has to one. As if you all don’t live with him and love him like he’s your own brother. As if
he isn’t practically my own bloody son. As if his own shite father gave a care in the world about
him. As if… as if…”

He loses his train of thought. Has to take several deep breaths before finally reaching a point of
composure. Then he turns to the group, and with a dejected and hopeless look on his face, he
mutters an apology under his tremulous breath.

“If we can’t see Adrian, how are we to know if he’s alright?” Pansy asks, gripping Theo’s arm.

“We’ll figure something out,” Titus insists, glaring at the mannequin with a whole new sense to the
word ire. He turns back to look at the group, his eyes falling on Hermione when he adds, “But I
think we need to get him the hell out of there.”

It’s a few hours later back in the apartment when Hermione concocts a plan.

Titus had told them to just wait a while—that he’d find a solution to the issue and assemble them
when it was finalized. But true to Hermione’s impatient nature, meticulous problem-solving, and
annoyingly heroic disposition, she managed to devise a plot to break Adrian out of St. Mungo’s.

It’s one that reminds her too fondly of her memories at Hogwarts with Harry and Ron—those
rebellious moments defined her teenage years, after all. Made her into the person she is today.
Everything about the nature of this particular scheme makes her reminiscent of those defiant
episodes in her otherwise bland life, and she can’t help but feel oddly invigorated by the idea of
participating in another one, only this time with a cunning, intelligent, and devout group of
Slytherins.

But the plan is meticulous. It contains several intricate steps and initiatives, and Hermione fears
that it could be far too late to save Adrian by the time everything is in order. She has to hold on to
this string of potential success for dear life, even as it is consistently tugged out of her grip. The
only person who could make this work—the only one who has immediate access to the things she
would need—is Harry.

So, she sends him a Patronus with the following message:

Harry,

I need your help. It’s about Adrian. Please come to the apartment as soon as you can—my
Patronus will show you the way—and bring some spare Polyjuice Potion and the Invisibility Cloak
if you can. This is serious. Please. We need you.

Hermione.

Her luminescent otter soars out of the window and zips through the sky, out of sight.

And then, it’s a waiting game. And it happens in the living room, where the Slytherins and
Hermione sit in relative silence as they await the return of the Patronus and, hopefully, Harry.
Crookshanks purrs and weaves through the plethora of legs occupying his living room space,
rubbing his fur against everyone’s calves and occasionally meowing when he does not find exactly
what he’s looking for.

He crosses the room slowly from one couch to the other, his paws tapping against the floor in little
pitter patters, until he finally reaches Draco, who sits at the end of the couch. Crookshanks pauses,
then begins to plait himself through Draco’s spread legs. His tail shoots up and curls around the
lower half of Draco’s calf. Visibly uncomfortable, but at least not verbally repulsed by the
situation, Draco watches intently as Crookshanks laces himself around his feet, drops to a lying
position, and rests his oversized head against the top of his black, leather Oxfords.

“Are you sure this will work?” Blaise asks, leaning his elbows against his knees and tapping his
foot against the floor.

Hermione nods. “I think so. Harry, Ron, and I once infiltrated the Ministry and Gringotts in the
same way.”

“And were those endeavors successful?” Theo asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Erm… for the most part, yes.” She gnaws at her lower lip briefly, inspecting the cynical
expressions of the others. “We just need to be careful. Now, Titus mentioned something about
Adrian being kept on the third floor, right?”

“What if he’s not there?” Daphne asks, peering around the room. “I mean… what if they’re
keeping him somewhere else?”

“They already didn’t want us coming in to visit,” Pansy interjects. “How much do you want to
wager that’s a particular Healer’s doing?”

“You think Bruiser’s behind us not being able to see him?” Blaise reaffirms, sitting up and
scratching the back of his neck nervously.

Pansy’s eyebrows shoot up and she rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t surprise me. She’s always been a bit
of an enigma, no? And she works closely with Aberfield. I don’t see how she wouldn’t be involved
here. There’s no way another Healer wouldn’t let us see him.” She nips at her thumb’s fingernail
and groans when she realizes that she’s engaging in her tick. To counter it, she fiddles with her
fingers, forcing them to dance around one another. “I hope Potter has access to some Polyjuice
Potion.”

“It takes a whole month to brew otherwise,” Theo adds, shaking his head. “We don’t have that kind
of time.”

“Potter will have some.” The voice is Draco’s, and it’s sincere. “He… always does.”

Hermione reaches for Draco’s hand. Takes it in hers and sets it on her lap. He inhales at her touch,
rotates his head to gaze down at her, and offers a tender smile, so soft and forgiving that she
considers the possibility that swimming in melted silver is not as scary as it sounds.

“Depending on how much he is able to bring—if any—only a few of us will need to take the
potion,” Hermione starts. “The rest can enter under the Invisibility Cloak.”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Blaise says. “As long as we can get one person in who has proper
identification, then we should be able to sneak in the others. I almost did an internship at St.
Mungo’s the summer before sixth year. Toured the facility and spoke with the Healer who ran the
program. Obviously… plans changed that summer.” He resentfully glances at his left forearm.
“But I remember it being relatively easy to get around the hospital once inside and with someone
who had the proper verifications. If people have to wander under the cloak, I don’t think it will
pose much of an issue.”

“How well do you know the hospital?” Hermione asks further.

Blaise shrugs. “Well enough. It wasn’t an extensive tour or anything. Perhaps if I’d actually
worked there, I’d be able to offer more help.”

“You’ve done plenty good already, Blaise,” Pansy says.

He looks down and nods, and Daphne reaches over to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. Stroke his
arm and remind him with those tender touches just how appreciated he is.

A knock sounds at the door, and all heads spin to meet the source of the sound. Hermione rises to
her feet and rushes to the door, and when she pulls it open, she’s relieved to see Harry standing
next to her Patronus. The white otter vanishes into thin air, leaving Harry alone in the corridor.

“Where is he?”

That’s the first thing Harry says, and there’s intense trepidation in those three syllables and in his
eyes.

“Harry—”

“Hermione, where is he?” he asks again, this time with more indignance, indignance manifested in
the creases on his forehead and the harshness of his impatient hand motions.

She takes a deep breath and steps aside, allowing Harry space to enter the apartment.

“He’s in St. Mungo’s—”

“Why?”

Hermione musters up all the courage she has by looking at the others behind Harry.

“He… had an accident—”

“Hermione, stop beating around the fucking bush and just spit it out for fuck's sake—”

“Mind your tone, Potter,” Draco snarls, rising from the couch and flagging to her side.

Harry spins and scoffs. “Malfoy—”

“Talk to her like that again and you’ll regret it.”

“I—”
Harry pauses. Composes his tense shoulders and takes a deep breath. And redirects his attention to
Hermione.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I just… I need you to tell me what happened. Please. Because all I could
think about on the way here was the worst possible situation and I… I need to know if he’s alive.
Hermione, that’s all I need you to tell me.”

She purses her lips, wishing she could tell him something totally sincere. Reassure him that Adrian
is, in fact, alright, that the Healers at St. Mungo’s are taking perfectly good care of him, that he is
just relaxing and recovering in a comfortable hospital bed, and that he’ll be back home shortly.
He’ll be back to his old, fun-loving self.

But she can’t.

She doesn’t know if any of that is true.

She doesn’t even know if he’s still breathing.

And she hates having to be the one to tell Harry that terrifying fact.

“We don’t know if he’s alive or not,” Hermione starts. “Harry... he overdosed last night at
Amortentia. And when we tried to visit him in the hospital this morning, they wouldn’t let us in.
They said that since we weren’t family, we couldn’t see him.”

Harry exerts a shaky breath. He rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes, below his glasses, and
drags his skin down with the pressure of his fingers

Hermione steps forward and places her hand on his shoulder. “Harry—”

“I need to see him. I need to come with you all.”

“Do you have the cloak and the potions?” Hermione asks lightly.

Harry nods, removing a duffel bag from his shoulder and dropping it on the floor. “Everything you
asked for is in there,” he responds. “There probably isn’t enough Polyjuice Potion for all of us, but
I suppose that’s what the cloak is for.”

“It’s perfect,” Hermione responds. She clears her throat, preparing for the moment of revelation.
“Harry, do you remember when you, me, and Ron snuck into the Ministry? And into Gringotts?”

Harry nods, eyes widening and lips curling ever so slightly into a hopeful smile.

Hermione mirrors his mien. “How do you feel about adding St. Mungo’s to that list?”

Harry inhales through his nostrils. Gazes at the Slytherins over his shoulder. And smiles.

“I’d say it’s unquestionably worth it.”

Carefully concealed behind the side of Purge and Dowse and underneath one of Theo’s brilliant
Disillusionment Charms, the Slytherins, Hermione, and Harry wait for the night shift Healers to
arrive at their posts. Wait, watch, and execute—that’s what they focus on as they stand outside the
abandoned department store.

They decided it’d be best if four people consume the Polyjuice Potion—Hermione, Harry, Draco,
and Blaise. The others would sneak through the boundaries beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Harry
had brilliantly charmed the fabric to be longer and wider, thus capable of hiding several individuals
beneath it at a time.

So, they wait and watch as Healers show up one by one, and Draco grows wholly impatient with
their inability to act on the plan.

“We need four of them together to keep the timing consistent,” Hermione reminds him, stroking
her thumb over the back of his hand while their fingers are interlocked. “Just be patient, Malfoy.
Everything will be alright.”

Draco squeezes her hand, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods in compliance.

They have to wait a few minutes more before an opportunity finally presents itself in a pod of four
Healers appearing from around the opposite corner. Hermione hears their bellowing laughter echo
in the otherwise abandoned street, and that’s when she peaks her head around the wall to catch a
glimpse of them. The Healers walk jovially with one another, gripping duffel bags in hands and
sporting professional yet comfortable work clothes underneath their white coats. They’ll do just
fine.

Harry approaches Hermione from behind and pokes his head around the building too, watching as
they advance closer and closer to the entrance.

“Once they get close enough, I’ll stun them,” Harry suggests. “We need to move fast after that.”

When the Healers are just about to greet the mannequin and bring it to life, Harry valiantly swoops
out from behind the building and fires four different stupefies in their direction. The spell hits each
of them square in their chests, and they fall over and collapse on the ground like rag dolls, eyes shut
and mouths slack in petrification.

The race against time begins, and the group leaps into action.

As Theo draws the Disillusionment Charm further across the atmosphere, the others rush to grab
hold of the Healers’ shoulders and legs. They work together, collaboratively dragging the stunned
bodies around the corner of the building and shoving them against the brick wall. Harry digs into
his bag and retrieves four separate flasks of the Polyjuice Potion. While Harry distributes the
potions to Hermione, Draco, and Blaise, Pansy, Theo, and Daphne begin to tug off loose strands of
hair from the heads of the unlucky Healers. They allocate the pieces of hair to the others.

When each strand of hair is placed in a different canteen, the group listens closely as the liquid
sizzles and bubbles.

“Fuck’s sake,” Draco complains, sniffing his potion and consequently gagging. “That smells like
the bloody Quidditch changing rooms.”

Blaise snorts. “Perhaps it won’t taste as revolting as it smells.”

“It probably will,” Harry mumbles, sloshing his potion around in the flask. “Every time I’ve had to
drink one of these potions, the taste has been more nauseating than the last.”

“Well, that’s just fucking wonderful for me, isn’t it?” Draco sardonically murmurs, tipping the
spout of the flask against his mouth and then parting his lips to knock the liquid back. Hermione
can tell when it goes down his throat because his eyes wrinkle, his nose twitches, and his lips curve
into a disgusted frown. It’s the kind of expression one has when they take a shot of something so
sour, so spicy, so red-hot and burning and intense that they can’t help but project to the world just
how brave they are for taking it in the first place.

Draco swallows the potion, coughs once, and sticks out his tongue. “Merlin’s fucking ball sack,” he
gripes, “that was repulsive—”

Suddenly, his eyes widen, and his hands find his cheeks. His skin appears to bubble and ripple, and
he morphs into one of the Healers lying unconscious on the ground. His dirty blonde hair becomes
a deep brunette, and his tattoos fade into obscurity.

Hermione glances down at her own potion and bravely knocks it back, cognizant that time is of the
utmost importance here. The potion is bitter—like usual—and it stings as it trickles down her
throat like a mudslide. It never gets easier to drink this shit—never.

As she watches Blaise and Harry drink their share of the potion, Hermione feels intense vibrations
manifest on the outside of her skin. Her hands begin to bubble, her cheeks grow ruby with
sweltering heat, and even the tendrils of her hair grow silkier and lighter. She undergoes that
feeling of intense déjà vu as she hastily rips the white coat off of her victim, a woman whose tag
reads ‘Maeve Flanagan,’ and she hopes—Hermione prays to the gods and anyone that is listening
—that she doesn’t have to bank on her abysmal Irish accent in order to pull this off. She’s damned
if she tries. Perhaps she just won’t speak altogether. That might prove too difficult, though.

After Harry and Blaise are metamorphosed into their Healers and slip their white coats on, Theo
rises and points his wand at the group of stunned Healers. He meticulously conceals them with a
second Disillusionment Charm, hiding any trace of their existence and gluing their bodies up
against the brick wall.

“The potion should last for around half an hour,” Harry warns as the group rises to their feet.

“So should the charms I’ve just done,” Theo adds.

“Hopefully that’s enough time,” Daphne whispers, gazing at the others with a trepid expression.

Harry reaches over and places his hand on Daphne’s shoulder. “It will be. We’ll find him.” He
turns back to the others. “Right, you three—” he points to Theo, Daphne, and Pansy— “will be
under the cloak. Follow closely behind us at all time, alright? If we get separated, just stay as low-
profile as possible.” Harry turns to the rest of the group, straightening his shoulders and speaking
with governance. “We search every room for Adrian. Every room. We have to find him.”

“Inspiring message, Potter,” Draco mumbles under his breath, reaching for Hermione’s waist and
tugging her slowly towards him. “But considering that we’re quite pressed for time, I’d
recommend you bite your tongue and get us into St. Mungo’s now, yeah?”

Harry huffs out of his nostrils and roll his eyes, and with a spin of his heels, he storms towards the
entrance.

Draco snickers to himself, glancing down at Hermione and subsequently ignoring her thwarted
expression as he drags her to the window. They pause before the mannequin, and just like earlier in
the day, they request access to the hospital.

The mannequin shifts slightly, eyes their outfits and name tags, and nods once in consent. Once the
mannequin reverts to its original position, the window of the store suddenly begins to bubble and
sway vertically, like long branches on a tree in a windstorm. It’s as if the glass has morphed into a
holographic portal of sorts, little specks of rainbow shining through with each undulation.

Blaise steps forward first, followed by Harry, Draco and Hermione, and then the others beneath the
cloak. They walk through the portico, their bodies reduced to mushy gelatin for a moment before
arriving in the reception room of St. Mungo’s. Draco steadies Hermione’s hand in his as they pile
through and scan the surroundings.

There’s a large, semicircle desk on their right with a little old witch seated within the curve of the
circle. Directly in front of them is a waiting area, filled with witches and wizards patiently awaiting
treatment in rows of wooden chairs. It’s a large waiting room—so large that the chorus of sounds
festering within it from patients, Healers, and staff members barely reach and reverberate off of the
walls, granting it a rather serene atmosphere in what one might consider a usually bustling
environment.

Hermione eyes two open-outward doors in the far-right corner of the waiting room just behind the
welcome desk. She watches as Healers pass through the doors in steady streams, calling out patient
names and subsequently guiding them back into the main corridor of the hospital.

“Those are the main doors,” Blaise whispers under his breath, just loud enough so that Hermione
can hear him. “We need to get through there quickly, and then it’s just a matter of scouring the
corridors for Adrian.” He inhales deeply, summoning as much courage as possible with that breath
of oxygen. “Follow me.”

The Welcome Witch, as she’s known in St. Mungo’s, observes from behind the desk as the group
begins to wander towards the door. She doesn’t speak to them, and for a moment, Hermione
considers that they’re in the clear. That the white doors in front of her are the gates to heaven, and
she’s never sinned once in her life. Her promised land becomes closer as they turn the corner of the
desk and make their way to the doors.

But suddenly, the doors pull open from the other side, and Hermione swears her once hopeful
breath escapes her body as her eyes connect with the woman in front of her.

From behind, Hermione can just faintly hear Theo mutter under the cloak, “Holy fucking shit—”

Healer Bruiser smiles at the group. “Maeve,” she says, addressing Hermione, “how are you
today?”

Hermione gulps and takes a deep breath. “I’m alright, Cleo, how are you?”

Bruiser smiles and clutches the clipboard in her arms a little tighter. “Very well, thanks.”

So, no accent for Maeve, then. Thank gods.

“Just making my rounds now, and then I’ll be heading back upstairs to check on the inpatients. It’s
been quite a busy twenty-four hours here—”

“Cleo?” It’s the voice of another Healer, and he approaches her from behind and taps her shoulder.
“You’re needed at eighteen. Patient is complaining about their head like it’s about to explode. Says
it’s the visions of the Dementors again.”

Bruiser sighs and bows her head at Hermione. “You’ll have to pardon me. Take care this evening.”
She turns on her heels and heads back through the door.

The Healer watches as she goes and then turns back to face the group. He looks directly at Draco
and smiles brightly. “Malcolm!” he exclaims, opening his arms excitedly. He then turns to Harry
and spreads his arms further out, tilting his head and sporting a cheeky grin on his face. “Thomas,”
he sings in a low voice. “Good to see you two back from your honeymoon!”
Draco freezes in place. Widens his eyes and drops Hermione’s hand from his.

Hermione cranes her head to glance at the name on Draco’s pin: Malcolm Davies.

And then she looks at Harry’s: Thomas Davies.

She has to fight the urge to burst out into laughter, partly because they’re here for a very serious
reason and don’t have time for this distraction, but also because she knows—she’s just sure of it—
that Draco will kill her if she teases him about this.

So, Hermione bites her tongue and just enjoys the sight of Draco stuttering over his words.

“Well, we… it was… erm… it was fine,” Draco responds, half-cringing and half-putting on a
rather strong performance. “Yeah, we had a great time. But we’ve got to run now.”

“You alright, Malcolm?” the Healer asks. “You sound a little funny.”

Draco clears his throat and reaches over to grab Harry’s hand. He begins to drag Harry with him,
and the group follows closely behind. “Must’ve just picked up an accent over the vacation,” Draco
responds with a nonchalant shrug.

“You’re… picking up a French accent?”

“Yeah,” Draco answers, pressing his hand against the doors and shoving them right open. “Or,
erm, ouais! C’est vrai! C’est ce qui s'est passé!”

At the sound of that gentle French intonation, Hermione’s lips curl in an intrigued smile. Will
Draco ever stop surprising her? She doubts it but is perfectly fine with that unpredictable reality—
feels more real and authentic anyhow.

“Haven’t heard that French in quite some time,” Blaise mumbles as they push past the doors and
step into a long, lively corridor.

“Of course that happens,” Draco groans, yanking his hand from Harry’s and trudging towards
Hermione. “Because the universe just adores screwing with me.”

Hermione finally releases that pent up laugh in her chest, lifting her hand to her lips to conceal the
sound as best as possible. But it feels nice to laugh, to smile, to feel joy. To hinder that feeling,
especially now, would be that final step towards a desolate black hole. She can’t fall into that—she
needs all the hope and joy she can get.

So, she laughs. Ignores the repercussions of that joyful moment,

And finds comfort when Draco still reaches for her hand.

Blaise steps in front of everyone and turns around to reveal his content smile. “Alright, we’ve got
to be quick now.” He peers around everyone in search for the others under the cloak. “Theo? Pans?
Daph? You all still there?”

The corners of the Invisibility Cloak become visible in the atmosphere as Theo lifts the fabric and
exposes him, Pansy, and Daphne crouched beneath it. “We’re right behind you,” Theo says, and as
quickly as they reveal themselves, they cower back under the cloak.

“Every room needs to be checked,” Draco sternly insists. “The third floor might be where they
keep poisoned patients, but I guarantee you that Healer bitch has got him held up somewhere else.”
“Malfoy’s probably right,” Blaise adds, rubbing his forehead in a moment of stress. “If Bruiser is
behind this, then it’s possible he’s being kept somewhere private. Out of sight.”

Hermione grits her teeth at that possibility. It’s wholly probable—that Bruiser is the one behind
this. And if she’s involved, it must mean that Aberfield is involved, too.

Gods, she hates this.

“We need to navigate smartly, then,” Blaise says, leaning into the group and eyeing other Healers
as they walk around them. “Perhaps we should consider splitting up in order to cover more ground.
Has anyone else been in this hospital before?”

Harry raises his hand. “I have. A few times. And I’ve got a decent idea of what the hospital looks
like.”

Blaise nods. “Brilliant. So—” He glances between Draco and Hermione. “I think we need to split
up between us. We don’t have much longer before we turn back to ourselves, and he really could
be anywhere at this point.”

“I’ll go with Harry,” Hermione eventually suggests, and that elicits Draco’s hand to squeeze hers
even tighter. She cranes her neck and raises her eyebrows at him. He’s got this look on his face that
she can’t quite decipher—it’s both longing and rageful. “Malfoy—”

“Be careful,” he says in a low voice, tilting his head to the side like he’s already predicting her
stubborn nature to shine through in one way or another. And then he turns to Harry and flares his
nostrils. “If even a centimeter of her is injured on your watch, I will kill you. I don’t care that we’re
a married couple, Potter. I will quite literally burn you in front of every Healer here and then dance
on your ashes.”

Harry’s mouth falls open, and he rolls his eyes. “Always so dramatic, Malfoy—”

“Do you think I’m joking?” Draco snaps, his voice a little louder and his eyebrows slanted. “Don’t.
Let. Anything. Happen. To. Her.”

Harry realizes the severity and sincerity of the statement, and with a deep breath centered in his
chest, he parts his lips and nods. “Alright. I won’t. You have my word, Malfoy.”

With one last squeeze—this time from Hermione—she releases Draco’s hand and steps towards
Harry. Turning around, Hermione meets his eyes again and offers a reassuring smile.

“When one of us finds Adrian, we send the others a Patronus with a good meeting place,” Blaise
instructs. “Got it?”

Everyone nods, and Blaise exhales a nervous sigh.

“Alright. Malfoy, the others, and I will take the first two floors. There are several sections,
including restricted ones, so we’ll need as many people as possible covering these floors.” Blaise
turns to look at Hermione and Harry. “You two take the third and fourth floor but be careful. It’s
not as extensive as these first two floors, but there’s far more security because of the severe
conditions of some of the patients. You’ve got to be quick and careful.”

“There’s only about twenty-five minutes left of the Polyjuice,” Harry says. “We have to go, right
now.”

“Go,” Blaise insists, gesturing them towards the end of the hallway. “The stairwell is just back
there. Be careful. And if you find him, take care of him.”

As Hermione nods and takes off with Harry, she glances one more time at Draco over her shoulder.
His lips are parted, eyes fixed right on her as she scurries down the hall with Harry. She smiles one
more time.

They pass room after room with purpose until they reach those doors. Hermione swings them open
and begins her hurried ascent up the tall staircase. It’s dim and cold in the stairwell, the walls
painted a pale, light blue. There’s no source of natural light to illuminate the space—just bright
lightbulbs that are etched into the ceiling on each landing and above each set of stairs.

Hermione takes the steps in doubles, Harry following closely behind. She spins at the landing,
rushing up another flight of stairs with her hand locked on the rail to help guide and steady her
climb. And then after another round of stairs, Harry and Hermione finally arrive at the door marked
with a giant ‘3.’

Hermione shoves it open. And Harry follows closely behind as they enter the corridor.

The walls are painted a pale, tan tinge and are lined with posters in the spaces between
observational windows into rooms. Blinds are lifted for most of the quarters, and as Harry and
Hermione slowly begin to march down the corridor, they peer through each window in search of
Adrian. Room numbers in large, bold fonts are plastered on the outside of each wooden door, and
the numbers grow as they continue down the corridor.

Other Healers pass by them and nod in a quick greeting, to which they nod right back and then
make themselves look as busy as possible.

Once at the end of that corridor, Hermione and Harry turn the right corner and continue down the
path, praying and begging that they find Adrian.

“Harry,” Hermione whispers as they reach the end of that second corridor, “What if he’s not here?”

“He’s in this hospital,” Harry insists. “I know it.”

“No,” Hermione responds, shaking her head. “I mean, what if he’s not on this floor? Or the next
one? What if he’s not on the first or second floor either? What if they have him somewhere
terrible? What if he’s hidden somewhere, all alone, in an inaccessible room? What if they’ve been
lying about having him here?” The questions fall from her mouth like a rolling stream.

Harry stops walking and wraps his hand around Hermione’s wrist, effectively calming her
trembling limbs. “Please, Hermione. Don’t think like that. Don’t say things like that,”

She purses her lips. “I just… I can’t lose him. From literally the first moment we spoke at the
Ministry, I could tell that there was this spirited energy about him. Like he was some sort of glue.
Like he held everyone and everything together, even when things were incredibly hard for him. I
can’t think about life without him—for me, for any of them, even for you.”

Harry listens, and after a brief moment of silence, he nods in understanding. “I know what you
mean. About his energy. There was something about that first interaction between us at Hogwarts
when you came to look in the Pensieve—”

Harry falters. Gnaws at his lower lip.

“He has this innate quality about him that just makes you feel so… important. Valued. Valid.”
Hermione notices that the corners of his eyes are beginning to swell with tears.

But Harry pushes through the overwhelming emotions and continues to speak to Adrian’s character
in this wholly admirable way.

“Adrian’s… understanding. He can pinpoint exactly where you’re hurting and just say… the right
thing. With humor, sincerity, honesty. I don’t know how he does it. But it’s intoxicating to be
around. He makes me feel… heard. Understood. Like I’m not alone.” He sighs. Looks down at his
feet and takes another deep breath. “So, we’re going to find him. Because he means far too much to
me and to all of you. I promise.”

Reaching for his hand to hold in hers, Hermione slows her breathing and compels Harry to look
into her eyes.

“You’re right,” she whispers, and then she tugs his hand to resume their search.

But much to her fears and anxieties, the third floor proves to be unsuccessful. Adrian is nowhere in
sight. He’s not in one of the rooms, not wandering the hallways, not jumping out from behind
chairs or hallway cots with a merry smile on his face. No—he’s lost somewhere in this massive
hospital, and with every minute that passes—every footstep that Hermione takes—she feels
daggers slide into her worried heart, draining it of hope and confidence and courage and optimism.

She can only imagine how sharp the knives feel piercing Harry’s heart, too.

They storm through the door to the opposite stairwell and begin that lengthy ascent, praying with
each step they take that Adrian is somewhere nearby.

The infamous fourth floor—for long-term residents and those encumbered by horrific incidents of
perpetual spell damage—is groggy and muted, with almost no one wandering among the hallways.
Hermione waits for any sort of security to walk by, question them, or even give them a
questionable look, just as Blaise insinuated that they might. But the corridors are practically empty.
All she hears are sounds coming from the rooms that line the corridor—muffled screams that are
still as excruciating as nails on a chalkboard, quiet sobs that roll like waterfalls, and unnerving
whimpers of potentially psychotic patients who speak about voices in their heads, apparitions in
front of them, visions they’re having. It’s an orchestra of chilling sounds.

But Harry and Hermione ignore them, intent on scouring the hall in the same way as before to find
Adrian. They peer through windows and sigh when they still don’t find him.

And then, Harry picks up his walking pace. He becomes audibly more frustrated with each failure
—each glimpse into a room that doesn’t hold Adrian. In a moment’s notice, Harry takes off,
speeding down the hall and frantically whipping his head around in search of him. He’s around
fifteen doors down when his face turns entirely embellished with his anger, cheeks burning red and
lips slanted downward in ire. Balling his right fist, Harry throws his hand against a wall, letting out
an angry grunt in the moment of contact.

“He’s got to be here!” Harry exclaims, and then suddenly he’s sprinting down the corridor again
and turning the corner in a flash.

Hermione’s chest tightens with sorrow as she picks up her pace and scans the rooms. They’re full
of people lying comfortably in their beds, watching as charmed objects tend to the maintenance of
the room and their own well-being. The rooms are full of witches and wizards of all ages and sizes,
yet none of them are who she desperately needs to see. She can taste the anticipation of it all on her
dry tongue—it’s eating her alive not knowing where he is.
Time fleets like the wind, and with each room she passes, Hermione loses a little bit more hope.
Wishes she wouldn’t, but does. It’s draining. Difficult. Practically hopeless. Her feet grow tired
under the pressure of her itinerant body and her heart, her aching heart, her heart which feels like it
will explode any fucking second, and the only thing that could possibly stop her from combusting
would be to have Adrian, Draco, Harry—someone—wrap their arms around her and tell her that
everything will be okay—

“Hermione!”

She cringes at her name being called. Fears that someone will uncover their plan.

But the desperation in Harry’s voice is quite telling. She runs at full speed and turns the same
corner Harry did moments ago, and when she makes that turn, she’s shocked to witness Harry
ramming his shoulder into a door that’s all the way at the very end of the corridor, etched into the
wall directly opposite from her. There’s no window into it—no sign that Adrian is even in there,
from what she can tell—but it’s the sight of Harry attempting to barrel down the door like his life
depends on it that compels her to believe it’s important.

She sprints. Practically flies down the corridor until she’s next to Harry. And when she arrives, he
points to the folder that hangs from the center of the door.

1. Pucey.

Hermione heaves a sigh of relief. “Harry,” she starts, reaching for his arm, “just use your wand.”

Harry steps back. Adrenaline shines through his facial expression and through the veins pumping
against his skin, and Hermione suspects that, in that moment, Harry forgot about his magic and was
just intent on getting through the door to reunite with Adrian.

He quickly reaches into the pocket of his pants, pulls out his wand, points it at the handle, and
whispers the most urgent “Alohomora” that Hermione has ever heard. Of all those times they used
that specific spell, this particular intonation screams desperation the most. His hand grips the
handle, and he throws the door open.

Somehow, Hermione’s world swallows her whole yet thrusts her into the stratosphere at the same
time. Because he’s there—Adrian. He’s there, he’s here, right in front of her, and that’s all she
needed to see. But he’s lying in that hospital bed, still as a rock and pale as a cloud, but he’s there
—gods, he’s here.

Unlike Hermione, whose feet are glued to the floor, Harry almost takes off in a sprint to the bed.

“Adrian—”

“Wait,” Hermione says, reaching for his arm. “Harry, we’re not ourselves.”

Harry looks down at himself, focusing on his burly hands, tall legs, and large chest.

“We have to approach him carefully,” Hermione warns, shutting the door quickly and taking quiet
steps towards Adrian. “Just use your voice to remind him of who you really are, okay?”

Harry nods, following her and then splitting off at the foot of the bed. Hermione approaches the
left side of the bed, and Harry flags to the right.

The closer she gets to him, the heavier her heart becomes. The state of his body is nothing short of
horrifying. Adrian looks depleted of almost everything in him. His forehead is coated with beads of
sweat, his limbs spontaneously shiver, the bags under his eyes are purple and thick, and even his
eyelids are droopy and unsteady. An eerie pale color tints the usually vibrant hue of his cheeks,
and it spreads to his whole face and neck. For a moment, Hermione thinks Adrian might be just one
second away from death.

But no. There’s life still there. Systems working and lungs operational. His chest lifts up and down
in slow breaths, the colored veins that run across his arms and neck pump with verve, and if she
listens quietly, Hermione can just faintly make out little sighs that escape his slightly parted lips.

But then there’s the smell. This horrible, nauseating smell. Like burning flesh. And it’s coupled
with this faint sizzling sound, so quiet and feeble yet so fucking daunting at the same time. And it
seems that Harry has sensed the sound too, because in the next moment he’s dropping to his knees
and staring at Adrian’s left arm in abject horror.

“Hermione,” Harry croaks, gently placing his fingers on Adrian’s bandage. “His arm. It’s…”

Hermione’s eyes lock on the discolored bandage that wraps around his left forearm. Patches of
purple seep through the white gauze, and his forearm practically throbs beneath the tight
constriction of the wrapping. She fears—fuck’s sake, she knows that it’s something to do with his
mark. It has to be.

And then Hermione notices a small needle sticking into the skin of the back of his hand, and she
follows the tube connected to it up to a small bag of fluids. And when her eyes behold the contents,
she drops her mouth wide open in shock.

Purple flecks.

Like little flower petals.

Floating in the liquid.

They look just like the Nulliwinkle she found in Aberfield’s office the day she broke in with Draco.

“Oh gods,” she whimpers, covering her mouth with her hand. Her knees buckle, and she grips the
side rail of the bed to steady herself. “Harry… take that needle out.”

“What?” Harry asks, furrowing his eyebrows. “Why—”

“Harry, just do it,” Hermione insists. “Please, he’s—oh gods—please, just do it, Harry.”

“O-okay,” he responds. Harry’s hands quiver as they reach for the needle and slowly start to slide
it out of his skin. But before he can pull it out fully, Adrian stirs. Opens his eyes. Stares at the two
Healers in front of him. And immediately jolts and squirms back in his bed, pressing his back
tightly against the pillow and kicking his legs.

“No, no,” he fights, shaking his head and tearing up. “No, p-please, I don’t want it a-anymore—”

“Adrian,” Hermione whispers gently, wrapping her hand around his as it trembles with fear.
“Adrian, it’s alright. Please relax, please listen to my voice. It’s Hermione. I’m here to help—”

“No, no, no,” Adrian begs, closing his eyes and violently shaking his head. “Please, no more—”

Harry takes Adrian’s hand in his. “Adrian, just listen to our voices. Listen. It’s us.”

Adrian fights the possibility, squirming in the bed and straining his neck and arms to battle his way
out of their grips.

Hermione resorts to memories to draw him back to her.

“Adrian, do you remember on Christmas Day at the Shrieking Shack?”

He slows his griping and tugging and falls relatively still, his eyes closing in on Hermione’s.

She continues. “You were so sweet to me. You told me that everyone wanted me there. That I
belonged there in that moment with you all. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as welcomed or happy to be
somewhere as I did in that moment.”

Adrian parts his chapped lips and softens his eyes, exhaling slowly in a state of disbelief.

“And do you remember what you told me at the Pensieve, Adrian?” Harry adds, squeezing his
hand. Adrian turns his head to look at Harry. “You talked me through all of my problems with
Ginny. You listened to me when I told you that things were looking bleak for her and I. You told
me that my honesty and self-awareness was admirable, and that I need to know who I am before I
can find someone that truly loves me for me.” Harry drags his tongue over his bottom lip, fighting
back tears. “You told me to never settle for someone that wouldn’t apparate across the world for
me.”

A switch clicks behind Adrian’s eyes. He darts his eyes between Harry and Hermione, and it’s as if
he sees beneath their disguises and can read their souls like an open book.

“Potter... Granger,” Adrian murmurs.

She nods vigorously, reaches her hand out to cup his cheek, stroke her thumb over his tepid skin,
and then she glances over at Harry. “Harry, send a Patronus to the others. We have to get him out
of here. Hurry.”

Harry rises to cast his Patronus, and Hermione squeezes Adrian’s hand and dips her forehead
against his. She smiles, laughs, presses a soft kiss to his cheek and then meets his eyes with hers.

“We’ve got you, darling,” she whispers. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

Adrian gulps and nods once. “It hurts.”

She returns the nod, folding her lips into one another to counter the tears that are desperate to fall
from her eyes. “I know, I know. Here—”

Hermione tentatively reaches over his body and slowly removes the needle from his hand. She’s
careful—meticulous until the very last moment, the moment that the needle emerges from his skin.
She drops it against the floor and sighs in relief when he lets out an alleviated moan. Then she uses
her wand to remove the shackles from his wrists.

“That’s going to feels so much better now that it’s out,” she whispers.

“I’ve sent the Patronus,” Harry says, returning to Adrian’s side and taking his hand in his. “We’ve
got to get him out of here, though. The Polyjuice is going to wear off soon.”

Hermione nods. “Adrian, we’re going to get you out of here. But you have to be strong for us,
alright? Apparating is hindered here. But we have to get you downstairs and out of this hospital.
Can you be strong for us?”
Adrian exhaustibly exhales out of his nostrils. “I—I don’t know—”

“You can be,” Harry says. “You have to be.”

Adrian stares up at Harry’s face for a brief moment, and then a beautiful, soft smile forms with the
supplest curve of his lips. “Knight in shining a-armor, aren’t you, Potter?”

Hermione lets out a succinct giggle, and Harry smiles.

“Just as comical as ever, aren’t you, Pucey?”

“Well—” Adrian shifts in the bed— “when the Chosen One c-comes to break you out of St.
Mungo’s, y-you have to flatter him with some w-wit and charm, wouldn’t you say?”

Harry snorts and rolls his eyes. “You’re trying to flatter me whilst I break you out of a hospital?”

“Keeps me distracted from the c-crippling pain of whatever the fuck they were injecting me with.
N-now, let me see those pretty green eyes up close.”

With a cheeky grin, Harry leans closer to Adrian. He smiles a little bigger than before, opening his
mouth in the process to expose his most genuine smile.

“Ah, g-good. They’re still there.” He gulps and lifts one of his hands to streak his fingers through
Harry’s hair. “I burn, I pine, I perish, P-Potter.”

Harry gives him a perplexed look, tilting his head to the side.

“Sh-Shakespeare, Potter. Shakesp—you know what, I’ll explain it a-another time.” Adrian turns to
Hermione. “You—”

Hermione purses her lips and leans in, delicately placing her hand on his shoulder. He does the
same thing to Hermione that he did to Harry: reaches for her cheek with his hand and strokes her
face with his trembling fingers.

“Don’t cry for m-me, Granger. Unless it’s from l-laughing too hard.”

She shakes her head and laughs, reaching for his wrist and wrapping her hand around it.

“Only you would set aside time to make your rescuers laugh, Adrian,” Hermione says.

“Well, the Ministry can take my freedom, my autonomy, and whatever else they want.”

Hermione closes her eyes and predicts the direction of that statement—one she’s heard before.

“But my sense of humor? That—that comes with me all the way to my grave.”

“King of comedy,” Hermione concludes.

He nods. “King of comedy.”

“Well, king of comedy, as hard as this is going to be, we need to get you out of here. We’re going
to help you the whole way down, alright? You just lean on us.”

Adrian nods in agreement. Harry and Hermione get to work, carefully guiding his back off of the
pillows and then his legs over the side of the bed. He lets out several painful, chilling groans in the
process, causing Hermione to wince at the thought of dragging him through the entire hospital
while he’s in this much pain.

“I know, I know,” Hermione mutters soothingly, stroking his back. “We’ve got you, Adrian.”

“Everything is s-sore,” Adrian mutters, gripping his stomach and lurching over. “I don’t know if I
can, Granger—”

“You can,” she says, sweeping around the bed and joining Harry on the other side. She throws
Adrian’s right arm around her shoulder—Harry does the same to the left—and then they lift him
together from the bed and steady him between them. Once again, Adrian lets out an excruciating
wail, but he grits his teeth to counter the pain. Bites his tongue and rolls his neck to fight the
aching in his limbs.

They begin to take small steps towards the door. Adrian musters his strength in his legs and drags
himself with them.

“I’ve got it,” Adrian determinedly croaks, huffing out of his nose and speeding up his steps. “Just
get me the h-hell out of here—”

With a far too determined step forward, Adrian slips out of Hermione and Harry’s arms and lands
on his knees just in front of the door. He groans—slams his fist against the tiles and almost screams
into the floor. But almost immediately, Hermione and Harry reach for Adrian and secure his arms
over their shoulders again, whispering affirmations to keep him going:

“We’ve got you, Adrian. We’ve got you. Hold on.”

They’re out the door and pacing down the corridor with staggered steps in seconds. Hermione
knows more than anything in the world that it is imperative that they move fast. The corridors are
empty, but Blaise’s caveat about security rings in her mind like an omen. Any second could change
the lucky circumstances which they’ve found themselves in, and catastrophe could be a footstep
away.

And then she feels this familiar sensation in her hands and in her face. It’s a mixture between
shedding skin and melting. Her skin begins to vibrate, and she realizes that the potion is beginning
to wear off. She swears under her breath as she balances Adrian’s tall, heavy body under her grasp
whilst also managing the beginning of the transformation. The pain of the metamorphosis only
heightens when she turns that first corner. Her hands turn to jelly, but she keeps them as strong as
possible for Adrian.

After stumbling through the second corridor, they reach the stairwell. Enter it as Maeve Flanagan,
Thomas Davies, and Adrian Pucey.

Then, somewhere around the second floor, they become Hermione Granger and Harry Potter once
again.

Hermione ignores it at first. Figures that she’ll deal with it once they’re down the stairs. That the
main priority right now is getting Adrian safely down these steps. He moves slowly but surely, and
Hermione thinks it might be the surge of adrenaline in him, her, and Harry that forces them to
move so quickly. They reach the landing of the ground floor after a few minutes and glue
themselves to the wall, scanning the stairwell and praying—gods, they’ve been so lucky this far—
that no one sees them just yet. Hermione just needs a minute to devise a plan.

They could just run. Sprint like their lives depend on it. Just past these doors is that first main
corridor, and then it’s that first set of doors that lead to the waiting room, and then it’s just a matter
of reaching that portico and stepping through the glass entrance. Once out and past the anti-
apparition wards of the hospital, they could escape.

But Adrian is so weak. He’s practically out of breath, leaning on both of them and heaving his
chest up and down.

“W-what’s the plan, Granger?” Adrian croaks.

She gnaws at her lower lip. “Harry, where did you tell the others to meet us?”

He gestures his head to the door. “The ground floor’s main corridor. They should be there any
second—”

There’s a scream that sounds from the other side of the door. It’s shrill and tiny, and then it’s
followed by bursts of light and clashes of sharp sounds. Hermione can practically feel the floor
rumble under whatever cataclysmic event is unfolding beyond the doors.

She leans forward, kicks open the door with her foot, and catches a glimpse of Blaise, un-
polyjuiced, hurling a spell at a Healer running towards him. The door swings closed again, but
Hermione feels another sudden surge of adrenaline. If she can just get Harry and Adrian across the
corridor while the others fight off the Healers, then this could work. This distraction—this battle
right in the hallway of St. Mungo’s—could be the perfect diversion.

Hermione’s heart and feet take off, dragging Adrian and Harry with her.

“Hermione, wait!”

She doesn’t listen. Just throws herself against the door and storms out with purpose.

They stumble onto utter pandemonium, bright lights streaking in the air and furniture being hurled
from one wall to another. It’s disarray, madness, complete anarchy, and it’s led by the Slytherins,
all revealed now to be their true selves as they fiercely take on several Healers.

Hermione's eyes fall upon Blaise, who hurls a spell at a Healer pursing him across the corridor. It
misses, and the Healer launches a spell of his own—a bright red light, which just barely skims past
Blaise’s head. Blaise swipes his wand in the air and creates some sort of protective shield, but the
Healer somehow bypasses the shield with a different spell. The barrier falls, and Blaise dips behind
a rolling cot to hide himself.

Hermione pushes Adrian and Harry forward, shouting, “Harry, go!”

The two begin to stumble through the hallway, attempting to avoid the loose spells that bounce off
of the walls, the flying objects, and the Healers who would be intent on grabbing Adrian were it
not for the Slytherins keeping them active and distracted.

Hermione turns her attention to the Healer engaging with Blaise. He storms to where Blaise hides,
wand ready to spew more spells.

She lifts her wand. Aims it at the Healer and yells, “ Stupefy!”

The white burst of light strikes the Healer in the back—sends him flying into the wall with a harsh
crack.

Blaise emerges from behind the cot and finds Hermione’s eyes. He rushes towards her, grabbing
her shoulders and widening his eyes in concern.
“Where’s Harry? Where’s Adrian?”

Hermione points down the corridor, and when they both look over, they see Pansy rushing to
Adrian’s side and securing her arm around his back to help guide him. Pansy looks over her
shoulder in horror, gritting her teeth and stumbling under the weight of Adrian’s body. But she
pushes forward with Harry, occasionally using the wand in her right arm to fend off more Healers.
Harry begins to do the same, and together they create this tandem of protection around Adrian.

A spell shoots just past Hermione’s head. She ducks with Blaise, then looks up in horror as a
Healer charges towards them. She jumps up, ready to strike him in the chest with any spell she can,
when all of a sudden, a stream of red sparks hits the Healer straight in his chest, and he collapses to
the ground in a fit of shakes and quivers.

Hermione follows the path of the spell—it came from Theo, his wand still fresh with the remnant
of the jinx. He’s is quick to turn on his heels and fling spell after spell at three other Healers, all of
whom fall victim to the way he so effortlessly expends his magic. There’s something unbelievably
charming about the way he handles his wand—the way charms and jinxes seem to spiral out of the
tip so effortlessly. He commands the room, forces Healers to succumb to his magic, and it’s all
from the power manifested in his hands, his brain, and his heart.

One Healer almost grabs Daphne from behind as she runs for dear life, but Theo is quicker. He
sends a jinx her way, and the burst of white light collides with the Healer’s back, rendering her
totally unconscious.

All of it happens so fast that Hermione forgets to ask herself something: where is Draco?

A uniformed stomping sound echoes from the corridor that runs perpendicularly to the one they're
in, and Hermione swivels her head in unison with Blaise to inspect the source. Reinforcements
arrive in an orderly pack, but they’re not Healers. No, they’re like security guards. A police force,
of sorts.

A man she’s never seen before leads the crusade. But his silver hair and tall stature bode terrifying
thoughts, nonetheless. He casually struts down the hallway, lips flattened, and eyes set right on
Hermione. Like he knows her. Like he knows exactly what she’s doing.

She gulps.

Blaise reaches for Hermione’s hand. “We need to go—”

“Where’s Malfoy?” Hermione asks in a panicked state, spinning her head to scan the hallway and
find just a flash of that blonde hair to soothe her terrified nerves. But he’s not present, he’s not
here, he must be somewhere—oh, gods, her heart is pounding so bloody fast—

Blaise tugs on her arm again. “He’s around here, but we have to go—now!”

“Not without him!” Hermione argues, releasing herself from Blaise’s grip and turning around. She
holds her ground as the pack of guards approaches her, desperately searching for Draco in the
process. But just as she’s about to take a step towards the assembly of forces approaching her and
hurl spells all on her own to fend them off, there’s a ginormous, white light that shines from behind
the guards. It spurts and spreads to almost every member until more than half of them fall to the
ground in a fit of shakes and groans.

Behind them, Draco emerges like a dragon from the rubble. He rushes around the fallen guards
towards Hermione and Blaise, shooting spells at the area around the guards over and over again.
He’s still Malcolm Davies, but it’s during the process of running that he succumbs to the
termination of the potion’s effects.

He’s about to reach them, fully transformed into Draco now, when one of the guards who escaped
the spell leaps forward and tackles him to the ground like a rugby player. Draco’s wand slips out of
his hand as the guard straddles him and struggles to pin his arms to the ground.

On instinct, Hermione points her wand at the perpetrator and blows him right off of Draco with a
sonorous “Stupefy!” The man goes flying back several feet in the air, landing a few feet from the
pile of comatose guards in the middle of the corridor.

Draco scrambles to his feet, retrieving his wand in the process, and sprints with those long legs
towards Blaise and Hermione. Once he arrives, he grabs Hermione’s hand and continues running.
Full speed. It’s faster than she’s ever run before. But it doesn’t feel fast enough because there is so
much corridor to cover. It’s so bloody long and narrow that she feels like it’ll never end.

Blaise trails right behind them, and Hermione can hear just how heavy his breathing is in the thick
of the skirmish. And then she hears the crack of a spell and a body hit the floor with a thud, and her
heart wrenches at the sight as she turns around.

She stops and pulls Draco back with her. Blaise flails on the ground, ropes coiling around his body
and rendering him incapacitated. A stampede of more security guards begins to charge towards
them—must be around half a dozen of them—and then a loud, blaring siren goes off, and it echoes
through the whole hospital as a caveat.

Suddenly, Draco grabs Hermione’s face and stares her deeply in the eyes.

“Run,” he orders, pushing her away and turning to approach Blaise.

“No—” she reaches for Draco’s hand— “not without you—”

“Oh, fuck’s sake, Granger!” he shouts, shoving her shoulders yet again. “You stubborn little
Gryffindor shit! Do what you’re told! GO!” He shunts her again, hard.

And before she can scold him, he turns around, rushes to Blaise, drops to his knees, and begins
tugging at the ropes, pulling them off of his body as quickly as he can.

And for once in her life, Hermione listens. She turns and rushes towards the others as they
gradually make their way to that last set of doors. And as another Healer emerges from one of the
rooms beside her to stop her, Hermione stuns her with a blast without even thinking about it. It’s
intuitive. All about survival.

And then, to her horror, she hears a scuffle ensue behind her. She spins to behold the sight of
guards surrounding Draco and Blaise, grabbing their arms, and hauling them to their feet. They
hold wands to their throats as they drag them backwards.

Hermione’s heart splits. It’s the way Draco struggles in the arms of the guards, the way his teeth
grit and his arms flail, but most of all, it’s the way he speaks to her with those eyes when they
finally reach hers.

With those glimmering irises, he begs her to keep running, save the others, save herself.

But she can’t. And she curses herself for her nature—truly, she does—but she can’t help it. She
can’t leave them like that. And she certainly can’t fathom losing Draco. Not now, not after
everything, not when they are so fucking close to that state of grace and peace.
Draco sees that she’s frozen. Knows that she’s going to do something rash.

And she does. She runs towards them.

“GRANGER!” Draco bellows, his throat constricted beneath the grip of one of the guards’
forearms. “NO! YOU IDIOT—GO!”

“Screw it, Hermione!”

It’s Theo’s voice. She can hear it grow closer behind her. It’s like he’s read her mind—knows that
she just can’t leave the others like that. It’s almost like he’s giving her permission to be a
Gryffindor—throw herself into more turmoil to save her friends.

Suddenly, Theo’s at her side, and then he’s in front of her, and then he’s stunning two guards that
are approaching them with total ease. He charges further, and with intense precision, he stuns the
guards holding Draco and Blaise right against their foreheads. They drop to the floor, and that frees
Draco and Blaise. They begin to sprint again.

Theo grabs Hermione’s hand and runs with her down the corridor. The others have already made it
to that final door that leads to the waiting room. Pansy heaves it wide open with her hand, and they
storm through the doors and disappear on the other side.

Once Hermione and Theo make it through the door, they throw a cascade of spells through the
waiting room as a means of creating diversions. It’s already in shambles from when the others
passed through. By the time she looks up, the four of them are already crashing through the glass
and successfully escaping. Theo and Hermione make a beeline for the entrance, but right before
they pass through, Hermione turns her head to make sure that Draco and Blaise are with them.

Just as Theo pulls her through the portico, Hermione catches a glimpse of Draco and Blaise
throwing opens the doors and stumbling through.

And then Hermione collapses on the pavement outside of St. Mungo’s.

She’s absolutely lost her breath from the sheer amount of running she’s done mixed with the
pumping adrenaline in her body. Hustling to her feet as quickly as possible, Hermione swivels her
head and watches as the others stumble down the block, back to where they were hiding before
entering the hospital. Hermione rips off the white coat, tosses it to the side, and turns around to
wait for Blaise and Draco to make their way through the portal.

She obeyed Draco before. She ran when she was told to. But now, Hermione intends to wait for
him. Run with him. Hold his hand and leave here with him.

But several seconds pass, and they don’t come through the gateway.

Hermione begins to panic as she notices the rippling glass turn solid. It isn’t malleable anymore—
no, it’s rock hard now. And she doesn’t exactly know what that means for them. Are they stuck?
Can they not get through? What if they’ve been caught?

Theo grabs her hand and tries to drag her away from the window.

“They’re coming, Hermione. They’re right behind us, okay?” he says in a reassuring yet firm
voice.

“Why aren’t they out yet?” Hermione panics, her hands shaking. “They were right behind us.”
“Hermione!” Harry calls out. She turns over her shoulder and watches as he, Pansy, and Daphne
struggle to hold Adrian up. They stroke his face, kiss his head, whisper soothing words to him, but
his knees continue to buckle under some intravenous pressure.

She turns to Theo, desperation in her eyes. “Please, I need him—”

“Pansy and I will wait here, okay?” he says, stroking her shoulder. “We’ll wait for them and figure
something out. But you need to go with Adrian back to the apartment, okay? Everything’s going to
be okay.”

Hermione shuts her eyes. She wants to scream and beg him to let her stay and help, but there’s
something that’s tugging her to Adrian too. An amicable force that craves her company.

And so, she relents. Hates it, but does it anyway.

She rushes towards Adrian, cupping his cheeks with her hands and lifting his head so that he can
look her in the eyes. He looks utterly exhausted, fatigued, and half-dead. The color of his skin is
just as haunting as the first moment she saw him in the hospital bed, and his nose is now bleeding
as well.

That nosebleed. She remembers him talking about his chronic nosebleeds. She thinks about how
much pain he must be in, coupled with the lack of cocaine in his system, and how that must be
festering such a disruptive storm within his body.

“Granger?” Adrian groans.

“Yes?” she whispers sweetly. “I’m here. What do you need?”

Adrian sniffles. “A bed… please… somewhere to… lie down...”

Hermione purses her lips and nods. “Okay, yes. We’re going to get you there now. Just one more
big push of energy to apparate, okay? And then you can rest—”

“No, I can’t—”

“You can,” Hermione asserts. “You absolutely can. You’re Adrian Pucey. You are one of the
strongest people I know. This is nothing, yeah? You can do this. You have to do this.”

She glances towards the window—still no sign of Draco or Blaise. To distract herself, she looks
back at Adrian and resists letting exhausted tears fall from her eyes.

“You are strong enough for this and for anything else that comes your way. Do you understand?”

He scrunches his eyes closed, but eventually nods.

Daphne emerges from the group and scans the area. “W-where’s Blaise?”

Theo and Pansy are already waiting by the window. They look at one another and struggle to speak
candidly as their eyes dart between the window and Daphne.

“Blaise is coming,” Pansy says, nodding her head. “And so is Draco. Any second now.”

Daphne turns back to Hermione. “I can’t leave him—”

“I know,” Hermione says, nodding. “Trust me, I know. You stay. Harry and I can do this.”
Daphne nods, and before scurrying off, she rushes back to Hermione and grabs her hand.

“Draco is coming too,” she says. “We’ll make sure of it. You helped bring Adrian back to us, and
we promise to bring Draco back to you.”

Hermione’s teeth chatter as she fights the urge to cry. She nods instead, squeezing Daphne’s hand
and then letting go.

And as painful as it is to leave them all behind, Hermione takes a deep breath, nods in unison with
Harry, and disapparates.

She can hear Adrian scream in pain in the process, but she holds onto him for dear life as their
bodies twist and coil around one another. The pressure of the air is almost too much to handle, but
once they land in the living room and stumble onto the couch, Hermione finds it in her to inhale
deeply and feed her lungs the oxygen it needs.

Immediately, Harry and Hermione maneuver Adrian’s body onto the couch, stretching him
horizontally. There are tears in his hospital gown, but Hermione doesn’t find any bodily injuries
from the apparating. She sighs in relief and watches as Harry collapses on the ground, completely
out of breath.

Hermione does the same. Drops to her back and covers her eyes with her arms in total enervation.

A soft purr disrupts the somber ambiance, and Hermione feels Crookshanks’ presence tread around
her body. His furry head nestles against her waist, and she finds the strength to lower her arm and
stroke the top of Crookshanks’ head. He continues forward and meets Harry, sliding and dragging
his body against his legs.

And then, Crookshanks finds Adrian’s arm hanging off of the couch. He tentatively sniffs his
fingers, and once he realizes who it is, Crookshanks lets out a sharp meow and nudges his head
against Adrian’s lifeless fingers. When Adrian doesn’t respond, Crookshanks plops down onto the
floor, curls his tail around his body, and just lies right below where Adrian is. It seems to be
comforting enough for the kneazle.

Hermione croaks at the thought of Draco still in St. Mungo’s. She imagines him being dragged
away yet again by guards, tossed in some room, arrested for potential crimes. All of those
possibilities induce inescapable tears. She cries—after holding it in for what felt like forever, she
finally breaks down and cries.

Adrian’s voice calls to her. “No, no,” he says sweetly. “N-not my brave, Golden Girl crying
again.”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers, hiding her face with her hand and shaking her head.

“N-nothing to apologize for, Granger.” Adrian shifts on the couch slightly. “You saved me. All of
us. Again. Time and time again.”

“But now the others—” She stops herself. Can’t even begin to think about whether the others are
going to be alright.

“They’re coming,” Adrian says. “I know it.”

They wait. Silently. Five minutes turns into ten, then fifteen, then twenty, but time feels like it’s
moving slower than the speed it takes for the earth to revolve around the sun. It’s laborious and
toilsome—the way the earth spins on its axis and passes the time. Every minute that they don’t
return home to her feels like a million years in her very own purgatory.

On the twenty-third minute of waiting, hope comes in the form of a Patronus.

Hermione jumps to her feet at the sight of a white, incandescent dragon hurling itself through the
window and into the center of the living room. His wings flap, and he hovers just above the
floorboard. He's as tall as Adrian, and as valiant as all of them put together.

Hermione breathes a sigh of relief and awe when she realizes whose Patronus it is. It relays a
message more beautiful than anything she’s ever heard, and it’s in his silky, soothing, perfect
voice.

We’re all alright. I’ll see you soon.

 Chapter 31
Chapter Notes

your tw today is just Aberfield being the absolute worst human being alive. physically
cringed while writing his dialogue.

there's also a brief mention of Adrian's overdose that I thought I would just preface
here.

"You're back."

There's something wholly different about the way those two words are enunciated from the last
time they were spoken here.

Emphasis—a breath of relief—on the second word distinguishes the deliverance. Gives the
sentence a whole new meaning in this entirely new set of circumstances.

Because the last time they were spoken in the Slytherins' apartment was on Christmas Eve. There
was something warm about Draco's particular greeting to Hermione. The release of those two
simple syllables from his chapped lips and the softness of his weary voice, dragged down by the
weight of his withdrawal, felt like satin smoothing against Hermione's skin.

Somehow, beneath the misery of the withdrawal, Draco spoke with the voice of an angel that day,
and so Hermione was reduced to a puddle of concern and compassion.

Now, today, when a sudden gust of silvery smoke fills the apartment, and five Slytherins slowly
but surely start to emerge from beneath the clearing haze, it's Hermione who is eager to do the
greeting.

She jumps to her feet and cranes her head in the speed of light. And her heart practically bursts
forward when she lays eyes on Draco.

She sighs those words without even considering what they stood for in the past.

"You're back," Hermione exhales, charging towards the group and, with total disregard for
whatever state he is currently in, dropping to her knees, throwing herself into Draco's arms, and
zealously crashing into his chest.

The way she hugs him is like she's been deprived of embraces all of her life.

Even when she hears Draco groan and seethe through his teeth in an obvious indication of pain,
Hermione can't help but hold onto him tightly. Constrict his neck with her arms and dip her head
into the crook between his neck and head to just smell him, remember him, be with him.

She's attached, ascribed, transfixed to his body. From one bone to the next, with just a patch of
ligament bonding them together, Hermione squeezes Draco like she's bound to lose him again.

She feels a hand touch her lower back, but judging by the angle of the placement, it's not Draco's.
"Hermione." The voice is Theo's. As distracted as Hermione is by Draco's sudden presence, she
can still discern who it is that's attempting to calm her down. "Hermione, be careful with him—"

"Granger." Now that—that's Draco's voice. And it's just as soft as she remembers, but it's also
stern. Coarse. Singed with a hint of self-negligibility—like whatever he's quietly groaning about is
not really all that important. "I'm fine, I'm fine—"

"No, no," Hermione repeats, shaking her head and gripping him a little tighter. "No, I'm not letting
you go, no—"

Hermione wonders if what she just said sounds weak. But that's just for a moment. Her self-doubt
is soon replaced with that same, initial sense of panic, and then she's right back to refusing to let go
of him. She's right back to denying any other source of warmth. Draco's arms do the trick—always
have. How can she possibly pull away now?

"Hermione," Daphne whispers from behind her as she places her hands upon Hermione's shoulders
and begins to lightly tow her out of Draco's arms. "He needs a moment. Let us look at him—"

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispers to Draco, ignoring everyone and everything else around them and
simply feeding him with her genuine regrets—moments of shame that she deems necessary for
reconciliation. "I'm sorry. I should've stayed. I should've stayed with you. I should've waited for
you and helped you escape—"

"Granger—"

"I'm sorry," she continues, apology after apology gushing out of her mouth like a lively stream. She
just can't seem to stop—not when she's been overwrought with anxiety since parting from them all.
"I should've waited for you, or come back for you at the very least—"

"Stop," Draco mutters into her hair. "Granger, stop—"

"Hermione." That's Blaise. And judging by the elocution of her name, Hermione slowly begins to
consider the consequences of clinging onto Draco too hard. Blaise tugs her arm lightly, untwining
it from Draco's shoulders and then taking her right hand in his. "Let us take a look at him. Please."

Hermione fights the truth—the surefire knowledge. But realizing that she has to desert his arms at
some point, Hermione finally relents. Bends to the will of the universe and allows Blaise to guide
her out of Draco's own now taut embrace.

And when she's able to look at him, resting on his knees, supported by Theo and Pansy on either
side of him, and she notices that his head is hanging rather limply and that there's a small cut that
runs across his left cheekbone, the surrounding skin swollen in a beet red hue, Hermione gasps
lightly, granting her lips to part in astonishment.

Draco looks up at her with his tired eyes. And then he surreptitiously rolls them. "I'm fine," he
insists. "Seriously, Granger. I told you we were all fine and that we would be back soon."

"Yeah, we saw," Adrian interjects, leaning his head over the side of the couch and peering at Draco
from across the room. "B-Brilliant Patronus you have there, my wise and brave Dragon. Never
before seen s-spectacle, and I got a front row seat. I'm c-counting my blessings."

Draco looks over Hermione's shoulder at Adrian. Accidentally allows an unpretentious and
unfraudulent smile to shine through his stoic expression.

Rushing almost immediately to Adrian's side, Blaise kneels on the ground beside the couch and
throws his arms around him with a laugh. Harry has to shift backwards towards the window to
allow Blaise the proper space for reuniting with his friend. There's a universal yet silent sigh of
relief that comes from everyone in the apartment who witnesses Adrian lift his arms and slowly
wrap them around Blaise's back to return the jovial and amicable gesture.

Blaise laughs and sighs in relief when Adrian eventually falls back onto the cushions. Wipes a
stray tear from his left eye and then pats Adrian's outside shoulder.

While the eyes of the Slytherins rest on Adrian in relief, Hermione cannot take hers off of Draco.
Physically refuses pull her gaze away from the man in front of her. Draco's like this blinding light
that lures her in and holds her captive, but it's not involuntary, not forced, not artificial. It's this
compulsory need to be sure in the knowledge that he's safe. It's this undying blaze inside of her that
combusts when she notices that he's in pain. It's the promise she made to herself to protect them.
Help them.

Regardless of the slash on his cheek, Hermione is just relieved that Draco has returned. Perhaps
that's selfish of her—perhaps she shouldn't be so comforted by the struggle he went through in
order to come back—but she can't help it. She wants to scream in gratitude. Throw herself around
him again and just hold on for dear life. Letting him go like that—letting any of them go, really—is
too draining to think about any longer.

"His ankle," Theo says, glancing down at Draco's foot.

Hermione patiently watches as Theo and Pansy help maneuver Draco's legs out from under himself
so that he can sit firmly on the ground. They stretch his legs forward, leading Draco to grit his teeth
in pain. Delicately, Pansy leans forward and rolls up his pant leg to inspect his ankle—his red—
almost purple—completely swollen ankle.

A moment away from channeling all of the Healer spirits in the universe, Hermione scrambles
backwards and retrieves her wand from the floor at the base of the couch. Crawls back to where
Draco sits and grips the wand tightly, preparing it for use.

Her voice is steady and determined. "Let me help—"

"Granger—"

"Malfoy—"

"It's fine," he maintains, but how can that be fine? How can those red and purple hues meshing
together and enflaming his skin not be causing him such concentrated, powerful pain? How, even
now, when his ankle is about a moment from being reduced to sticks and slush, can he not just
accept her help?

Hermione shakes her head. Stands firm in her intentions. Pushes him to venture outside of his
comfort zone and just say "yes."

"No," she responds, steadying her wand against his ankle with the notion that she'll do it either
way. "Let me just help you. Please."

Draco stares at her for a few moments in intense contemplation. Hermione knows how strongly he
hates that word—knows that in his eyes it equates to weakness.

But were the eyes of the world to fall on Draco in the next moment—the moment when he nods,
when his eyes glitter and his tense shoulders fall lax—then it would see Draco as being strong.
Self-aware. Not weak—resilient.
It's how Hermione sees him, anyways.

So, she centers her wand on his ankle and whispers, "Episkey."

Followed by a sharp and acute crack in the air, Draco emits a quick groan and slams the palm of
his hand against the ground. He plunges his head back and glares at the ceiling, attempting to
shield the pain of the healing process. But already Hermione can see the color slowly start to fade,
and after a few moments, it's been reduced to a soft, pink shade. The inflammation sinks away, and
Draco flexes his foot slowly to test the precision of the spell.

He seethes in pain for a moment but quickly becomes used to the sore feeling. And then, lowering
his head and meeting Hermione's line of vision, Draco forms a flat, barely visible smile with his
lips. Nods in gratefulness and then slowly—very slowly—reaches his hand out to touch her face.
Pull her in. Guide her towards him yet again and wrap his arm around her shoulder for a hug.

He hugs her. Initiates the affectionate contact.

By then, the others have circled around Adrian and Harry, offering words of affirmation and
occasionally giggling when Adrian unmistakably cracks several jokes to lift their spirits. As they
shower one another with tales of longing, brief words of support, and harmonious jokes, Hermione
and Draco find a sort of haven on the floor of the apartment. Hugging Draco on the ground in this
authentic, organic, perfectly tranquil way, Hermione feels another slice of peace embed within her
heart. She hopes that it's found a home in Draco's, too.

Curiosity guides her next thought. "You conjured a Patronus," she whispers.

Draco nods, tilting his head against hers. "Yes."

Hermione inhales briefly. "I... didn't know that you could."

There's a long pause, followed by Draco's tepid response. "I didn't know that I could either."

She wants to ask about the memory he used to form his Patronus, but she refrains. Forces herself to
be content with the knowledge that he was able to perform this sophisticated, emotionally driven
spell using some happy memory. Because that in itself is a feat worth celebrating. Worth holding
him a little closer.

"You're dying to know how I was able to do it, aren't you?"

Hermione snickers under her breath. And when she pulls away to cup Draco's cheeks with her
hands—gently slide the pad of her thumb just below the cut on his bone—she sees that the right
corner of Draco's lips is pulled up in a trying smile.

"Wasn't easy," he continues, dipping his eyes down for a moment. "It felt more like desperation—
this compulsive need to reassure everyone that we were safe—than happiness which drove the
spell to work." Silver irises meet bronze when Draco lifts his eyes back up again. "I just thought
that you ought to know that we were okay."

Hermione has to sit on that reality for a moment. Desperation and communication compelled his
Patronus to take flight—soar through the sky and then leap through the apartment window. It was
all to assure his remaining friends that he and the others were fine.

And so what does that say about Draco, exactly? Perhaps that his relationships with everyone here
are the most important thing to him. Perhaps that, when in times of desperation, Draco prefers to
turn to his friends for comfort. And perhaps that there was something so special at the apartment—
so undeniably important to Draco's happiness—that he simply had to conjure a Patronus for them.

Crookshanks. It had to have been Crookshanks.

Or perhaps Harry—the love of his life. They are newlyweds after all.

"It was brilliant," Hermione responds with a smile. "Really. I realized it was yours and just—"

She doesn't finish her sentence because she finds herself mesmerized by the way Draco is looking
back at her. There's this glow to his eyes and a hint of satisfaction to his smile. He looks proud of
himself, and that causes Hermione's heart to flutter.

"It was just such a relief."

"Yeah," he starts, nodding his head in reflection. "It was a relief for me too."

Their conversation is interrupted when Theo suddenly exclaims, "You're kidding!"

Hermione turns her head over her shoulder, and Draco looks past Hermione to fixate on the already
flushed out conversation taking place near the couch. Surrounding Adrian, the Slytherins listen
intently as he retells the events of the previous night.

It's funny—Adrian only overdosed last night. Less than twenty-four hours ago. Yet it feels like
days since it happened.

Hermione still can't wrap her head around the tumultuous events of the evening. How something
tragic turned into something organically perfect, and then another obstacle yielded a rescue mission
so necessary—so essential—that every other responsibility and every fear of straying from the law
or acting within the boundaries of mandates seemed entirely unimportant. And it all took place in
the span of less than a day.

That's the peculiar thing about time. Its speed fluctuates by day. The sun rises, then sets, and then
the moon rises, then sets, and time works its way around those beings, casting shadows and
drawing tides and generating heat without fault. And time moves solely based on the events of the
day, which begs the question of whether it really has any meaning at all? Whether or not it is
dependent on the rest of the phenomena of the world? Whether time really is an enigma or is just
something to embrace?

In any case, less than twenty-four hours feels surreal to Hermione. Wholly impossible in this
otherwise infinitesimal world.

"Not kidding," Adrian responds, tapping his index finger against his chest. "One minute I'm in the
restroom, m-minding my own business, and the next thing I know, Aberfield and Bruiser are in
there with me, holding me down and forcing this... liquid... down my throat. And then I started to
feel w-weird. Out of control. And there was this voice that was coercing me to snort the cocaine,
and I—I couldn't help it. It was like I was intrinsically drawn to it. Like I had absolutely no
authority over what I was doing."

"That's terrible," Daphne sighs, placing her hand on Adrian's left arm, right where his bandage is
still wrapped tightly around his skin.

But as quickly as she touches him, Daphne has to pull away in a quick yelp. She holds her fingers
with her other hand and gazes down at the discolored bandage. Mouth dropping in shock, Daphne
cranes her neck to look at Blaise—Blaise, who's already inspecting the bandage with a confused
and disturbed expression.
"Those psychotic bastards," Pansy seethes, studying the ominous phenomenon on his arm. "What
did they do to you in St. Mungo's?"

Adrian clears his throat. The way his eyes crease and his cheeks flush leads Hermione to believe
that perhaps the pain which he was feeling from his arm had vanished when his friends returned to
his side, only to return at the mention of the grotesque spectacle. It's like the aching, the stinging,
the burning reappears with double the discomfort.

"It's all sort of hazy, but I think B-Bruiser was injecting me with something," Adrian responds,
glancing down at his forearm. "I had a little needle in my hand, right—" he points to a spot on the
back of his left hand— "here. But I don't know what exactly was in the fluids."

Hermione knows. She knows, and she hates herself for knowing, for not being able to pinpoint and
comprehend the clear immorality and corruption embedded in the program and lurking in the faulty
Draught of Peace that Aberfield brewed almost every day.

"Nulliwinkle," Hermione blurts. The Slytherins turn to look at her, initially confused. "It was
Nulliwinkle," she continues. "The same plant that Draco and I found out Aberfield was using to
reverse the effects of the Draught of Peace."

"You mean the plant that was making our bodies ache so badly that our marks started to move?"
Theo asks, furrowing his eyebrows and clenching his fist in anger.

Hermione recoils. Thinks he's angry at her.

But then Theo releases the pressure in his fist and exhales out of his nostrils. Drops his head and
pats Adrian's calf with his hand three times. Slowly. He lowers his forehead in the palm of his hand
and sighs despondently.

It's likely he's more angry at the world than he is with Hermione. That's what she hopes, at least.

"It must've been an incredibly high dosage," Blaise starts, his eyes glazing over Adrian's wound,
"Because that smell—even the sound—"

"And the pain," Adrian adds, forcing a cheeky grin. "Don't forget about my s-searing pain, Healer
Zabini."

Blaise compulsively smiles. "Yes. We can always count on you to state the obvious, can't we?"

"Just making sure you're all aware that I am still the star of this show," Adrian grumbles, lifting his
finger and tracing the back of it across Blaise's jaw.

"Oh, we've known for quite some time now," he playfully answers, gently swatting his finger away
from his face. "Really, though. The severity of the wound on your arm is... daunting. We only
started noticing bursts of pain after a few months of ingesting the potion. If it did that much
damage to your arm in only one night..." Blaise trails off, latching his tongue between his teeth and
shaking his head, like he can't bear to say the words that float around in his head. Taunt him.
Terrify him. "I just... can't imagine how much worse it could've gotten."

"You mean, I could've lost an arm?" Adrian asks, widening his eyes like a puppy-dog and bending
his lips in a playful frown. His voice mimics an innocent child's, the intonation ripe with mischief
and mockery. And to round out the joke, he turns to Harry and says, "That'd have been a shame for
us, huh, Potter?"

Harry chokes on a laugh, pushing hot air out of his mouth in a drowned-out bleat. When he
composes himself, he turns his lips inward and shakes his head.

Behind her, Hermione can hear Draco let out a laugh as well. It's solemn and calm, and she wants
so badly to turn around and gaze at the smile she knows is paired with the sound of his satin laugh.
But she refrains, letting the burst of happiness in her body pull her lips up in a grin so wide that her
cheeks ache with pressure.

Pansy shakes her head, attempting to guard her high-pitched giggling sounds. "The sheer fact that
you can crack such inappropriate jokes at a time such as this—"

"Oh, w-won't you let a poor boy cope the way he must?" Adrian pleads, dipping his head to the
side to complete the puppy-dog look. "It's a surefire method, Parkinson. Humor. Basking in misery.
Searching for little silver-linings in seas of woefulness." Adrian turns to Hermione and points his
finger at her. "That's a nice, big word, huh Granger?"

Hermione nods at the recollection of their game, but she's even more enchanted by the willpower
present in Adrian's behavior. Not one hour ago he was tied to a hospital bed, his body suffering
under a plant so malicious, so treacherous, so bloody painful, and now he's in his apartment,
cracking jokes as if it never happened. As if being with his friends again in this tranquil space is
like a natural remedy to the dark magic imbued in his system. He's stronger than it—that's for
certain.

It's in that next moment, when Adrian offers a perfectly genuine smile, that Hermione realizes what
she has to do. Her heart twists with anxiety as she contemplates her next step. She's fully aware of
the necessity of it all—standing up to her boss. Confronting him. Forcing him to admit what's been
happening.

She has to speak to Aberfield.

She has to speak to Kingsley, as well.

To let this go another second without fully articulating her concerns—stepping beyond her comfort
zone and addressing the severity of the situation—would be inexcusable. She could've done so
much more before. Allowing herself to make the same mistake again is not an option. Fear cannot
hold her back—not when the people that she has grown to love are getting hurt. Not when they're
so damn close to happiness. Not when she is capable of enacting change.

The Ministry. She has to go. Now.

It's only the early evening. If she leaves now, it's possible that she'll be able to stop Kingsley on his
way out. Explain everything that's happened in detail, absolutely nothing spared. And once he
found it in his heart to trust her, then they could both go to Aberfield and confront him together.
Bring down his program and actually do some fucking good for the Slytherins.

Sighing, Hermione lifts her eyes and glances at the others. "I have to go talk to them," she says,
engaging with their irises in a plea. "Kingsley. Aberfield. I have to go and explain everything."

"Alone?" Theo asks, tipping his head to the side and raising his eyebrows.

It takes a moment, but Hermione eventually nods. "Yes. I just don't want you all to get into any
more trouble than we all are in already. It would probably be best if I just went alone."

The Slytherins exchange worried glances. Hermione doesn't even bother turning around to see the
expression on Draco's face.
"You've all been through so much this past day," Hermione justifies. "Let me do this for you."

"We can come with you—"

"No," Hermione insists. "It's alright, really. I'm the one who forced all of you into this mess,
thinking that it would actually help. But I know now that this... can't be forced. This process can't
be coerced or manipulated or done out of anything other than an actual desire to help." Gnawing at
her lower lip, Hermione relaxes her shoulders and lets her heart do the talking. "I need to bring this
program down. I need to reconcile what I've put you all through. Just... let me do this for you all.
Please."

To her surprise, she hears a short scoff from behind her. Bending her eyebrows inward, Hermione
turns over her shoulder just fast enough to see Draco finish rolling his eyes.

"When are you going to stop trying to be a hero all the time?" Draco asks, his tone condescending
but his eyes—those damn eyes—sparkling with admiration. Like they can't help it. Like as much as
he wants to yell at her for inserting herself into this strenuous position for their sake, he can't help
but be in awe of her bravery.

"It's nothing to do with that," Hermione responds, to which Draco raises his eyebrows again as if to
say oh, really? You expect me to believe that the Type A, insufferable, swotty little Gryffindor in
front of me doesn't have an uncontrollable hero complex?

"Care to explain the stunt in St. Mungo's, then?" Draco retorts.

Hermione is quick to respond. "What, are you referring to me saving your life?"

"By putting yourself in danger?"

"Well, it was worth it, wasn't it?"

"Could've ended very differently."

"But it didn't, and that's what matters."

"Oi," Adrian exclaims, rolling his eyes. "Like a married couple you two are."

"Actually, that's Potter and Malfoy," Blaise comments, followed by a snicker.

Adrian's eyes dance between Harry and Draco, his lips dipped in a confusing frown. "Damn. You
overdose one night and miss a whole fucking wedding—"

"Merlin's ball sack," Draco groans, dropping his head as the others fill the room in resounding
laughter. Hermione drops her bickering with Draco and allows herself to laugh at Adrian's
inappropriate yet hilarious self-deprecating joke. It's music to her ears—the sound of everyone
laughing.

Once the harmonious energy dies down again, Hermione turns and watches as Draco bites his
tongue. And after several seconds, he glances back up at her with this new attitude in his eyes: I
know I can't stop you from doing this.

And as infuriated as she is that Draco has a point—that her hero complex is alive and thriving—
Hermione can't help but emulate his smile in a way that reads, you can't stop me. My mind is made
up.
"Just be careful Granger, alright?" Theo advises Hermione. "Those fuckers are unpredictable."

Adrian's advice is slightly different from Theo's: "Give Kingsley hell and give Aberfield a nice
kick in the groin from me."

As Hermione shakes her head in delight, she feels a hand wrap around her wrist. She turns around
and focuses on Draco again. Smiles comfortingly when she catches a glimpse of the amazement in
his eyes.

"Don't do anything too heroic," he says, lowering his head. "Seriously, Granger. Don't make me
worry about you and don't make me apparate over there. I know you don't need saving, so for the
love of the gods, don't make me turn into a Gryffindor who runs blindly into these kinds of
situations."

Hermione places her hand over his. Smiles once more for good measure and for show.

"Don't worry," she says, "I'll be fine. I'll just have a mature, honest, and civil conversation with
Kingsley and Aberfield."

The others exchange skeptical glances, to which Hermione responds, "Really. I plan to keep it very,
very peaceful."

Whereas Hermione would normally float across the Atrium and glide down the corridors of the
Ministry, today she struts. Marches. Determinedly strides across the tiled floor and weaves her way
through the bustling throng of departing employees.

Beating against traffic like she's trying to break through a windstorm, Hermione treks through the
Ministry, the object of her visit plastered behind the lids of her eyes so that every time she blinks,
she's reminded of her purpose.

There's no time to flounce, linger, or allow the crowd to get the best of her. Every moment that
she's not confronting Aberfield about his immoral abuse towards the Slytherins is a moment
wasted. Exploiting any more time would be completely unethical, especially when every second
she's spent with the Slytherins has been a worthwhile journey of self-discovery and reconciliation.
When time has gifted her with such fruitful gifts, she can't allow any more of it to go without doing
the right thing.

So, Hermione walks with determination and purpose. Shoves her way through hordes of workers
and lets her tunnel vision guide her to confrontation.

She knows that she promised peace, but she suddenly feels the wings of a dragon materialize on her
back. Can physically sense the scales surge from her spine and the heat exude from her nostrils,
ears, and mouth.

Letting go in the way that Draco taught her doesn't feel like such a terrible idea. Not when
Kingsley and Aberfield and Bruiser deserve to suffer under it.

It's by some sheer stroke of luck that when Hermione turns the corner to Kingsley's office, she
stumbles upon Rowena again. Kingsley's assistant pleasantly traipses down the corridor in
Hermione's direction, and so with tenacious steps and a heart racing faster than a shooting star,
Hermione jumps into her line of vision and storms towards her.

"Yes, Hermione?" Rowena asks when she approaches her.

Hermione's response is curt and sharp, defined by the gravity of the situation. "Is Kingsley here?"
she asks, her eyes glancing towards the massive, wooden door to his office. "I really need to speak
to him."

Rowena bends her lips in an almost patronizing frown and shakes her head, much to Hermione's
indignation. "No," she responds. "I'm afraid he's still traveling at this time for a few more days.
Would you like me to—"

"What about Quincy?" Hermione interrupts, almost lifting her hand to dismissively wave the
suggestion but stopping herself from coming off too strong.

"Well, he should be in his office—"

She doesn't bother waiting for Rowena to finish her sentence. Upon hearing the confirmed
whereabouts of Aberfield, Hermione's tunnel vision grows narrower, and she spins on her heels and
practically flies to his office. Round the corridors and up the flights of stairs, Hermione arrives at
the fifth floor of the Ministry.

And when she eventually turns the corner of that fateful corridor and reaches Aberfield's door, she
doesn't bother knocking. Miles past her stage of being patient or sympathetic or giving anyone the
benefit of the doubt, Hermione barges right into the office.

She's unshocked to find Aberfield and Bruiser hunched over the back of his desk in the midst of a
seemingly important conversation.

Their heads jerk up at the same time, and judging by the unsurprised expression on Aberfield's
face, Hermione infers that he's been expecting her. Knew that her Gryffindor tendencies would
draw her here at some point.

Figures. Bruiser is still in her white coat, so she's probably come straight from St. Mungo's to
inform Aberfield of what happened there. How Hermione, Harry, and the Slytherins were able to
rescue Adrian from her prison. Hermione estimates from the expression on Bruiser's face—flushed
cheeks, dipped eyebrows, and a frown so irate that her cheekbones protrude—that Bruiser is
enraged. Wrathful, even.

But she's not a dragon. She's not Hermione, whose anger hasn't even begun to manifest.

Aberfield clears his throat and speaks first, but he's cut off rather quickly. "Hermione—"

"I have a lot of things to say to you," Hermione starts, bunching her hands into fists and sticking
her nails into her palms. They're balmy and flushed with nervousness, but the surge of incense that
crosses her brain helps alleviate the trepidations enough for her to continue. "And these things will
probably get me fired for good, but I don't care."

Hermione turns her attention to Bruiser, who menacingly taps her long, polished fingernails on the
mahogany desk. She sneers at the Healer with a curl of her lip. And then her eyes wander to the
shelves on the left wall, and she desperately searches for the jar of Nulliwinkle. Unable to locate it
through the irrationally discombobulated stack of jars, Hermione turns back to face Aberfield and
Bruiser yet again. She grits her teeth. "Where's the Nulliwinkle?"

Aberfield tips an eyebrow—looks like the world's biggest arsehole while he does it. "Whatever do
you mean by that—"

"The Nulliwinkle," Hermione repeats with more force. "The plant you've been using to dilute the
Draught of Peace. The plant you used to stimulate the Slytherins' Dark Marks. The plant you used
to poison Adrian while he was in St. Mungo's." Hermione takes a step forward, unphased by the
way Aberfield patronizingly glares at her. "Where is it now?"

Aberfield chuckles. Merlin, she feels so angry that she considers how satisfying it would be to
someday put Aberfield in Azkaban for his misconduct. Wave goodbye on the other side of the
metal bars and then perhaps flip her middle finger in the air for good measure.

"Those are baseless and preposterous accusations—"

"Are they?" Hermione tests, the tone of her voice riddled with impatience. "Your obtuse attitude
about this astounds me—"

"Watch your tone, Ms. Granger," Aberfield warns.

"It is clear as day that this program has always been about something other than rehabilitation to
you," Hermione restarts, shaking her head and glancing up at the ceiling. "Using a dangerous
substance in the Draught of Peace—one that not only nullifies but reverses the properties of the
potion it is added to, is a sordid breach of trust between the head of a program and the participators.
This initiative was never about reintegration to you. It was all about control."

Aberfield grows dangerously quiet, the color in his face turning a scarlet color.

"And I know things about you," Hermione admits, recalling that first day back when Aberfield
pulled the 'mudblood' stunt. "I know what you are. So... maybe this program isn't just about
control, but also about revenge."

She thinks she's got him. Hermione is confident in her calculations. Aberfield created this program
to get revenge on the purebloods who bullied him in school. It's retribution, payback, vengeance.

But when Aberfield curls his lips in a sinister grin, Hermione considers that maybe she hasn't hit
the nail on the head just yet.

Aberfield tuts at her. The sound of his tongue smacking against the roof of his mouth is terrifying
as it echoes in the small office. Bounces off the walls and permeates into Hermione's brain like a
flight warning.

"Yes," he finally speaks, "We all know things about each other now, don't we?"

Cryptic, to say the least. Hermione's jaw locks in anxiety as Aberfield steps to his right and gestures
to the vials on the shelf.

The Location Beams.

The trackers.

Hermione's arms tense, then her chest, and then in a matter of seconds her whole body grows
overwrought with fear as the memories of her time with the Slytherins flood her brain in a reel
that's glorious to her yet also highly implicating.

Aberfield is already glaring at her with victory in his eyes as he reaches for one of the vials,
removes it from its nook in the wooden casing, and twirls it in his finger. Hermione briefly notices
the initials on the side: P. P.

"For example, I know all about your secret conversation with Ms. Parkinson just before the holiday
when she complained about her Dark Mark. On that same day, you burst into Shacklebolt's office
with that very concern. Pity that he wasn't able to sympathize." Aberfield pauses and ruminates
over the initials on the vial. "To be candid with you, I didn't think I would ever see the day when
Pansy Parkinson trusted Hermione Granger with sensitive information. As I recall, her mother was
rather cold when I worked with her in the initial program. I figured that Ms. Parkinson here would
adopt those traits in this program as well, but alas, it seems as though she's different."

With that, Aberfield places Pansy's vial back in the wooden slot and then reaches for another one
just next to it, the initials being T. N.

"Witnessed quite a few things happen through this beam as well," Aberfield resumes, turning it in
his fingers in the same menacing way. "Heart to heart conversations about keeping Ms. Parkinson
safe, a faulty grip while walking up a staircase that led to a brief moment of pain from his—what
did you call it—stimulated mark? And even a very special, small gift in a nightclub. Small, white,
round. Ingenious little thing. Appears as though you and Mr. Nott have become quote close. He
would, it seems, go to the ends of the earth for you. Make you feel like you are a part of this group
without dragging you down with them."

As Aberfield releases a small hmpfh and reaches for another vial, Hermione's heart rate heightens.
She realizes that Aberfield has probably known all of this all along—perhaps even watched her
snort that line of cocaine while on their holiday break.

Yet he kept her on the team. Didn't fire her. And that's what befuddles Hermione the most.

D. G. is the next vial to be selected.

"Sweet girl," Aberfield derisively whispers. "Incredibly trusting. Dependent. Perhaps... a little too
helpless."

"She's not helpless," Hermione snaps, her nostrils flaring as she does so. "She's one of the strongest
people I have ever met. Her loyalty is unmatched."

"Yes, speaking of Ms. Greengrass' loyalty," Aberfield says, ignoring Hermione and reaching for
the next vial, marked B. Z. He spins the vial in his hand. "I had high hopes for Mr. Zabini."
Looking over his shoulder at Bruiser, Aberfield shrugs. "As did Cleo. He showed the most promise
in the group. Clearly one of the stronger ones. Smarter, too. But he's been held back time and time
again by everyone, especially that little blonde—"

"Stop it," Hermione says, but Aberfield is already reaching for the next vial.

"Ah, Mr. Pucey," Aberfield relentlessly continues. "What is there not to be said about this lively
spirit? Very welcoming towards you, yes, but why? Why was he so adamant about creating a
hospitable environment for you to join them?" Aberfield tuts as he darts his eyes back and forth
between the vial and Hermione. "Generous, too. Heart to hearts in bathrooms of all sorts. He's
grown quite attached not only to you, but to two other important things in your life, hasn't he? A
kneazle... and the Chosen One."

Hermione grits her teeth at the mention of Crookshanks and Harry. Her protective instincts take
over.

"You know," Aberfield continues, shaking Adrian's vial in his hand, "Speaking hypothetically, it's
people like him that often make the perfect target. He's the glue of the group. The one holding
everything together—or, at least, trying to. The one who brings joy to each and every network of
relationships. He builds and maintains those webs that would otherwise be quite difficult to
cultivate. Without him, things would be rather bleak." Aberfield raises an eyebrow at Hermione.
"But you might know that already."

Teeth like jelly at this point from clenching down on them too hard, Hermione exhales a shaky
breath. Feels her ears turn red with anger. It's all too much—the way he speaks about her friends
like they're pawns in his game, each one a piece just waiting to be stepped on, manipulated, driven
for the sake of whatever sick and twisted ideas he has about life. It disgusts Hermione.

Aberfield lets out a low laugh as he reaches for the next vial: Draco's. And when he turns to
Hermione and looks at her—holds Draco's vial up in the air for her to see—Aberfield is silent,
though it's a deadly sort of silence. It creates this lethal, poisonous atmosphere that's almost too
much for Hermione to handle.

"If you'd really like to discuss things that could get you fired—"

"That is an enormous breach of trust," Hermione contends, half-laughing at the absolute

debauchery, the nerve, the fucking nerve of Aberfield to violate her privacy, Draco's privacy, all of
their privacy.

"It is, isn't it?" Aberfield retorts, now looking quite angry. "It is a breach of trust between you and
me. You were brought onto my program in the summer in order to help rehabilitate—"

"You have to stop using that word," Hermione interrupts, shaking her head at the fact that he's still
referring to all of this as rehabilitation, therapy, recuperation, treatment—whatever the fuck else he
can synonymize. "What you are doing is not rehabilitation—"

"Regardless," Aberfield continues, "You were hired by me to assist with the program. Your
objectives were simple: facilitate discussions, keep the environment organized, and keep track of
their progress through weekly reflections. Yet you've continuously strayed very far from those
goals." He looks down at the vial, eyeing it maliciously. "Especially with Mr. Malfoy."

"I am not the only one who defied the initiatives," Hermione argues. "I'm not the one who
wrongfully injected trackers into a group of traumatized young adults. I'm not the one who
poisoned them with Nulliwinkle and made their stagnant marks come to life again. I'm not the one
who enacted disciplinary practices for the sake of some sick retribution."

Aberfield laughs and shakes his head, but Hermione, only angered by the way he responds to her
comment, continues to defend herself.

"Every defiant thing I did was done to protect them. To build trust between us. To understand
where they were coming from and where they needed to be. My only misstep was allowing them to
come back here time and time again to suffer under your insufferable bullshit. I don't regret
anything else I've done with them. Not one thing."

"You are brave to admit these things," Aberfield menaces.

"I have nothing to lose. Not when I plan to have this program disbanded and you fired for your
unethical approaches to rehabilitation."

Tired of pouting in anger, Bruiser finally speaks, trailing her hand along the edge of the desk as she
emerges from around it. "And how do you plan to go about doing that, Ms. Granger?" she asks,
leaning her backside against the desk and folding her arms over her chest.

The wheels in Hermione's blazing brain stop turning as she considers that question.

She doesn't actually know what she should do now.

She has all this new information—she's on the fucking cusp of a confession—but with Kingsley
gone, who can she inform with any sort of power to remove Aberfield and Bruiser from their
positions? How can she formally end this program? How can she make sure that Aberfield and
Bruiser don't flee? Get to Kingsley first with another version of the story?

Her heart pounds out of her chest. Words falter. There's implicating material of her floating around
those Location Beam—images of her engaging in illicit activities, destroying property, yelling
about her frustrations with the program, Kingsley, Aberfield, Bruiser.

She didn't think this through. Oh, curse her Gryffindor spirit. She let her anger drive her too far,
and maybe that's why she's kept it in check all these years. Because moments like these, when one
is caught in the headlights like a frazzled doe on a freeway, exhibit a sign of weakness. It's
embarrassing—shameful, even. She must look so pathetic, so pitiable, so fucking wretched.

Her leap of faith comes in the form of a message to the sky. She begs the celestial beings to bend in
her favor. As much as she believes the cosmos to be full of bullshit, Hermione needs her own
saving grace in this moment. A saving grace that glimmers like a star. Like the moon.

Bruiser quietly clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she inches even closer to
Hermione. The Healer sneers at the Golden Girl with the curve of her upper lip, and that makes
Hermione feel even more like a doe in the headlights. Fucking weak. And she hates feeling weak.
Prefers to channel the dragon whenever she can.

"Kingsley will hear about this," Hermione says, but it takes everything within her to not cringe at
her own statement, and it's because she knows that Kingsley is about as useful as a doormat. He's
been blind since the beginning of the program, bothered by everything else in the wizarding world
—everything besides the rehabilitation of former Death Eaters. Who's to say how he'll react now?
This was never a priority for him—that's been clear for a while. But she persists, using her words
as her weapon. "I'll tell anyone that I can. Anyone that will listen."

"And I suppose you think that they will blindly listen to you because—what—you saved the world
a few years ago?" Aberfield asks.

"We'll all testify against you," Hermione warns, instinctively taking a step back when she notices
that both Bruiser and Aberfield are inching towards her. "The things you've done will not be kept a
secret." She inhales deeply and preaches her piece, the proclamation that defines just how far she'll
go for the Slytherins: "I'll give up whatever future I had predetermined for myself if that means I
can save all of them and drag both of you down with me."

Aberfield glares at Hermione. His threatening brown eyes pierce into hers like daggers, causing her
stomach to lurch with anxiety.

"How valiant of you," he taunts, inclining his head to the side.

"Like a sacrificial lamb," Bruiser continues with another step, and now she's far too close for
Hermione's comfort. So much so that she intuitively dips her hand into the back pocket of her pants
—feels around for her wand. And when Hermione finds it, she wraps her fingers around the wood
and prepares to pull it free.

Aberfield tuts. "It's a shame, really. We could've built a stronger world for everyone."

"Your definition of a stronger world is distorted and transfixed in harmful practices," Hermione
responds, hoping to buy some time.
"It's rooted in reality—"

"It's rooted in hatred. Retribution. A lack of compassion and understanding."

He chuckles. Obviously finds Hermione's comment to be amusing.

And then he divulges into a rant. "The world is an unfair place, Ms. Granger. It chews you up and
spits you out. That's how the world works. How it's always worked. And it doesn't matter how
devoted or how loyal you are to someone or something. It doesn't matter how much time and effort
you put into pushing an agenda. None of that matters if the world refuses to accept your flaws. If
you're born with the wrong fucking blood, then you suffer for it."

Hermione bends her eyebrows at that last statement. Analyzes it. Considers the meaning between
the words and the significance of the outburst.

"Unfairness seems to be something you focus on quite often," Hermione says, lifting her wand ever
so slightly out of the pocket of her pants. She holds it in her hand, ready to whip it out in front of
her should she need to defend herself further. "Why are you projecting your misfortunes on them?
What did any of them do to you?"

Aberfield clenches his jaw at the question, so Hermione asks him again.

"What made you so vengeful?"

Hermione doesn't expect what happens next.

It unfolds rather fast. Totally unexpected.

The space between her, Aberfield, and Bruiser is suddenly filled with an explosion of white mist,
and out of the haze emerges a tall figure. Hermione backs up into the door and watches in awe as
the silhouette materializes into a human being, and when the haze dissipates, she realizes who
lurks beneath the smog.

Hermione never thought that dragon attacks would become so ordinary a spectacle for her.

Before she knows it, she sees Draco with his right arm wrapped around Bruiser's neck and his left
hand holding a wand against her skull.

Bruiser lets out a whimper, her throat constricted beneath Draco's forearm, but Draco doesn't falter.
Doesn't remove his wand from her forehead. In fact, he drives it deeper against her skull. One inch
further and he'd break right through the membrane.

"Nobody move" is all he says, and judging by the look in his argent eyes, he means it.

Aberfield slowly raises his hands in halfhearted submission as Bruiser attempts to call for him.

"Quincy—"

"Shut the fuck up," Draco sneers into her ear, simultaneously rolling his eyes.

"Alright," Aberfield starts, "Calm down, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco scoffs, digging his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip. "You know something,
Aberfield? The more you say such pitiful shit like that, the more I want to slice your head off and
feed it to dogs, the Inferi, fucking Dementors if they'd have it. I'm sure soul-sucking is getting
boring for them."
"How dare you—"

"I'll kill both of you," Draco says, nodding his head. "I swear to Salazar that I'll fucking do it."

"No, you won't," Aberfield carefully taunts. "Do you know why I say that, Mr. Malfoy? It's
because you'd be sent to Azkaban without question. And you have too much to live for."

For a second, Draco's eyes dip to face Hermione. He gazes at her, desperation plaguing his glance
as he inhales deeply.

That look sets Aberfield off. Confirms his suspicions and pushes him further. "Yes. I've seen the
memories. You wouldn't want to do something rash that might sully your time with Ms. Granger
here. Say, kidnap and attack a muggle? Hold him captive and torture him for information?"

Draco's eyes widen. As do Hermione's.

"Or attack the head of your rehabilitation program and your assigned Healer?"

The comment has the opposite effect on Draco than Aberfield intended. He smiles deviously and
laughs at the insinuation. "On the contrary," he starts, gripping his wand a little tighter. "I'd do
anything for her. Kill. Go to prison. You can send Dementors to suck out my soul, and I promise
you that the only image you will see embedded in the bright light of my soul is of her. My dying
breath will be her name if it comes to that."

"Her name?" Aberfield sneers. "You can't even say her name."

It's true. Draco's never said her name before. Probably cringes just thinking about it. There's
something comfortable about the way that they refer to one another—Malfoy, Granger. It just
makes sense. She's never really questioned it. Never wanted to force it.

It's why Hermione is shocked when Draco snarks at that comment of Aberfield's.

"You honestly think that I wouldn't do or say anything for her? You've seen the memories. You've
heard the things I've said to her. You should know very well by now that I would bleed this whole
world dry for Hermione Granger."

Hermione's breath is in her throat. Lodged on the very cusps of her trachea. When she exhales, the
pressure in her neck and chest only doubles. And it's all because of the way her name leaves his
lips like it's a prayer. A blessing. Something to be proud of.

The utterance of her name throws Aberfield for a spin. His mouth gapes open, and his eyes tighten
in shock. When he finally shuts his mouth, he angrily exhales out of his nostrils.

Draco raises an eyebrow at Aberfield and digs the wander further against Bruiser's skull, causing
her to grunt yet again in massive discomfort. "Every last person on this earth who even looks at her
the wrong way will receive my wrath. Do you know what my name means, Aberfield? Do you
know what I always have and always will represent?"

Aberfield doesn't respond. Just tenses at the malicious grin that festers on Draco's face.

"I'm a fucking dragon. And do you know what dragon's do when provoked?"

His lip curls in a grin as Aberfield takes a cautious step backwards.

Draco delivers his iconic, archetypal line. "They shower you with rage."
Swiftly redirecting the aim of his wand towards Aberfield, Draco casts a stunning spell that hits
him square in the chest. The spell sends Aberfield flying across his office and into the back wall.
He lies on the ground just behind his desk, completely unconscious.

Bruiser lets out a gasp and begins to struggle beneath Draco's arms, but somehow he's stronger. His
hand clasps above her mouth, and he tilts his head into her neck and whispers, "Your turn, bitch."

Draco shunts her forward and trips her on the way down. Bruiser lands on her hands and knees, but
before she can shuffle to her feet and retrieve her own wand from her coat pocket, Draco stuns her
execution style. Glowers as the white light bursts from his wand and strikes her in the head,
rendering her unconscious as well.

Hermione can't believe her eyes. Can't tame her heart from beating out of her chest. It almost pulls
her down to the ground like lead, but she manages to stand upright and find Draco's eyes.

In the next moment, he's crossing the office to reach her, and when he finally does, he throws his
arms around her waist and holds her tight.

Hermione follows suit, draping her arms across his shoulders and exhaling a shaky breath.

"How'd you know—"

"You took too long," Draco mumbles in her hair. "I told you I'd come if you took too fucking
long."

Closing her eyes and turning her head so that it rests on top of his shoulder and in the crook of his
neck, Hermione says, "I... I was only gone for twenty minutes—"

"It was twenty minutes too long."

A smile creeps on her lips, but then it's overshadowed by another thought.

"Your ankle—"

"It's fine," he whispers, his hand finding the back of her head. Hermione can picture Draco rolling
his eyes as he responds to that comment, and that's comforting in itself. "You did a fair job,
Granger."

Hermione pulls back and looks into his eyes. Almost leaps up on her tiptoes to close the few inches
of space between us with a kiss, but he ends up beating her to it. Lowers his head, plants his hands
on the sides of her face, and captures her lips in his. Exhales sweetly when she eventually pulls
away and dips her forehead against his.

"What do we do?" she whispers, her eyes glancing to the side to peer at Bruiser and Aberfield's
unconscious bodies.

Draco clears his throat. "I have an idea of where we can keep them. For now."

Hermione returns her gaze to Draco as he looks away.

"Amortentia," he preemptively answers. "Titus is... already looking after something there for me.
Perhaps two more pieces of baggage are doable for now."

"What's already there?" Hermione asks, though judging by the things Aberfield was saying to
Draco, she has a slight suspicion. Considers the possibility that it's something to do with that
muggle he mentioned.

Draco doesn't answer, though. Just keeps his eyes off of Hermione's, probably because he knows
that if he looks in them for even a second, he'll fall victim to the beautiful bronze and spill every
fucking secret, every inner thought, every emotion he's ever known.

"Malfoy..." she whispers, dropping her hand to wrap around his wrist. "What's there?"

He gulps. Takes that leap of faith and raises his eyes to look back at her.

"It's just a vital answer to our questions. Trust me."

With that cryptic message, Draco drops his hand to wrap around hers. Finishes with another solemn
"trust me," and then cranes his neck to look at Aberfield and Bruiser yet again.

She doesn't want to push him. If Hermione's learned anything, it's that forcing Draco to talk about
these things only drives him away. Shuts him off further from the world around him.

So, instead of pushing, Hermione mutters, "Okay. I trust you." And then she pulls away from
Draco and begins to walk towards the bodies.

But when Hermione's eyes wander for a moment to the shelf with the Location Beams, she does a
double take and notices something peculiar.

There's seven of them.

Seven.

"What is it?" Draco asks as Hermione slowly approaches the shelf.

Hermione doesn't respond immediately. She reads the initials on the vial first: G. M.

Reaching forward, she pulls the vial from its spot in the wooden casing. The vessel feels heavier
than the others, like the weight of the memories is heavier—filled with something dark and
terrible.

"It's Graham's," she whispers. "It's his memories."

As her eyes fixate on the beam, Draco approaches Hermione from the back. She can feel him
breathe near her neck as she inspects the vial for anything outstanding. But she comes up empty-
handed—it's the same as the others. Just has those haunting initials written across the piece of tape
on the side.

"We should bring this with us," Draco suggests, placing his left hand on her hip. "We might be able
to learn more about what happened to him. Could help when we can finally put these fuckers in
Azkaban." On the word 'fuckers,' Draco's grip tightens, but he's quick to release the pressure when
he realizes that he's holding on a little too tight.

Hermione nods and turns around, wrapping her fingers around the vial and holding it to her heart.

She barely knew Graham, but there's something about keeping his memories close to her that
becomes incredibly important. Paramount in her list of goals for proper rehabilitation.

"Come on," she says, gesturing her head to the side. She bends down and takes hold of Bruiser's
limp wrist in her hand, while Draco edges around the desk and grabs Aberfield by his wrist.
Draco swivels his head to look at Hermione. "To Amortentia," he says.

Hermione nods. "To Amortentia."

They take off in separate puffs of white smoke, twirling into the air and dragging their baggage
with them through the stratosphere.
 Chapter 32
Chapter Notes

just so everyone knows, the new happy pills update schedule is every saturday at 2pm
CST!! I am going to try very hard to keep to this specific schedule, but I will send
announcements on my twitter (@/malf0y101) if I cannot post the chapter that week.
thank you all for your continued support on this journey.

and on this day, june 5, 2021, I'd love to wish our favorite sassy blonde a happy
birthday :))

Apparating with an unconscious person as baggage proves physically draining, so when she lands
in Amortentia on her hands and knees moments later with Bruiser's comatose body collapsing to
her right, Hermione opens her mouth in an attempt to catch a breath of fresh air.

Almost immediately, she raises her head and begins to explore the area around her. Several of the
neon signs are turned on to illuminate the interior of the club, but other than those scattered flashes
of pink, red, and green lights, Amortentia looks dead. Closed for the night. And in a sense, oddly
abandoned.

But Hermione isn't interested in what the club looks like. She's much more occupied with
confirming that Draco made it with her.

Angst courses through her veins when she scans the area and realizes that he hasn't arrived yet.

But before her body can swell into full panic mode—before she can plummet into that dark place
in her mind that tries to convince her that Draco's presence is fleeting—Hermione hears a crack
resound through the acoustically pleasing club. Rushing to a standing position, she turns to witness
the exact moment that Draco lands on his feet on the dance floor, Aberfield falling out of his grip
and collapsing on the floor beside him like a sack full of metal.

Silver meets bronze when his eyes find hers across the club, and gods, she fucking melts under the
intensity of his stare, the referral of heat from one set of eyes to the other.

It's because Hermione now thinks that any moment spent apart from Draco is a moment that can
transform into something wholly dangerous. She's thought it for a while, but something about the
events of last night—simply letting Adrian go off by himself to use the toilet—ruined Hermione.
Left her devastated and permanently scarred. She thinks it did the same thing to Draco—multiplied
his dependability and attachment to her. Because losing one another—losing any of them now, for
that matter—would be more painful than a knife straight to the heart.

So, when he finally appears in the club, Hermione breathes out a sigh of relief. But she doesn't
sprint to him immediately because in the past hour, Hermione has hugged him far more than she
probably ever should—what with his aversion to physical touch. Respecting that boundary, even at
the expense of her love for the act, is more important.

She decides to let him come to her, should he want to.

"Are you okay?" His angelic voice is carried across the length of the club in the form of that simple
yet all-consuming question. It kisses the walls and then bounces right back to her.

Hermione nods. "I'm fine," she answers, eyes fixed on him while her hands dust off her shirt. "Are
you okay?"

Nodding, Draco runs his fingers through his hair and answers, "I'm alright, Granger." He
momentarily glances down at Aberfield and scoffs, shooting his eyebrows up in a sardonic manner.
"Better than him, anyway."

Hermione returns the laugh—brief and concise, like a huff of happy air from her mouth—and then
she scans the club for Titus. Hears footsteps behind her and turns her head to see Draco walking
towards her.

"Wait here," he orders, briefly placing his hand on her arm and then marching through the club and
disappearing into the small, side corridor that leads to Titus' office.

She waits, anticipating his return with Titus shortly.

But until then, in the silence that occupies Amortentia, Hermione focuses on the faint buzzing
sound that comes from her pocket.

Slowly dipping her hand into her pocket, she finds Graham's vial and removes it. There's an odd
touch of heat that emanates from the glass and spreads across her palm, and she bends one of her
eyebrows in confusion as she stares at it. The cerulean fog tinged with a white aura circulates
around the interior of the vessel, but there's something different about this one. Something unique.
Like it possesses something intensely burdening, charged with multiple counts of desolation and
anguish.

Hermione's unsure if she can ever bring herself to look at the memories that float within Graham's
vial.

She remembers the exact moment that Kingsley informed her of Graham's suicide. Recalls a
variety of emotions coursing through her mind that all seemed to stem from different
understandings of the situation. She was sad, confused, and—it's terrible—but there was this lapse
in compassion where she did feel relief.

Relief—she'll never forgive herself for feeling that way. Not now. Not when she knows what
Graham meant to everyone.

But there was relief. To ignore that emotion would be to ignore who Hermione has cared about
since the moment she conceived the F.D.E.R.E., and that's Draco. And while along the way she
came to find beauty and purpose in all six of those Slytherins, it really was Draco who she did this
for.

And now, holding Graham's most precious memories in her insignificant hand, Hermione feels an
overwhelming sense of sadness and guilt rush over her body, conjuring goosebumps on the back of
her neck and straight up her arms. It's like he's here. With her hand tightly wound around his vial,
Hermione feels Graham with her in this moment.

It's interrupted when Draco appears from around the corridor.

"Titus is in his office," he explains, marching towards her. Hermione shoves the vial back into her
pocket by the time he reaches her, wraps his hand around her upper arm, and then consciously
loosens the grip on her skin so that he can instead stroke his fingers up and down the back of her
bicep. "But... before we go... I need to just explain something to you. Okay?"

Hermione gazes up at Draco, comprehending the sincere look on his face. She nods.

Draco exhales out of his nostrils. Takes a moment before finally speaking. "I went to Barnet last
night. I was looking for Andrew, our dealer." He pauses, perhaps assuming that Hermione will
have something to say about that already. But she remains silent, cognizant of the magnitude of
Draco sharing this moment in his life.

He continues, a quick sigh helping his words fall out of his mouth. "I walked those streets all night
looking for him. Initially, I just wanted to talk to him and ask what the fuck was in that cocaine.
But it... the plan sort of fell through the moment I saw him. And I... did things that I probably
shouldn't have done. Potentially incriminating things."

Hermione begins to comprehend what Draco is alluding to—what Aberfield mentioned in his
office minutes ago. "Is he here?" she asks, her eyes glazing over his shoulder towards the corridor.

Draco nods, avoiding eye contact when Hermione eventually settles her gaze back on him. "I think
you might know that, in the heat of the moment, I have some... anger issues—"

"It's okay," Hermione whispers, reaching for Draco's hands and taking them between hers. His
fingers quiver in her grip, and she can't tell whether it's because he's nervous about the situation or
if it's because he hasn't been able to take his drugs all day. His eyes are weak, his skin is pale, and
his hands—they're freezing. Hermione does everything in her power to make them warm again.

"I'm just tired of people taking advantage of us. I'm sick of it."

Hermione nods in complete empathy. "You have every right to be angry about what happened to
Adrian. And you have every right to be angry about the way the world has just spit you out and left
you to dry. It's okay."

Draco laughs to himself. "It's really not."

Sighing, Hermione purses her lips and shrugs. "Well, it's not perfect circumstances, but—"

"Ah, she speaks the truth," Draco jokes with a light smile.

The moment he smiles is enough to make Hermione lose herself in the simplicity of his features.
She rolls her eyes, releases Draco's hands, and playfully but lightly shunts his shoulders.

But before she can cross her arms over her chest, place them on her hips, or even just lower them,
Draco reaches out for her wrists, tows her towards him, and plants his lips on hers. His chest
crashes against hers, catching her completely off guard and claiming her for himself in this organic
moment. It's a sudden force, a rush of serotonin all in one kiss.

And since she wasn't expecting the sudden flash of affection, Hermione initially fumbles when
returning the kiss. But she finds her balance—plants her feet in front of his and her hands taut
against his chest—and she kisses him back. Reaches up on her toes to meet him closer.

When the kiss begins to subside, Draco pulls away and exhales an unsteady breath. It flutters onto
Hermione's lips and sends shivers down her spine. He remains silent for several more seconds
before finally whispering, "Thank you," followed by an even softer, "I'm not sure if I deserve you."

Hermione looks up at Draco, coaxing him to meet her gaze, and responds, "You deserve a second
chance at your life. At happiness. At peace."
"Yeah," he spiritlessly responds, as if he still needs far more convincing than that. "It just
sometimes feels surreal that you're the one giving it to me."

It's funny to Hermione, because if Draco knew how much Hermione had cared about him during
their final years at Hogwarts, perhaps he wouldn't feel so undeserving.

She considers telling him about the way she watched him walk through the halls during their sixth
year of school. How every time she'd go to see Madam Pomfrey about a question from her
readings, she'd look over at him in the corner of the hospital wing and watch him wither away
under the spell that Harry—her best friend—used against him. How her heart towed towards him
then in the same way it does now. How even when he was cruel to her—vile in textbook fashion—
Hermione still cared very deeply for his well-being. Knew something was wrong and only wanted
him to find the light in his own way. Even knew that underneath the façade, the act, and the
trauma, Draco was and always has been a person worthy of redemption.

She almost spills it all when she opens her mouth to speak.

"Dra—"

"Draco?"

The word finds meaning in another's voice.

Hermione looks over Draco's shoulder and sees that it's Titus'. As if he knew that Hermione was
going to say something of meaning, Draco rolls his eyes and spins on his heels, redirecting his
attention to Titus. He gestures his head towards his office, and then disappears into the corridor
again.

Draco reaches for Hermione's hand and pulls her with him. "Come with me. There's something I
need to do, and I'd like you to be there for it."

Silently agreeing to Draco's request, Hermione follows him through the corridor and into Titus'
office on the left. She meets Titus' gaze and smiles, though judging by the expression on his face,
he appears to be playfully vexed with her.

Titus addresses her in that thick, Scottish accent. "Thought I told you to wait for me to get Adrian
out of St. Mungo's."

She feels a light squeeze from Draco's hands.

"My way was faster," she responds cheekily, attempting to satiate his irritation with some humor.

The grey storm clouds in his eyes seem to disperse as Titus gleams, his smile as bright and wide as
the sun when it eventually emerges out of the downpour. Crossing his arms over his chest, he
shakes his head and glances up at the ceiling. "I'll admit that it was faster. But it was also reckless."

"What do you expect from a Gryffindor?" Draco adds to the joke, squeezing Hermione's hand
again and endearingly looking over his shoulder at her.

Titus sighs. "Nothing less, really," he responds with a wink. And then he looks at Draco and raises
his eyebrows, to which Draco nods.

When Titus steps to the side, he reveals what Hermione assumes they've come to deal with.

There's a young man tied to a chair, his body flaccid and his head drooping to the right. Gently, he
first lifts his eyes so that they roll to the top of his sockets, and then with a trying burst of strength,
he lifts his head up and gulps at the sight. Hermione tacitly gasps when she notices wounds
covering his entire face—cuts that can't be more than a day old, bruises splotched across the
contours of his cheekbones, and dried patches of blood around his nostrils and the corners of his
mouth. His nose, bent and curved in this disturbing direction, looks like it's been completely
broken.

Draco takes a step forward, releasing Hermione's hand in the process. Approaching the man and
standing just two feet in front of him, he bends at his knees and rests his elbows against his thighs.

It's Andrew. Based on what Draco just told her, Hermione is sure of it.

"Please," Andrew mumbles, bits of saliva trickling from his mouth down to his chin. "I'm telling
you... I—I really don't know if it was l-laced with anything."

Draco doesn't move an inch. Just stares at the dealer. Hermione watches as the back of his neck
begins to pulse with anger, but the way that his body remains firm and unworked affirms that he's
trying—he's trying so damn hard—to remain calm.

Andrew eventually shrugs, but it's a slow and jagged signal. "P-perhaps there were... t-traces of f-
fentanyl, but I—"

"Yeah," Draco cuts him off, cracking the knuckles of his right hand with his thumb to stop his
hands from doing something else—something more dangerous and violent. "Perhaps there were.
But that's not what I'm here to talk about."

Andrew's eyelids grow heavy as he assumes the worst. He drops his head in submission.

Draco gulps, straightening his back in the process. "You are lucky that I've recently learned
something about mercy. Because were it solely up to me, you would have been dead last night in a
goddamn heartbeat." He pauses and swallows the fury in his voice. "You should consider yourself
blessed by every single goddamn god in the fucking books, because I'm going to give you an out.
A second chance. Not with us, but with your life."

Andrew gazes up at Draco, shock in his eyes.

Hermione thinks that if she could see her own face, it would look something like Andrew's, too.

"You do what you need to do to survive," Draco continues, "but you stay the hell away from my
family. Do you understand? We're done with you, and you're done with us. And if I ever hear or
even catch a fucking whiff of you selling to someone I know in the future, then I assure you that
you won't be as lucky on that day as you are today." He pauses again to catch his breath, then turns
around to glance at Hermione. "You can thank her. She's the reason I'm sparing your life."

Hermione almost chokes on the insinuation of it all, but when Andrew nods in gratefulness, the
pressure in her chest subsides, and the water in her eyes seems to flow the opposite direction.

"I got it," the dealer whispers, nodding his head once. "I won't... bother you... or the others ever
again."

"One more thing," Draco says, turning to Titus and gesturing his head towards the door. Titus slips
behind Hermione, and after a minute, he returns, dragging Aberfield on his stomach and by his feet
across the floor, and then chucking his body into the office. He disappears again and does the same
to Bruiser, tugging her in the same fashion and then casting her next to Aberfield. Then, he stations
himself against the door and watches with a contemplative look on his face—a look that Hermione
has to glance at twice in her own sort of confusion.

Draco approaches them and lifts their heads up to face Andrew.

"Are these the two people that gave you that cocaine?"

Andrew stares at them momentarily before nodding. "Yes," he whispers, "that's them."

Unphased by Aberfield or Bruiser's wellbeing, Draco drops their heads back onto the floor with
two resounding thuds. And then he turns over his shoulder and nods at Titus, who eventually
comes out of his still unclear state of shock and pulls a silver coin out of his pocket. He tosses it to
Draco, who catches it effortlessly. Turning back to the dealer and holding the coin between his
index and middle fingers, Draco says, "This will get you back to Barnet. Just flip it three times
over in your palm."

And then, mercy takes the form of a magical act.

Removing his wand from his pocket, Draco slowly begins to heal some of the wounds on
Andrew's face. The magic is gentle and purposeful, each feature leisurely returning to its original
state. Hermione watches with awe as Draco amends every physical injury that he inflicted on
Andrew's face, and she finds it almost metaphorical. Beautiful. Draco is mending something that
he's broken, and he's doing it out of this principle of reconciliation and second chances. He's using
the same logic which Hermione employed through her time with the Slytherins and showing the
man who almost ruined his life mercy. Mercy. Hermione never imagined she'd watch something
like this happen.

And when he successfully cleans the wounds on Andrew's face, leaving him with nothing more
than a small scar on his cheekbone, Draco casts the ropes around his body away one by one.
Unconstrained by the taut binds, Andrew leans forward and massages his wrists, lacerated and
reddened by the coarse ropes.

Draco slams the coin in the dealer's palm. And when he rises to a standing position, the dealer
mirrors him. His legs wobble slightly, and Draco almost reaches his hand out to help him. But
Andrew catches himself before he can, and then he looks at Draco, then at Hermione, and then
back at Draco again.

"Thanks," he whispers as he starts to spin the coin in the palm of his hand. "I'm sorry."

After the third turn, Andrew disappears. Spins and contorts into the air and travels back to Barnet,
presumably never to be seen again.

Hermione stares at the back of Draco's neck in total shock.

She considers bursting forward to hold him. It's what she wants, but does he feel the same way?

She waits patiently for him to move, say something, turn around and look at her. The toes of her
right foot tap against the floor—maybe she's not as patient as she thought—and her fingers grow
restless as they long to comfortingly streak through his hair.

But she stands still. Hermione waits for the right moment to approach him, comfort him, be with
him.

Titus makes the first move. He approaches Draco, sidestepping Aberfield and Bruiser on his way
there, places his hand on his shoulder, and tilts his neck to meet his gaze.
His voice is quiet, but Hermione is able to make out a faint, "I'm proud of you."

Draco turns his head and nods at Titus, twisting the side of his lips in a trying grin. And then he
does a full turn over his shoulder to meet Hermione's waiting eyes.

His approach is slow, but with his feet dragging and his eyes tired, Draco does eventually reach
Hermione. Caresses her curls with his fingers to tuck them behind her ears and then places a gentle
kiss on her forehead.

He opens his mouth first. "I shouldn't have gone looking for him in the first place—"

"It's okay," Hermione says. "We all do impulsive things." There's a beat before Hermione says,
"Sometimes, impulsive actions lead us to reveal what truly matters to us." Brushing her fingers
through the front of his hair to reveal his glowing eyes, she sighs. "It doesn't make us reckless. I
think it actually makes us whole."

Draco sighs, staring at Hermione like he's seeing a shooting star for the first time. And it's a
perfectly beautiful, tranquil moment, defined by nothing more than their undying need to protect,
comfort, and support one another.

But when Hermione's eyes trail beside Draco, and she watches as Titus drops to his knees and
looks at Aberfield with that same puzzled expression, she has to let that happy feeling go and
survey why Titus is so perplexed by Aberfield's face.

"Titus?" she asks, prompting Draco to turn around and look at him as well. "Is everything alright?"

Titus doesn't answer. Just gawks at Aberfield as the wheels in his brain turn and turn and turn. His
facial expression eventually morphs from confused to stunned, and then after another moment, he
looks nothing short of outraged.

"Why, out of all the people in the world, is Quincy fucking Aberfield here?"

Hermione is dumbfounded. Her chest tightens at that question, eyebrows furrowing to the center of
her face. She feels this pressure manifest across her forehead and temples, and it's unlike anything
else she's ever experienced.

Because the way Titus says Aberfield's name—the way his face glows red and the veins in his
neck jut out—leads her to believe that there's something sinister below the surface of the question.

"You know Aberfield?" Draco asks, shockwaves spurting with each syllable he delivers.

Titus looks up. "So it is him." His eyes glaze away from Draco and Hermione as he scoffs to
himself. "Son of a bitch. I knew I recognized that vile, pretentious, disgusting face—"

"Wait," Hermione interrupts, shaking her head as she attempts to understand how it is that Titus
knows Aberfield. "How exactly do you know Aberfield?"

"Hogwarts."

Hermione's eyes widen.

"1974-1981."

She almost blacks out.

Titus turns back to look at them. "And you mean to tell me that this tragic excuse of a human being
has been leading your program?"

"He's..." Hermione starts, her voice wavering. "He's been working at the Ministry for a few years
now—"

"How the fuck is that possible?" Titus asks, almost shouts, and that causes Hermione to take a step
back. Collide her shoulder with Draco's, who reaches for her arm and holds her taut against him.

"Titus—"

"And her?" Titus asks, pointing to Bruiser on the ground. "I almost recognize her too, but her face
is... it's not the same as who I initially thought. But she has the same stature, the same aura, even
the same fucking pompous smell as that bitch—"

"Are you saying you know Bruiser as well?" Draco inquires, his eyebrows creasing.

Titus cocks his head to the side, baffled by some aspect of Draco's question.

"Bruiser?" he asks. "Who the hell is Bruiser?"

"Cleo Bruiser," Hermione adds, pointing to her on the ground. "The Healer who was brought to
help with treatment and therapy."

It's shocking to Hermione what Titus does next: he laughs. At her. At them. Steps over Aberfield's
body to reach Bruiser's and then takes a chunk of her hair in his hand. Lifts her head up to get
another look at her face.

"I don't know who 'Cleo Bruiser' is," Titus starts, dropping her head back onto the floor and
standing up straight, "But I'll tell you this. If my suspicion is right, then I'd like to know what sort
of sick and twisted program you were helping run, Ms. Granger."

She doesn't know what Titus means by sick and twisted. The F.D.E.R.E. was something that she
helped create for this specific group of people—her peers. And she knows now the flaws
embedded in that program—knows that the way Aberfield manipulated the purpose and avoided
the real issue at hand made this program a failure.

But... sick and twisted? Hermione thought that her intentions were good. So, what can he possibly
mean by that?

"Rethink a better way to word that question, Titus," Draco seethes, his hand around her arm
tightening in a possessive manner. It's an ever so slight mannerism, and Hermione can't tell
whether it's Draco getting angry or Draco getting protective. Either way, uneasiness continues to
sweep over her body as she awaits Titus' explanation.

But instead of explaining himself, Titus storms towards his desk, grabs his wand, and then trudges
back to where Bruiser lies. He lifts her head, stares at her face for another moment, and then sets
the tip of his wand against her cheek.

"Finite."

Hermione isn't sure what sort of spell he's terminating with that incantation. Not until she sees the
look on Titus' face—wide eyes, scarlet cheeks, a creased forehead that just screams complete rage.
And when he maneuvers Bruiser's body over onto her back and shows Hermione and Draco the
product, Hermione's heart stops beating.
Bruiser's face is... different. But not completely dissimilar—she does still possess wildly sharp
features that run across her face. But she's more... sickly. Pale. And her nose, mouth, even eyes are
completely distinct from what they were previously. Whereas before she was an inviting figure—
someone that, with a white coat on, wouldn't seem so threatening—she's now entirely sinister. A
mystery.

"I knew it," Titus growls, casting her to the side yet again in that same hardhearted manner.
"Beauty-Charmed bitch."

Hermione stutters over her words, her mouth still in that same open state of shock. "I don't... I don't
know who that is supposed to be."

Releasing his clenched teeth, Titus responds, "Back when Voldemort was in his prime, he kept
certain Death Eaters quite close to him. One of them was a man named Tyrion Mulciber. Have you
heard of him?"

She remembers the name—Mulciber. Knows that she fought someone with that name in the
Department of Mysteries and at the final battle at Hogwarts. Remembers the cold, hard, glare in his
eyes and the razor-sharp contours of his facial features.

Titus continues, despite Hermione not audibly responding. "Tyrion had two children. One of them
was Cassius Mulciber."

Him. That's who she fought.

"The other—" he points to Bruiser— "is Rose Mulciber."

There's... another one?

Hermione didn't even know that a Rose Mulciber existed.

She thought she had every inch of the Wizarding World mapped out. That the strings which were
left loose before the war were tied in their victory. That every secret, every collusion, every
fucking riddle in the book had been debunked. But who could've predicted something like this?
Who would've thought that someone from such an ostracized family could make a name for
herself, find a job at St. Mungo's, and covertly slip her way through the system?

How could anyone—including Hermione herself—be so fucking blind?

Kingsley had already admitted to being completely vapid to a lot of the initiatives in the Wizarding
World. Solely focused on rebuilding relationships with other governments, Kingsley could've
easily overlooked the odd flush of Rose Mulciber's façade. Rose wore a literal façade—must've
covered her face in a Beauty Charm day in and day out to convince every single person she came
across that she was Cleo Bruiser.

But blindness is not just a fault of the eyes. Sometimes, it permeates the mind. Makes people
believe only what serves their purpose. And perhaps—perhaps—that's where Hermione was once
at fault.

Draco shakes his head, completely dumbfounded at the news. "What the fuck do you mean by
Rose Mulciber?" he seethes, his cheeks glowing red. "My father spoke of Cassius often. He even
visited the manor several times. Not once have I heard of a Rose Mulciber."

"To my knowledge, Rose was never a Death Eater," Titus explains, running his fingers through his
hair. "She was a student with Quincy and I at Hogwarts. Her and Quincy, well, they didn't interact
much, but they were both reclusive in their own sense of the word. Kept to themselves in very strict
terms.

“But I remember Quincy's face every single time that Headmaster Dumbledore brought up the
presence of a dark force in the Wizarding World. He'd beam, I tell you. Beam. Like Voldemort was
secretly this fucker's hero. And he'd write things down in newspapers and book. You know, really
engage with what was being written." Titus shakes his head. "I'm telling you that this guy was
obsessed with Voldemort."

Hermione can't believe what she's hearing. Her whole perception of Aberfield shifts on its head yet
again.

"And Rose—Rose didn't speak much, but there was something about the glower in her eyes when
dark magic was brought up in our classes, or when potions class would turn into who could
concoct things like Draught of Living Death the fastest. She'd enter this competitive state of mind
and just... flatten everyone with her ingenuity. But other than that, Rose kept very quiet. It's why, I
believe, her name was never much of an issue." Titus pauses, exhaling a nervous breath. "After
Hogwarts, I didn't hear a word about her or Quincy. They just... disappeared. Hadn't really thought
about them until now."

When Titus looks up into Draco and Hermione's astonished eyes, he falters again. The world drops
on his shoulders and figuratively tows him to the floor, and even though he still physically stands
tall, Hermione can tell by his expression that there's an overbearing presence floating across his
mind in this moment.

She's seen it in Draco's eyes before—it's a display self-culpability.

"Perhaps if I'd paid more attention, or bothered to read newspapers, or ask you about the program
—"

"Titus—"

"I just didn't want to push you to say anything you weren't comfortable with," Titus continues,
covering his eyes with his fingers for a few seconds before wiping away what Hermione suspects
are tears. "I wanted our times together to be spaces where you didn't have to talk about the
program, because I know it exhausted you all. I didn't ask because I didn't want you to feel like
your lives revolved around your past mistakes. But maybe... if I'd just asked once who your
mentors were—"

"This is not your fault," Draco says, shaking his head and preparing to take a step forward.

"No, I know." Titus grunts to clear his throat—try to force the tears back into his eyes. "I just
cannot understand why they'd want to lead a program like this. What was in it for them?"

Hermione doesn't know either, really. What could possess Aberfield to be enamored with
Voldemort? He is, of course, a muggleborn. Voldemort's entire purpose in life was to eradicate that
entire population and create a more homogenous world. What the hell is there to look up to?

In reflection, though, she remembers something about the way that Aberfield talked about
Voldemort. There were times in seminars that he'd comment on Voldemort's extraordinary ability
to capture the attention of his followers. How his charismatic nature was rather appealing to his
followers.

And his entire fascination with retribution—that has always been an enigma to Hermione. All those
times that he pushed the idea of payback and repentance as if they were synonyms—what was he
playing at when he pushed those ideas?

Hermione didn't bother to look in between the lines then, because she didn't know what was
happening. But she's reading the fine print now, evaluating everything that she remembers him
saying. And parts of his speeches—little segments of his lessons—did possess questionable
undertones. Undertones that resonated not just with Voldemort, but with restricted magic. With
unethical practices. With complete and utter fucking bullshit.

"We can figure that out tomorrow when they wake up," Draco asserts, rubbing his hand against his
head. "Today has been without a doubt the most exhausting day of my life. I'm tired, Titus."

"We should go and get some rest, then," Hermione suggests, taking Draco's hand in hers and
squeezing it lightly. "And we'll come back first thing in the morning with everyone else and get to
the bottom of what has been happening."

"You two go," Titus says, shooing them with a slight hand gesture—one little flick of his fingers in
the air. "Get some sleep." He lowers his eyebrows. "I mean it. I'll take care of them. And if they
wake up before you arrive, that's all the better. I can give them a piece of my mind before you take
your turn."

Draco and Hermione both try to laugh as Titus samples his humor in the moment. But it's like
asking a river to cease its rolling and turn the other direction. Gravity won't allow it to happen, just
as the weight of the situation won't allow either of them to fully release the shame in their bodies.

Titus notices it. Shoos them one more time as sweety as possible. "Go, go. They'll be here
tomorrow when you come back. Everything will be alright."

It's hard—almost impossible—to walk away satisfied from the situation. There's an itch that both
Draco and Hermione feel in their spirits, and the question of satiation is one that seems too taxing
to ask at this time of night, especially after the day they've already had.

So, with their hands clasped tightly within one another's, and with a brief "thank you" from Draco
to Titus, the two each nod at their friend and eventually disapparate from the scene, landing right in
the center of their bedroom—a routine occurrence at this point in time. It's as if both of them knows
that this was the spot they ought to return to. No wasting time chatting with the others about the
events of the night. Not when it can hinder their sleep.

No—Draco and Hermione would let the others sleep with some peace tonight, and then in the
morning, they'd come together for a confrontation unlike any other.

Once situated in the room, the haze of the apparition sucked into the invisible atmosphere of the
bedroom, Hermione turns to face Draco. Gazes into his moonlit eyes and then places her hand on
his cheek. His cheek, which is hot to the touch.

Draco sighs at the gesture. Turns his head into her hand and closes his eyes to enjoy the warm
feeling of it all, because Hermione's affection feels like an inferno.

The question just sort of... comes out of her mouth.

"How do you feel?"

Such a dumb fucking question, Hermione, she thinks to herself. But it's too late now to take it back.
You idiot. You know the answer already.
Hermione awaits his answer, her internal monologue only driving her crazier.

But Draco—Draco smiles.

"Like shit," he responds, his eyebrows leaping up and the tired smile on his lips growing a little
more pleasant.

Hermione half-expected that answer, half-expected him to sugarcoat things. But, she supposes, his
honesty is a sign of growth. He's not hiding behind any sort of façade or any false emotions. Draco
is honest about how he's feeling—can decipher where is emotions are at. And that's far better than
him ignoring them.

"Me too," Hermione says, attempting to smile to alleviate the unease.

Reaching forward and securing a piece of Hermione's hair behind her ear, Draco casts his eyes
upon hers, and it's that look in his eyes that causes Hermione to go somewhat weak at the knees.
She doesn't show it physically, but she can feel her limbs turn to gelatin. His eyes are like magnetic
steel, luring her in without fault. She can feel space between them become less distant.

Forehead to forehead now, Hermione sighs. "I'm sorry I couldn't see it all earlier."

Draco places a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose. "It's okay."

"It's really not," she laughs to herself, but then she feels Draco's hands take her face and lift it up to
look at him.

And suddenly, because the magnetism of his eyes is just so irresistible and so gut-wrenchingly
inviting, Hermione opens her mouth, and out tumbles her inner monologue.

It's much to Draco's enjoyment, because he stands there and listens. Intently. Like his life depends
on it.

"It's like... I just knew that there was something troubling you during our sixth year. I'll just never
forget the look on your face, the exhaustion in your steps, and the lifelessness in your eyes." She
gazes up into them—wonders how such ethereal irises could ever be so damn lifeless in the first
place. "Malfoy, you just looked so tired. So dissociated from everything around you. And I noticed.
And I wanted to help you. But I figured that whatever I tried to do wouldn't make much of a
difference. Wouldn't have ever gotten through to you as I think it's doing now. Things were much
more complicated back then, but that didn't stop me from caring about you. It never stopped me
from wanting to reach out. And when I saw you again for the first time in the Ministry... that
feeling returned almost immediately. You were the first one—the only one, really—that I wanted
to see."

Draco stares back at her, eyes wide with that realization.

"And this will sound horrible—I just know it—but when Kingsley told me about Graham's suicide,
a part of me was actually relieved that it was him and not... you."

He's silent at that statement. Hermione can't read his stoic expression, so she tries to defend herself.

"I know it sounds just terrible. Gods, I know. Graham didn't deserve what happened to him—none
of you did. But ever since that moment, I've just felt this undying need to help you now because,
well, I should've helped you then. I should've just listened to my gut and reached out anyway. I
shouldn't have been afraid of what Ron or Harry or Ginny or anyone else would've said. I should've
just tried to talk to you."
She realizes that somewhere through her monologue, Draco has inched even closer to her. Holds
her neck with his soft hands and has his chest up against hers.

"Everything I've done for this program—every step I've made, every initiative I've crafted, every
fucking time I followed you through corridors or bothered you in bathrooms or shoved you in
frustration or tried to hold you or touch you or hug you—it's all been to help you. To make up for
the times I didn't tell you that I cared. To show you that I care now when I really should've shown
you that I cared a long time ago, too."

At the conclusion of her rant, Draco flattens his lips and tips Hermione's chin up so that she's
gazing right at him. He looks almost uneasy, like he doesn't know exactly how to respond in the
moment. Like the sudden influx of such authentic and harbored feelings might've been too much
for him to handle or make sense of amidst the unpredictable set of circumstances they face.

But Hermione knows how he feels about her. It's in the things he says, the things he does, and the
choices that he's made since accepting her help a few weeks ago—they all represent this blossom
of new beginnings for Draco Malfoy, and Hermione is like the soil that nurtures the plant. Gives it
a purpose and a home to settle into.

Hermione's heart drops to her stomach when Draco whispers, "I didn't know you cared about me
that much," and then her heart hits the floor when he adds, "I never thought I'd be worthy of
someone like you."

Unacceptable. Hermione can't hold it in any longer.

"I will tell you time and time again that you are worthy of those things. Draco Malfoy—you are
more than deserving of help, happiness, and all the love in the world. And I will do anything I can
to demonstrate that to you every single day that I can."

That confession seems to send him right into a gush of affection. Like a wave crashing on shore
after journeying for days, weeks, months to get to that promised land, Draco drops his head down
and kisses her. Settles his lips between hers and holds them in place for a long, passionate kiss.
And it's through that moment of fervent contact that Hermione feels butterflies leap through her
stomach and flutter in every direction possible.

Draco shifts away for a moment, his lips lingering just in front of Hermione's, just enough that
when they lightly brush over hers, she feels energy ripple across his to hers.

"I don't want to sleep just yet," he whispers ever so softly, shaking his head against hers.

Hermione nods in concurrence, biting her lower lip. "Me neither," she responds, and then she's
throwing her lips back onto his and kissing him with the same passion and fury as a rolling
tempest. Her hands reach for his head and she tows him down towards her—holds him like she'll
never let go. And then she's running her fingers through the hair on the back of his head like any
inch of him spared would be a crime. Like she requires feeling every single part of Draco Malfoy—
adoring him, respecting him, loving him.

Draco's hands find her waist almost immediately. Fingers curling around the indentations of her
body, he pulls her flush against him, and with the tilt of his head to the right, he deepens the kiss.
His lips become wayward as they travel to the corner of her mouth, then to her neck, and then
down to her exposed collarbone. Hermione sighs sweetly, taking in the warmth of his lips and the
fervor of his touch as an emblem of his shared care.

Peppering kisses across her neck and toying with the bottom of his shirt, Draco begins to embark
on a stream of affirmations.

"What did I do—" Draco starts, lacing kisses on her skin and drawing stars with his fingers— "to
deserve you? To deserve—" his hands find her hair— "this preposterously perfect head of hair, this
—" his hands drop to her cheeks— "perfectly beautiful face, with perfect bronze eyes and perfect
skin, this—" his right hand finds her chest, and he places it right on top of where her heart is
beating like a drum— "ridiculously kind heart, and this—" his hands latch onto her waist again,
fingertips below her shirt and on her skin— "perfectly seamless body?"

Hermione giggles melodically, basking in the way that Draco adulates her features. She twists her
neck to the side, allowing him to continue to lay kisses all over her skin.

And perhaps he thinks that she's attempting to pull away from him when she cranes her neck,
because Draco suddenly lunges for her hips and tugs her right back against him. Tuts and stares
into her eyes and shakes his head.

"I haven't finished," he whispers, almost moans. "Won't you let me finish explaining to you why I
don't deserve you?"

"You do deserve me," Hermione mutters back with a smile.

"I deserve this?" he asks, reaching forward and dragging her lower lip down with his thumb.

Hermione slowly nods, her eyes engrossed with the fiery look in his.

"And... this?" He kisses her jaw—nips at it, too.

"Yes," she whispers when his lips reach the space between her jaw and ear.

"And... what about these?"

Draco's hands slip underneath Hermione's shirt, fingers dancing dragging up her skin and then
finding her breasts beneath her bra.

She smiles, rolls her eyes at his cheekiness, and then, much to Draco's surprise, she lifts her shirt
off of her head all by herself. And then her hands reach back for the clasp of her bra, and before
they both know it, Hermione is tossing her bra to the side, completely exposed, and Draco is in
heaven.

"Does that answer your question?" she retorts, followed immediately by her lips right back on his,
and her hands, warm and excited with the prospect of the night, reaching for the bottom of his shirt.
She rips it up and over his head and tosses it on the floor, and for that brief moment which they are
unconnected—when his shirt is covering his face, lips, and eyes—all Hermione can think about is
being close to him again.

And so, before his shirt even hits the floor, Hermione is already kissing Draco yet again. And it's
so forceful that when Hermione crashes into him, Draco stumbles backwards—collides with the
dresser and almost bites her lip because of the shock.

"You don't think that you deserve this?" Hermione asks in between kissing him. "How much more
can I convince you that you do?"

Draco pauses, pulling away for a moment to look into her eyes. "Be with me," he says, his tone
earnest and decided in their fate. "Be with me again."
"Oh," Hermione starts, desperate to keep the enjoyable, playful energy at play, "You're not tired
anymore?"

She feels a smile form against her lips, and that's how she knows that he's with her.

"Suddenly," Draco starts, gripping the back of Hermione's thighs, lifting her off of the ground, and
then guiding her legs to wrap around him, "I'm not tired at all."

"Good," she says, capturing his lips between hers and holding onto his shoulders for dear life as he
carries her to his bed—glues his hands to her back and lays her down carefully.

Nestled between her legs, Draco trails his hand down her side and wraps his fingers around the
waistband of her jeans.

"You're not tired either?" he asks, slowly pulling her pants down her thighs. "Not tired after saving
all of our lives time and time again?"

Hermione giggles as the denim slides off of her thighs, then calves, then feet, and she glances at
the ceiling when it thump onto the floor.

"You're not too tired from supporting everyone? From demonstrating just how perfect you are?"

She shakes her head—lowers her eyes when she feels Draco playing with the edges of her
underwear.

"You're not too tired—" he leaves a kiss on her skin just above the waistband— "from piecing me
back together again, Granger?"

Again, Hermione shakes her head. Responds with, "I could do this forever, Malfoy."

"Such unmatched endurance you have," he whispers against her inner thigh, leaving trails of kisses
up her leg and occasionally nipping lightly at her already tantalized skin. "I must admit that I
admire the way you handle such strenuous circumstances and catastrophic news." His fingers curl
around the elastic band of her underwear, setting her body aflame with configurations of stone and
ripples. The hair on her arms sticks up with anticipation as he blows cool air across her inner thigh,
and then drags his tongue over that spot and kisses it. "Seems as though you're capable of handling
just about anything."

"Perhaps," Hermione purrs, trembling at the way his lips run over his skin.

"You say that I deserve second chances," Draco continues, his voice as smooth as honey but his
eyes as ardent as fire, "and that I deserve to be happy. But you—"

He pauses and waits for Hermione to nod in consent before sliding her underwear off of her body.

"You deserve to feel euphoric."

Hermione's eyes close as she suffocates on that word—euphoria. She knows the feeling. Is well
aware of the rush of it all, the high, the feeling that the world is at her fingertips. Being with Draco
—loving him, even—is the rapture. The thrill she's been chasing for so long. It's right, it's exciting,
but it's also comfortable and beautiful and... right. It's just right.

"But while we're here," he starts, sliding his middle finger into his mouth, turning his hand so that
his palm faces the ceiling, and slowly settling it right beside her, "I need you to do something for
me."
"O-kay—"

Hermione gasps for breath—shuts her eyes and winces at the new sensation. Because before she
can finish her sentence, Draco's finger slips inside of her.

And when he starts to pump in and out, his movements calculated and designed for this, Hermione
loosens the tension in her legs and flutters a wanton sigh.

Draco continues. "I want you to forget about everything else for this moment. I want you to focus
on only this. No wandering thoughts. No coming up with schemes to help us. None of that. If
you're not thinking about how perfect you are, or how much you deserve to feel total fucking bliss,
then I've not done a good enough job. And Granger—" He glides another finger inside of her, and
that causes Hermione to quietly whimper— "I don't like to do things half-arsed."

That sounds like a challenge almost too difficult for Hermione to ever overcome. Her mind often
has a tendency to wander and worry, and so when Draco tells her to stop overthinking—when he
practically begs her to wholeheartedly be here with him in this moment—she has to push herself out
of her comfort zone and do it. Think about her body. Listen to her senses. Respond to the way his
fingers—now three fingers, oh gods—beat in and out of her like he's worshipping her.

Hermione's right hand finds the back of his head, her left hand grips her lower back, and she raises
her hips ever so slightly to feel everything a little deeper. It works—Draco's fingers seamlessly slip
in and out of her, and he's so deliberate and intentional with his movements—knows exactly which
moments he should curl his fingers and which he should relax them. Can sense when she needs a
moment to recuperate and when she desperately needs more. Can read her body language like he's
studied it all his life—her raised hips, her heaving chest, her strained veins against her neck. It's all
like a book to Draco as he pleasures Hermione in what feels like the most limitless demonstration
of his adoration.

And gods—gods—how does he manage to make Hermione feel euphoric without even completely
fucking her? How do his fingers have enough electricity in the world to make her feel like she's on
fire?

Hermione moans within her mouth, her lips clasped. Vibrations shoot down her chest and into her
lower stomach when Draco's tongue suddenly flicks across her clit. And then it doesn't take long
for her to come undone—push against his mouth and let out a solemn sigh. Crane her neck and dig
her head into the duvet below her, hushing her sensual whimpers.

And when Draco's fingers slip out of her, Hermione is quick to rise from the bed, plant herself on
her knees, take Draco's cheeks in her hands, and slam her lips against his. She has no care in the
world of the taste of herself on his tongue—his tongue, which breaks the barrier of her lips and
swipes across hers over and over.

And there's something ravenous now about it all. The drive, the spirit, the energy latched onto both
of their tongues.

Hermione realizes that the game between them has changed. While it was once about vying for
some sort of intellectual supremacy, it's now about neglecting the madness of the world around
them. Hermione plans to win—drag Draco across the finish line with her so to bask in their shared
glory of overcoming whatever the hell else the world decides to throw at them.

And that's when Hermione's hands drop to Draco's pants. She fiddles with the belt, yanks it out of
the loopholes, and then fiercely unbuttons that button with one quick motion. Draco undresses
himself, his lips slipping off of Hermione's from time to time as he occupies himself with that task,
and then before she knows it, as she reaches her hand down to feel him, Hermione has her hand
wrapped around his cock and she's releasing him from the confines of his briefs.

He's hard, the blood within him both stiff and hot with anticipation, but he's also soft, his skin like
perfect velvet. Hermione's careful when she begins to pump her hand up and down him, and when
he moans against her mouth and his lips grow tense against hers, Hermione suspects that she's hit a
pleasant spot within him.

Through kisses, Hermione asks, "Will you forget about everything else, too?"

"Yes," he responds rather quickly, nodding simultaneously and knocking his teeth against the tip of
her nose as he does so. His actions are scattered and almost wild as Hermione continues to stroke
him up and down, gently circling her thumb over the head of his cock to build more tension, more
desire, more euphoria within him.

Her grip around him tightens just a bit, enough for him to pull his lips away and let out another
moan. Hot air fills the space between them as Hermione dips her forehead against his and works
him a little faster, a little harder, a little more deeply.

Almost instinctively, Draco lets out a quiet, "yeah," and it's soft and coarse at the same time,
sending Hermione into this complete state of desire.

She removes her hand, pulls on his shoulders, and crashes her back against the bed, dragging Draco
down with her. Something about that little word sends her over the edge, and she forces his head
down so that he's looking into her eyes, acknowledging her unquestionable consent, and then
reaching down onto the ground to search for his wand.

He performs two spells—a silencing charm on the room and a contraceptive charm on her.

And in the moment that Hermione tips her head back and exposes her neck to the ceiling, Draco
places his mouth right next to her ear and whispers, "Do you want to feel euphoric with me?"

Hermione rolls her head. Answers with a "yes," and then breathes deeply when Draco pushes into
her.

And it's seamless.

He's already unsparing, fucking her like it's their last day on earth. Thrusting his hips and slamming
against hers like going any slower would be a disservice to her needs. One of his hands finds the
top of her head, and he strokes his fingers through his hair as if to get lost in it. And the other hand
finds one of her breasts, and then it’s replaced by his mouth, and then he's sliding his tongue across
her hardened peak, and that action coupled with the way that his cock slides in and out of her
intensifies everything she feels in the moment. Her body screams with bliss.

Words refuse to leave her mouth. As much as they soar through her brain—Draco, just like
that—oh, gods, that feels so good—harder, faster, more, please, more more more—Hermione can
barely find the breath in her lungs to say them to him.

She thinks maybe he's reading her mind, though, as he continues to fuck her perfectly. Realizes that
mind-reading is more nuanced than that, in reality, so she settles on the fact that he just knows her
body all too well. His speed accelerates, and the sound of his hips bucking against hers fills the
room melodiously.

A moan is all she can let out. Guttural, then from her throat as she croaks when he slams into her
particularly hard. She's almost embarrassed that a sound like that left her mouth, yet when she lifts
her hand to clasp over her lips, Draco is quick to praise her and dispel her worries.

"Don't," he says, taking her hand in his and gluing it above her head. He slips his fingers through
the spaces between hers and holds on tight. "Let me hear all of it. Let me drown in it."

She doesn't need more convincing. Draco's deep inside of her, and so she releases the grip of her
teeth on her tongue and opens her mouth to gasp in delight. She can feel Draco smile against her
neck and beating pulse as she breathes out pleasurable sounds—sounds she never knew she was
capable of making.

And Draco loves it. Sucks on her neck—bites it a little too—and mutters affirmations into her skin
as he continues to fuck her.

Something about him enjoying those sounds flicks another switch inside of Hermione—makes her
want to take some charge and, once again, show Draco Malfoy exactly how much he deserves to
be helped, appreciated, and loved.

"Turn over," she whimpers, finding his eyes and savoring the way that they glimmer with
excitement when she says that sentence. He smiles as he rolls over onto his back, and Hermione
mirrors the expression as she straddles her legs across his waist and slides herself down onto him.

It's evident in the sound he makes that Draco loses it. He throws his head back, opens his mouth,
and then bites down on her lower lip to avoid inevitable stuttering.

She settles her hands upon Draco's chest and glances down at him, taking sight of the tattoos that
pulse with his beating heart. One hand covers Saturn while the other settles on the constellations,
and she digs her nails into his chest to greet those little stars with love.

And with some sort of superhuman strength centered in his abdomen, Draco lifts his torso off of
the bed, wraps his right arm around Hermione's back, and then tugs her head down so that their lips
meet again. She rocks herself against him, her hands wandering for the perfect spot on his body
like they're travelers in search of shelter. The back of his head proves perfectly warm, and so
Hermione's hands settle in his hair as she endures the cataclysmic feeling of Draco's cock deep
inside of her.

She's not tired, she'd not tired, she can't even think about sleeping anymore. Not when she feels
about a moment away from propelling into the sky and soaring next to the stars. Not when Draco's
lips are as ardent as a fiendfyre. Not when all the feelings that fester within her make her feel more
alive than she's ever felt in her whole life. Not when—oh gods—not when his finger is now
circling around her clit and rendering her absolutely bloody useless.

It's the influx of every part of Draco being connected to her that causes Hermione to come again.
Fold her trembling body against him and keen without care right into his neck.

Draco's fingernails dig into her legs and graze up her thighs. He grips down—hard—and then his
hands go stiff. And when Hermione finally locates her bearings and returns to his lips, Draco
exhales and feeds her the sounds of his own release, his own climax, his own bright light.

"Do you believe it now?" Hermione pants, still committed to fucking him until he comes himself.
"Tell me you believe me, Draco."

He nods, and a low moan escapes his lips. "Yeah," he responds, his voice fluttering. "I believe
you."

Draco follows her lead and comes undone inside of her, dropping his head into her shoulder and
breathing hot air against her skin. He's catching his breath, gripping onto her thighs for dear life,
and closing his eyes to take in the sensation, and all the while Hermione is stroking her fingers
through the hair on the back of his head to remind him that she's here, she's present, and she's
practically in fucking love with him.

She's in love with him.

How the fuck did that happen? When did that happen?

Those questions remain tangibly unanswered as she settles the side of her head against his and
follows his staggered pattern of breathing.

And then her eyes journey downwards and fall upon the heart tattoo on his arm, and when she
traces the outline of the heart with the tip of her finger, Hermione thinks that that action might say
enough about how she feels. If he would just read between the lines, then perhaps he'd know what
she means to convey with that act.

And it's obvious at this point, but Hermione can't find it in her heart to leave his arms. She doesn't
want to leave. Can't bear the thought of not being attached to him.

Perhaps that's unhealthy.

But what's worse—falling madly in love with Draco Malfoy, or leaving him out to dry?

She thinks leaving him out to dry is worse. Way worse. That loving him is not a bad thing at all.

Draco's hands find her cheeks again. She loves when they're there on her face—when the cold
from his palms calms the heat displayed on her cheeks. He balances her out—makes her whole.

"Come here," he whispers, guiding her off of him and then lying her down on her back with her
head on the pillow below. He drops to his right arm and stares intently at Hermione as the both of
them attempt to catch their fleeting breaths.

"I don't want to think about everything else," she whispers, reaching up and moving loose strands
of his hair away from his forehead. "Not yet. Please. Not just yet."

Draco nods in agreement, no sign of deviation anywhere in his expression. "We don't have to."
Slowly positioning Hermione on her side, Draco shuffles down and crowds his chest against her
back. "Not yet." He places a delicate kiss on the back of Hermione's ear. "Not yet." His hand wraps
around her stomach, and he interlocks his fingers through hers. "Not just yet."

With a peaceful sigh, Hermione truly basks in the pure moment, dreading the rise of the sun in the
morning when she knows will signal the removal of herself from his arms. She wishes that she
could cement this feeling forever—not have to deal with the obvious crisis before her.

But there's that nagging feeling about Draco—the one where she feels an undying need to protect
him.

And so, in order for these moments to continue, Hermione realizes that she has to walk through
Hell in order to pull Draco out.

But Hell with a lover is better than Hell by oneself.

And Hermione will crawl on her hands and knees if it means she can help him find earth's light yet
again.
 Chapter 33
Chapter Notes

tw // brief scene of a drug relapse. it is not graphic or thoroughly described, but it is

present.

Hermione's deep in sleep, and it's incomparable to other nights—incredibly tranquil and soothing,
like the universe is awarding her with a more precious gift than its natural assortment of amethysts,
gems, minerals. She's needed this moment for a long time—a night uninterrupted and unplagued by
the troublesome obligations which have been thrust upon all of them.

But a stifled argument on the other side of the door drives Hermione out of that slumber.

She's cradled in Draco's arms one moment, her legs tangled between his and her neck warm with
the supplement of his tepid breathing, but once she perceives a hushed yet verbal argument slip
through the cracks of the door, and then subsequently hears a low thump smack against the ground,
Hermione immediately jerks up and faces the door. Rouses Draco in the process. The hand that's
wrapped around her body shifts and grips her arm closest to him as they both listen to the sudden
noise from the living room.

Draco rubs his eyes with his free hand and clears his throat, dispelling that callous morning voice
just enough that he still sounds like honey, but there's a tinge of lemon too. "What the hell—"

The conversation heightens, morphing into a yelling match, and Hermione determines based on the
rumbling cadence of the tones that it's two male voices. Two male voices who usually sound so
sweet, so soft-spoken, so positive in that which they do and say. Now, in the early hours of this
morning, they're arguing with one another.

There's another resounding smack against the floor, followed by a grunt and a desperate plea
—"wait, Adrian!" That supplication, engrossed with passion and desperation, causes Hermione to
leap out from under Draco's navy duvet and ground her feet on the floor. She starts for the door,
but when she realizes that she's still completely naked from the previous night, Hermione grinds
her teeth and darts for her pair of jeans on the floor. Yanks her wand right out of the back pocket
and rapidly conjures a t-shirt and pair of comfortable, cotton shorts to wear for the time being. It's
all she can think of and do as the argument escalates.

Draco's out of bed at this point too, but he reaches for a pair of boxers and slips them on,
simultaneously glancing at Hermione every other second with a concerned look painted across his
face—a splattered landscape of puzzlement and distress across his cherry cheeks.

But while he's dressing himself, there's a brief lapse of consciousness that streaks across Draco's
mind, almost like a meteor strike, and Hermione watches in a pang of distress as he plants the palm
of his right hand on his forehead and wraps his left hand around the edge of the headboard of
Adrian's bed. He balances himself, shakes his head, takes a few deep breaths, and then is able to
push himself off of the bed and stand on his feet again.

Hermione's at his side a moment later, touching his arm and asking whether he's alright.
"I'm fine," he says, centering himself. "Just got up too fast."

As quickly as she surrenders her attention to Draco and his wellbeing, it's abruptly wrenched away
when the sound of the struggle grows closer, and then she hears the door to the bathroom just
across the hall slam shut and someone's fist pound against it over and over again.

"Adrian? Adrian? Come out, please. Come on."

It feels like there's a globe lodged in her throat when she hears the way that Harry desperately
pleads with Adrian. Misery seeps through each of his words as he continues his distressed string of
pleas.

"Adrian, just take some deep breaths. You... you don't need it—"

Soaring across the room, Hermione reaches the door and swings it wide open. Finds Harry
standing just to her left at the entrance of the restroom, wildly knocking his fist against the wood
and unsuccessfully attempting to twist the doorknob.

By that time, the others have started congregating in the living room as well. Pansy and Theo stand
in their doorway to Hermione's immediate right, concern strewn across both of their expressions as
they watch the scene unfold in the natural hours of the morning. Across the shared living space,
Daphne pauses and stands near the entrance of the kitchen, her arms crossed over her chest and her
bare legs quivering in the chilly air. And Blaise, dashing across the apartment and turning that
sharp corner of the hallway that leads to the bathroom, places his hand on the wall and furrows his
eyebrows.

"What the hell is happening?" he asks, casting his free hand in the direction of the door to the
restroom.

"I don't know," Harry explains, his voice fragile and his hands, burdened with the incessant beating
against the door, falling to his side in surrender. "One minute we were just talking, and the next he
became rather anxious. He said... quite candidly... that he needed some of his... y-you know..."

"Drugs?" Blaise interrogates, his eyebrows raised in impatience. "Drugs, Potter? It's not a dirty
word, you know. Call it what it is and move on—"

"Yes, sorry, drugs," Harry quickly answers, shaking his head. "He said it was the only thing that
could make his head and arm feel better. I told him I didn't know why he'd want any more of that
stuff after what happened to him, and he got really angry with me. Perhaps I overstepped, but I... I
just..." He grows quiet for a second, sighing like the weight of the world is right there atop his
chest. "I don't really know what I'm doing."

A cabinet crashes, and the sound of glass splintering after the impact shakes Hermione to her core.
Unnerves everyone present.

Harry spins his head around and meets Hermione's eyes. Anguish is all those green irises know and
symbolize as they implore Hermione to do something, save Adrian from his fate, drag him out of
the restroom and... what... force him deeper into his withdrawal? Make him feel just as brittle and
helpless and powerless as before?

Hermione knows the conflict that Harry has dipped his toes into. She remembers the apprehensive
ambiance to it all. Watching Draco do it to himself—attempt to withdraw and then ultimately cede
himself to the pain—was scarier than anything she'd seen in the war. It was the ghost in his eyes
and the grey in his skin that ignited her fear and uneasiness, and it was the confusion and
frustration of it all that stamped itself on the back of her mind like a warning sign for weeks to
come, should it happen again.

Now, she's more prepared, more equipped, more knowledgeable of the effects and angst of it all.
It's easier for her to sympathize with Adrian, Draco, any of the others, because nobody wants to
feel pain.

Happiness—that's what people crave. A sense of security and collateral. But it's... it's so
complicated, because the price of the insurance seems extortionate.

And so, what does she do in a situation like this? Withdrawals, as she's come to learn, can be
physically painful, but where the pain really dwells is in the mind. It's in the voice—soft-spoken
and tempting yet underlyingly dangerous—that tells them to keep going. That one more line cannot
hurt. And that voice is built on the back of agitation, depression, exhaustion, and a general sense of
melancholy, and those feelings latch themselves onto whatever they can in the body, replacing the
spots where dopamine usually resides and flourishes. Now, it's chemical and inorganic, and it's
fake. It's all an imitation of what real happiness is.

And so, yes, a withdrawal is physically painful, and the level of pain depends on the person, but it's
also mentally draining. It reinforces the propaganda of the drug—the idea that this high will last
forever and be perfect and euphoric and everything one could hope for—and then it tears down the
walls inside of its victim. Rips the fortifications down brick by brick until there is nothing left, and
that nothingness—that total void—begs its host for another indulgence. Another line. It feeds on
fraudulent happiness and cries when someone begs for a sliver of authentic bliss.

It seems that Adrian has had enough of feeling weak these past few days. Maybe it's his newfound
relationship with Harry. He is still with Ginny—hasn't spoken to her for several days, though. Can't
bring himself to pick up the telephone or send her a Patronus. Perhaps it's that limbo which Harry
and Adrian find themselves in that set him off.

It could have to do with his friends. The tension surrounding everyone hasn't gone unnoticed. It
seems as though distance has crept its way into the apartment, and in a time when they ought to feel
closer than ever, there is a level of uneasiness about a plethora of things that sluggishly coaxes
them apart. Perhaps that shift in the dynamic triggered this episode of resentment.

However, Hermione suspects that it's mostly to do with himself—Adrian's very own perception and
standards that he's created to define who he is. Constantly trying to touch the sun when the earth
continues to drag one down is grueling task, and even the strongest all people could not possibly
reach that high and feel the warm beams with their fingertips when the soil beneath their feet
continues to sink, sink, sink until it ultimately drags them down—swallows them whole.

Harry interrupts Hermione's wandering thoughts. "I just thought that after what happened a few
nights ago, he'd never want to go near that stuff again."

"It's not that simple, Potter," Draco whispers under his breath, folding his arms over his chest as if
to reject any further explanation of what he means by that.

But Hermione knows. She's come to understand the authenticity of that statement. It really isn't that
easy to let it go. It takes far more than sheer willpower to pull oneself out of this malady.

She steps forward. Knocks her knuckles against the door three times and then waits a moment
before calling out for him.

"Adrian?"
He doesn't answer—not immediately. It takes another knock at the door for him to finally answer
her.

"Speaking?" The lilt of his voice is cheery again, and it's rather troubling.

"Adrian, it's Hermione. Can I come in?"

There's a beat, and then the door swings open.

Adrian emerges and stands tall in the entryway, almost reaching the top of the post. He leans coolly
against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest, offering a mischievous smirk. A lively
color already seems to be returning to the pallid hue of his cheeks, but Hermione attempts to dispel
that silver lining.

It's not real, she thinks to herself. That's not real happiness.

Surveying the crowd of his frightened friends one by one, Adrian whistles in relief. "Apologies if
any of you were alarmed by Potter and I's brief dispute. Just needed a quick recharge—"

"Are you alright?" Blaise inquires, sweeping around the corner and attempting to get a better look
at Adrian—inspect his face, his color, his nose, where tiny flecks and traces of cocaine rest just on
the crest of his left nostril.

Adrian's eyebrows shoot up, and he nods twice. "Peachy keen. Better than I've felt in a while."

The worried eyes of his friends cause Adrian to chuckle with a bright smile. "Merlin, who died and
sent you all to such vexation?" He points to Hermione, his mouth curving into a small circular
shape. "I think that deserves some points coming my way, no?"

"Adrian—"

"Hey, you know what I realized?" Adrian interrupts, pushing through the crowd and sauntering
back to his corner of the couch. "You never actually told us what happened yesterday, Granger."
As he plops down onto the indigo cushion, Crookshanks scuttles from behind the couch and leaps
onto the cushion beside him, leading Adrian to reach to the side, lift him from his belly, and settle
him upon his lap. One hand strokes the crown of Crookshanks' head, while the back of his other
hand quickly slides below his nostrils to wipe something away.

And then he sniffles. Harshly. Exhales a satisfied breath and tips his head down to garner a
response out of her.

"I'm dying to hear all about the trouble you caused our favorite mentors, yeah?"

It's awkward, but one by one the others make their way back towards the living room. She wishes
that candid conversation could be more present here, but she doesn't want to overstep any
boundaries. Can't risk the relationships she's made thus far with impositions far too burdensome on
them. Perhaps that unhealthy—perhaps she's wrong for wanting to protect them. But it's how she
feels. She'd be lying to herself if she admitted anything different.

Hermione's arms are crossed as she settles on the couch opposite of Adrian, and when Draco slides
right next to her and closes the gap between her arm and the edge of the couch, she feels a brush of
security inhabit her worried disposition. Lets the sensation of Draco's arm against hers calm her
down.

"Erm," Hermione starts, not even fucking knowing where to begin. Not knowing what the
consequences of uncovering the sinister truth of the program—a truth she still hasn't quite put
together yet—will be once everything is exposed and out in the open.

She begins by explaining what happened at the Ministry. How Kingsley still hadn't returned from
his business trip, how she stormed into Aberfield's office to find him and Bruiser, how they
essentially admitted to tampering with the Draught of Peace and watching all of their memories.
Everyone listens intently, processing the news in their own personal ways.

But she's interrupted when she begins to talk about the moment Draco arrived.

"Yeah, he seemed all too eager to rush into danger to save his girl," Adrian comments with a sly
grin. "Are we sure he's not actually a Gryffindor in disguise?"

"Oh, fuck off," Draco huffs, leaning his back against the couch and crossing one of his legs over
the other.

Hermione continues her narrative of the evening, describing every action that led to the moment
she snatched Graham's vial from its spot behind the others. When she reaches that detail, she
quickly decides to emit it from the events of the night—wants to wait to tell the others about it
when things are less chaotic, or, at least, until she explains everything that happened with Aberfield
and Bruiser. Bringing up Graham's memories could be too onerous for them to handle right now.
One thing at a time seems to be the smartest approach.

When it comes out that Bruiser was not who she's been claiming to be—that her name is actually
Rose Mulciber, daughter of Tyrion Mulciber and sister of Cassius Mulciber—the Slytherins drop
their mouths and widen their eyes in shock. No ounce of disbelief is spared in their dazed eyes and
outraged expressions.

Hermione holds her breath.

"You're telling me that Bruiser is not even... Bruiser?" Theo asks, creasing his eyebrows and
sending them so far down the center of his face that they look about a centimeter away from
crossing one another's paths.

Hermione nods and gulps. Explains exactly what Titus told her and Draco about Aberfield and...
Rose. She has to remember to refer to her as Rose now, as strange and fucked up as it is.

Dumbfounded is an understatement. They're wordless, speech usurped from every inch of their
beings. The news comes as a shock more electrifying than a surging current, causing Hermione to
feel like a god of lightning who strikes at a moment so unexpected, so unanticipated, so out of the
blue that it shakes all of them to their cores.

"And they're at Amortentia now?" Pansy asks, shifting a little closer to Theo.

Hermione nods. "Yes. Keeping a close eye on them is particularly important because Kingsley is
out of the country for another day or two, and there's really no one else we can warn who would be
able to do anything substantive to help us reprimand the behavior."

"Of course," Blaise says, nodding his head. "Makes sense."

"Can we see the bastards?" Adrian inquires, raising an eyebrow. "I'd love to give them a piece of
my fucking mind. Perhaps remind them that drug tampering is an offense punishable by law. And
that I'm pretty sure that poisoning someone falls under the same scope of immorality and
corruption. Wouldn't you all agree?"
Hermione produces a trivial laugh from her throat, shifting in her seat and brushing her leg against
Draco's. "Yes, we can go see them. At this point we need a confession, or at least concrete evidence
about the things that they've done to you and everyone else involved in their programs. Our priority
should be uncovering those affairs."

"Oh, I love it when you talk business, Granger," Adrian jokes, puckering his lips. "Makes me feel
all tingly." His eyes shoot to catch Draco's. "Doesn't it make you just feel tingly, Malfoy?"

Draco sardonically snorts and smirks. "Yeah, Pucey. Like my whole world is on fire."

Adrian whistles. "Now, where do you find a man who says things like that?"

Hermione laughs, because she knows that the intone of Draco's response leans more towards
facetious than it does sincere, but there's something about the echo of his sentiments in her head
that supply her with the hope that he's not simply teasing. That there is a part of Draco Malfoy that
firmly believes in Hermione's warmth and likeness to the sun, setting the world and him totally
ablaze with whatever amount of compassion she has to give. And that's everything.

"Soon, then," Blaise decides. "Sooner rather than later, I think."

"I'm so tired," Daphne whispers, dragging her fingers over her heavy, purple eyelids. "I think I need
to go back to bed." She turns to Blaise, who looks at her with worry in his eyes. "I have the aches
again."

That settles it almost immediately. Blaise rises from the couch, reaching for Daphne's frail hands,
and he pulls her up and gently assumes the side of her waist, his arm wrapped around her lower
back. With a gentle kiss to the side of her head, Blaise turns to the others and says, "Just give us an
hour or two, yeah? Then we can all go."

Hermione nods, as do the others. "Of course," she answers, and then Blaise and Daphne as trudging
back to their room on the other side of the apartment, and her head is nestled on his shoulder, her
golden hair cascading down his arm, and he's whispering little phrases into her ear—muffled,
hushed so that no one else can hear—and then they're in their room again, the door closes, and it's
all very quiet. Silent.

She doesn't even bother asking anyone if Daphne is alright. A question like that is so oblivious to
the evident answer—no. Of course not. Daphne is not alright at all. Chemicals are shifting, moods
are swinging, color is dying, and the air is suffocating. All unsparingly. Like a constant reminder
of her imprisonment to it all.

Hermione's done asking stupid questions.

But that doesn't mean that she's not still searching for some answers.

On the other hand, Harry—Harry, who's interactions with the Slytherins are still so fresh and
innocent—doesn't yet know of the way that the drugs are eating them alive. So, he asks the
question.

"Is Daphne alright?"

In the period of silence that follows, the Slytherins seems to search their mind for a sugarcoated
answer to that question. Hermione can see it in their trying eyes, their parted lips, and their
bouncing legs. There's a desire to soften the severity of the addiction—make it seem like it's not
really a big deal.
But that's hard to do. And it's harder to convince Harry of that now that he's seen what even a day
without it can do to someone. How quickly it can make them change. How vexed and aggravated
and restless they become when that chemical burst of dopamine does not operate on schedule.

Sighing, Pansy finally answers Harry. "No." It's the honest answer—blunt and unchanging. "No,
Potter. Daphne's not alright." She pauses again, lifting her index finger to her lips and briefly biting
down on her nail. But immediately she scoffs and drops her hand in her lap to secure it with the
other—her left, which shakes far less than her right. Her eyes find Harry's across the room, and
after sucking on the inside of her cheek for a moment, somehow hoping that the words can just
permeate through the membrane and exist no longer, she blurts out, "None of us are alright. We're
fucked."

Three hours pass, and once the color in Daphne's face has returned—once the trembling in her
hands subsides and the fatigue in her eyes fades away—the group quickly disapparates, because
time is of the absolute essence. Always has been.

Landing back in Amortentia is chilling for the Slytherins. It's filled with blissful and perfect
memories, but a recent splotch in the continuum of happiness has tainted the club. Made it almost
impossible to enjoy again.

And so, instead of lingering on the dance floor and reminiscing about spots where everyone
danced, kissed, or screamed in enjoyment, the Slytherins march straight to Titus' office—exactly
where Draco explained that they left Titus, Aberfield, and Rose the night before.

Hermione can already hear commotion before they reach the office, but it's not booming or
boisterous.

She first heard a laugh—a cackle is perhaps more appropriate. Low inflections of the voice
confirm that it's Aberfield's, and that causes Hermione's skin to crawl with discomfort. His laugh is
devilish, presumptuous, and cocky.

"You believe that you have me all figured out, don't you—"

"I know exactly who you are, Quincy."

Titus. Without a doubt. His voice is undeniably aggravated. It sounds as though he's a moment
away from gritting down too hard and sinking his teeth right into themselves.

"Frauds, the both of you!" he continues. "Nothing more than swine and vermin."

"And yet, you're the one with a job fit for failures—"

There's a muted thump, followed by two distinct grunts.

Titus is shaking his wrist and inspecting his swollen knuckles when everyone arrives at the front
door to his office. He's also backing away from two chairs—one where Aberfield is tied down, and
another where Rose is.

Rose. Rose Mulciber. Hermione still can't believe that reality. Finds it suffocating to even try.

And Aberfield, whose head hangs to the side, and whose cheek now sports a throbbing, red bruise,
laughs. Again. Makes eye contact with the Slytherins halfway through his spout of insanity and
then exhales like he's been expecting them. Like it's some sort of relief, or perhaps a larger thrill,
that they're now here to berate him further. Like he gets off on it.

Rose is to his right, but her demeanor is the complete opposite to Aberfield's. Whereas he's rather
erratic and delirious, Rose is completely stoic. Calm. Almost dead inside. The life in her eyes is
dimmed beneath her dilated pupils, totally transfixed on Hermione as she ambles through the door
and into the office, the others stalking closely behind like a tight pack of wolves.

"Well, well, well," Aberfield mumbles, and gods Hermione wishes he would've opted for a less
cliche greeting, "look who's shown up again at just the right time?" He tuts sardonically as the
group files in—forms two horizontal, parallel lines and flares at their trusted mentors with poison
in their eyes. "I find that endearing, really."

Hermione hears a quiet click, like knuckles cracking, and she twists her head to the right and looks
down to see Theo doing just that—pushing his palm down against his folded fingers to protect his
anger and save it for another moment. But the way his jaw tenses confirms for Hermione that he's
angry. Furious. Seething with rage beneath his cherry-tinted cheeks.

But it's not Theo that Hermione is most worried about. Behind her, she can hear Adrian breathing
heavily out of his nostrils. It's clear that he's irate, the events of two night ago probably fresh in his
mind. Air seems to leave his nose the way it would an unbridled stallion's, and Hermione fears that
he'll gallop and charge in the next moment, especially because when Aberfield's eyes land on
Adrian's, he chuckles. Knocks his head back and sighs at the ceiling.

And that triggers Adrian further.

"And my oh my," Aberfield starts, his voice high and soft and straight from his head, "isn't that a
lovely sight? All of you, together again. Plus, a Chosen One. Seems like just yesterday that that—"
he attempts to point towards the door with his finger, but his hands are tied, so he settles on
gesturing his head forward— "was the door to our seminar room. Of course, you all didn't look as
cohesive." Aberfield shifts in his seat, obviously baiting a reaction. "Seems as though something
had made you all stronger, no?"

"Yeah, hating you," Pansy mutters under her breath.

Normally, at the sound of Pansy's dry humor, Theo would wrap his arm around her shoulder, press
his lips to her temple, and smile against her skin. But based on the severity of the situation, he
stands stoically next to her. Barely acknowledges her snide comment. He's too angry, his positive
vision clouded by a vengeful fog.

Aberfield scoffs, unphased. Locates Hermione's gaze and flicks his tongue thrice against the roof
of his mouth as if to scold her.

"Ms. Granger," he almost sings, "you are out of your league here."

Hermione stands her ground and shakes her head. "No," she responds coolly, "I'm not. In fact, I'm
right where I belong."

With a laugh that's entirely contemptuous, Aberfield rocks his head from left to right in nothing
short of disagreement with the statement, the sentiment, the entire bloody goal of this intervention
of sorts.

"You're all delusional," he chirps through the chuckle.

Draco bursts forth from the group, wraps his hand around the head of a spare chair, and sets in
front of Aberfield. He lowers himself onto it and stares the man down, his arms folding on top of
the back of the chair and his back leaning forward.

"On the contrary," he starts, no ounce of fear beheld to any part of his body, "you're the fucking
deranged one here."

"And I suppose you think that because now you're privy to some conjectures, that you have every
single thing about me figured out, hm?" Aberfield tests, cocking his eyebrow and pursing his lips.
"You're just so sure you know everything there is to know about me."

"We know enough," Hermione adds, taking one step forward. "I've ruminated over our lessons
plans. I've seen memories from the time you were at Hogwarts. I've heard your confession. We all
know now that you're completely erratic." She turns to face Rose, who's just as indifferent as she
was when they first arrived. "And we know exactly who you are."

Rose scoffs, the features of her face barely changing when she does so. It's just a small huff from
her nostrils. "You don't know one thing about me, little girl."

"Little girl?" Adrian booms, stepping forward. "You're seriously referring to her as 'little girl,' when
there is not a doubt in my mind that she could annihilate your fucking anemic arse in about two
seconds?"

"Just as I thought," Rose whispers, her eyes locked on Adrian. "Far too much confidence for your
own good. You should really mind your words, Mr. Pucey."

"Mind my words?" Adrian seethes, pointing at his chest. "Mind my words? You think I'm
somebody who minds my fucking words? You psychotic bitch. You two-faced, insipid,
nightmarish, she-devil, pain in my fucking arse scum of the fucking earth cunt. You poisoned me
—poisoned all of us, actually. And you think I'm not at liberty to call you a bad name or two?"

Harry quietly mutters, "Adrian—"

"I just think that you should mind that tongue of yours," Rose unemotionally states, inclining her
head to the side in the most condescending tilt the world has likely ever witnessed. "It can land you
in precarious situations if you're not careful."

"Gods, you're a bitch," Adrian spits. "How, even after you've been tied to a fucking chair in the
basement of a club, are you still threatening us?"

Rose smirks. "I've heard those words thrown in my face countless time before you, Mr. Pucey. I
can assure you at this point there is nothing you can say that will enrage me to my wits end."

"Maybe not you," Hermione says, and then her eyes glaze over to Aberfield. Erratic. His face is
beet red, eyes on fire. "But something tells me that he's not as resilient."

Aberfield clenches his jaw as Hermione inches towards him, combatant and almost belligerent in
her dawdling steps, like a lion stalking its dazed prey. She stands beside Draco, who rises from the
chair and tosses it to the side with a loud clang on impact. Aberfield jolts in his seat, grumbling at
the aftermath of the sonorous collision.

"I know my experience at Hogwarts was sometimes dark," Hermione starts. "Some people weren't
so nice to me. They called me rather offensive names. But overtime, I've come to forgive them,
because they've grown to learn and amend their actions. Tell me something. Have you forgiven the
people who did that to you?"

Aberfield huffs, frowns, and ignores her question.

So, she presses him again with the same inquiry. Forces him to face the emptiness and lack of
closure still plaguing his life.

"Have you forgiven them for calling you what they did?"

"I'm not a mudblood," Aberfield seethes.

"You are one," Hermione says. "Just like me. It's okay. Doesn't make us any less capable or
different—"

"I'm not a mudblood," he repeats, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "I'm not a mudblood. I'm
not. I'm not."

"The sooner you admit it, the easier you'll come to terms with the way you were treated—"

"No—no! I'm not a fucking mudblood!" he exclaims, and now Hermione begins to understand just
how frenetic he is. Just how damning that word became for him. His denial, his renunciation, his
absolute abandonment of who he is in order to try to be something else. It's in the way his purple
veins seem to bulge out of every pale space on his body—paint him as an absolute madman.
There's anger that courses through them, and it's manifested when he begins to leap up and down in
his chair, causing the feet to soar in the air for a brief moment and then collide with the hard
ground again. He lands over and over in a fit of steam, heaving that frustration in and out of his
mouth. "I'm... not... a... mudblood."

"You can try to convince yourself of that, but I know it's not true. I've seen what happened to you—
I saw through McGonagall's eyes. I know how people treated you."

Hermione pauses when an idea enters her mind. She recalls a conversation she had with Theo once
where he mentioned that he was a Legilimens. That his father worked him for hours and hours
every day in the summer before his sixth year of Hogwarts to be a proficient mind reader. How the
lessons were grueling and painful but absolutely worth the secrets that he would one day be able to
uncover.

"And I know how we can see it again."

She turns around to face Theo—ingenious, smart, resourceful Theo.

"You're a Legilimens," she says to him.

He nods in response. "Yes. I am."

A grin slides across her face, already anticipating a win for them all. "Care to do the honors?"

Theo glances at Aberfield, recognizing the weight of Hermione's request, and for the first time that
day, he smiles. "Don't mind if I do," he says, stepping forward, removing his wand from his
pocket, and pointing it right at Aberfield. Aberfield, whose frown is now curved even further
down, and whose nostrils flare in abject indignation. He almost growls in dissent, like a guard dog,
but Theo tilts his head to the side and smugly smiles. Is clearly not afraid of a little bark or bite.

"Were you ever trained in Occlumency, Aberfield?"

He doesn't answer. Just grits his teeth, shifts uncomfortably in his chair, and frowns some more.

Theo sucks in a breath through his teeth and shrugs. "What a shame for you, then. This will
probably hurt. Legilimens."
 -

Hogwarts courtyard. The trees are just beginning to change color, and there's a crisp wind in the air
that snakes through the branches and compels the leaves to fall to the ground. Settle on the dying
grass in sporadic formations and color the courtyard an autumn tint.

He's at a bench. Reading. Studying? No, just reading. Leisurely. His brown curls settle just at the
tip of his forehead. His fingers are cold. They tap against the leather binding of his book, his
history book, his History of Wizards encyclopedia, to be quite precise, in order to stay warm.

The commotion of the courtyard means nothing to him—not when his eyes are this entrenched in
the words on the pages and the way they string together such compelling and inspiring history.

And he's alone. Unbothered by his solitude. Seems to prefer it.

But he's alone, and that's what matters.

"Well, would you look at that!"

There's dialogue, but it's muted, almost watery, and it comes from a group of young boys trudging
through the courtyard and passing by him.

"The mudblood is trying to learn about what he wishes he could be."

He seems to ignore the comment. Does look up once to scoff at his bullies, but then he's right back
to being absorbed by the words and images on the pages.

"Bet you the mudblood doesn't even know half of the wizards in that book."

Resounding laughter. Yet he still remains passive and docile. At least, his words remain that way.
His bugged eyes tell a far different story as they attempt to focus on the literature instead.

"Your kind won't even exist in a few years," one of them taunts.

Before he can close the book and offer a retort, the boys saunter away, reveling in their laughter
and enjoyment.

He returns to his book, and it's obvious in the curves and dents of his features that he's sulking.
He's tired. He's angry.

Before anything else happens, there's a sudden flash of light.

The image fades out.

In its place is another scene.

The library. Fresh snow lines the windowsill next to where he sits. He looks a little older now—a
few years, perhaps. It must be his last year. His arms are bigger, his chest more defined, and, if at
all possible, his eyes far hungrier than before.

A newspaper takes the place of his reading. Dyed parchment—a tan color. Faded. The pictures
move. They tell of a rising Dark Wizard, a figure so formidable that the Wizarding World has
never felt such tension between light and dark, good and evil, right and wrong.

He's enamored.
His hair is a little more structured, not bothering his forehead with its looseness. It's moussed back
to reflect the style of the year.

But his face is the same—lonely. Content with that loneliness. Unbothered.

He just reads. He leans his shoulder against the wall, occasionally glances out the window onto the
wonderland of snow outside, and he reads. Erratically. With zest and vigor. Like his life depends
on the story before him. Like he has only ever seen in black and white, and there is finally color
manifesting in his world.

The flash of light returns.

The image fades out.

In its place is another scene.

The common room. Emerald colors coupled with wooden decorations. A fire crackling in the thick
of the evening.

He sits on the couch, but this time he's not alone.

There's a girl. She's sitting on the chaise across from him. Long, thin, brown hair hangs on the
sides of her face, and it's rather untamed. Not frizzy but tangled in some spaces. Her lips are plush
yet chapped, her eyes empty. Purple bags and uneven nails confirm her ticks.

He raises his eyes from his reading and looks up at her. Waits for her to look at him too.

She does. Raises her eyes after a single blink and just stares at him. Briefly smiles when she notices
the curve of his lips. Devilish. Like it's obvious.

They return to their books. Read in silence.

Again, the flash of light controls the transition.

The image fades out.

In its place is another scene.

The Dark Lord is there.

He's there.

She's there.

Others are there.

It's a gathering. An assembly. An initiation.

But he's unhappy. Disappointed, even. There's a speck of water in his eyes as the Dark Lord speaks
to him. A shake of the head. A grit of his yellow teeth. And then, a dismissal. A flick of his hand
and a sharp turn away.

"What you are offering me is far too insignificant. This cause requires more capable and powerful
wizards."

"My Lord—"
"Neither of you possess the qualities for which I am searching for many, many reasons. Your place
is not with us. Perhaps, once you've proven yourself, you may take the mark. Until then... remain
loyal. Prove yourself in other ways, my children."

They both turn, slowly. Don't bother putting up a fight with someone like him. Hold their heads in
shame and leave the room, and it looks like it's for good.

Flash. Again.

The image fades out.

In its place is another scene.

He's older. Tucked away in a small loft. Wooden floorboards creak beneath the soles of his shoes
as he ambles from one room to another. Undefinable rooms. They're mostly empty, save some
books, some half empty glasses of water and whiskey, and a bed. That's where his wand is. And
that's where he arrives a moment later to sit and tinker with his magic.

Wand in the air, he conjures streams of blue and white lights in the air, muttering something to
himself—a spell? A mantra? An affirmation? Perhaps, a series of important words?

No. It's the same two words twice.

Facio te. Facio te. Facio te.

Over and over and over.

And each time is more purposeful than the last.

"Facio te."

He's creating something.

The flash returns in the midst of his generation.

The image fades out.

In its place is another scene.

The Minister of Magic's Office. Indigo walls. Indigo tiles. Artifacts and books and golden
decorations. A man in the grand chair, another seated opposite and across the golden desk. There's
conversation, exhibited through pointing at sheets and reports and data.

"Welcome to the Ministry, Mr. Aberfield." The man's voice is booming. Resounding. Low and
direct yet soft and welcoming.

There are several nods. A handshake. And that's when Fate seems to step into the limelight of it
all. Grabs the reigns of the world and holds on for dear life as stallions drag her through space and
time, and with her, she pulls this man forward.

Flash.

The image fades out.

In its place is another scene.

He's in a room with a dozen or so people. They're seated in a circle. It's a purposeful arrangement or
individuals, fashioned to his and everyone else's liking. There are old faces—parents—and familiar
faces—a fellow student—yet the ambiance is almost foreign. Tense.

Hands are settled in laps as he speaks. He's older by around two decades, and that's deciphered
based on his facial hair. The new lines of wrinkles present on his frailer skin. The tiredness in his
eyes—tiredness that doesn't actually match with the level of the others.

Some look like they'd rather be in Hell. Their gazes are hollow, reflecting their ever-disengaged
intentions with the conversation. Their fingers fiddle in their laps, and their lips purse when certain
statements are made. Sometimes, their eyebrows crease in shock. Confusion. Astonishment.

Two have platinum blonde hair. One has short, brown hair. It looks soft. He looks young, so
young, too young to be here, too young to have ever been involved.

Others look intrigued. Cheeks are pink and flushed with marvel. Their minds turn through their
eyes, ravenous to hear more. With straight backs and engrossed countenances, they listen to and
heed his words with fervor. If they could write notes, they would.

Brown hair seems to be a constant among the concentrated listeners, as if their genes
unquestionably reflect that reality.

It's a similar image to what's been fostered these past few months. It's analogous—perhaps, almost
indistinguishable.

Too quickly, the scene is gone in a final flash of light. The continuum regurgitates lost time, and
everything returns to the present again.

When Theo lowers his wand, Aberfield groans in total agony. Seeks breath in the atmosphere
around him now that Theo has exited his mind.

Hermione watches with crossed eyebrows as sweat slowly trickles down Aberfield's pale forehead
and temples, and he grits his teeth to mask the pain, anger, discomfort—whatever other sweltering
emotion lies beneath his heated eyes. He looks bizarre and irrational, almost foaming at the mouth,
when his eyes settle back on the Slytherins and he catches his breath.

Theo stumbles backwards, his lips parted in disgust. Hermione can tell by his tightened fist and
contemplative eyes that he's debating whether or not he should throw a punch at Aberfield or
simply walk away. Let fate handle him in its path of valor and righteousness.

Beside Aberfield, Rose still looks perfectly calm. Unbothered by everything around her.

Merlin, she's like a fucking psychopath. The both of them are, just in different ways. Whereas Rose
is perfectly hollow and void of emotions, Aberfield is erratic, almost unpredictable. His quick jolts
and sounds that come from his mouth make Hermione feel entirely uneasy, like he'll break free of
those ropes in a moment and wreak absolute havoc on them with just the sheer force of anger
gushing through his bloodstream.

"Theo?" Pansy asks, approaching him from the side and tentatively placing her hand on his arm.
"Theo, what did you see?"

Still in a state of shock, Theo responds, "I saw... everything I needed to see and know about this
man. About her. And I think about who they've done all of this for."
And there it is again, echoing in the small office. Aberfield's laugh is as daunting and
uncomfortable as nails on a chalkboard, and it's augmented by the crazed look in his eyes and the
demented twists and fidgets of his fingers.

"You still are so very much in the dark," he sighs, sloping back in the chair and elongating his
chest to the ceiling. "Gods, those drugs have done wonders to your brain cells—"

"Oh, kiss my fucking arse," Draco seethes, balling his fists and almost stepping forward to seal the
deal—connect his fist with Aberfield's cheek, which is only something he has been patiently
waiting to do since the first F.D.E.R.E. meetings.

Aberfield moans a satisfied breath, and that steers Rose to smile for herself. Enjoy some still
surreptitious truth that they've yet to successfully uncover.

And then, a moment later, Hermione remembers where she might be able to uncover the full truth
—the reason for his involvement in this program—and it lies in a small, clear vial in the pocket of
her jeans back at the apartment.

The answer might lie in Graham's memories.

"If you honestly think that you can continue to hide everything from us," Hermione starts, shaking
her head in the midst of her reprimand, "then you are sorely mistaken. The truth will come out.
We'll make sure of it."

"I can corroborate whatever you need me to," Titus interjects, pulling himself off of his desk and
glaring at Aberfield and Bruiser. "I know far too much. I've seen enough of it myself. And so, if
you need me, I will be ready and able to help you bring these arseholes straight into the fucking
dirt where they belong."

Aberfield ignores Titus, his eyes rolling first and then glazing back to Hermione. "The truth is
never that simple, Ms. Granger," he slurs, dropping his chin to meet the top of his chest. "You may
try to expose me, but at the end of the day, you are a child, and I am a man. I have the power. I
have always had the power, even over you. I think, in another life, I was a thespian. I surely have a
knack for the arts, wouldn't you say?"

"You're sick," she responds in a hushed tone. "You're sick, and I'll make damn sure that you never
see a Ministry office for the rest of your life."

He gulps, but not in a fearful way. It's an impartial swallow, reflecting his attempt to remain as
calm as possible as he sits on what seems to be another secret, or perhaps, just not enough evidence
on their end.

"As long you remember one thing about me, then you can tell anyone whatever you please."

Hermione waits for that one contingency, and when he says it, her heart hits the ground, her arms
turn to gelatin, and her patience runs thin, because Aberfield's denial is far more problematic and
daunting than anything else he's done to them. It reflects just how dissociated he is from himself,
and that... that's terrifying.

In a fragmented sentence, Aberfield says, "I... am not... a mudblood."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

They're sitting on Draco's bed later that evening. Returning from Amortentia drained the life out of
the Slytherins, and instead of discussing things further, they all decided that it might be best to
simply retreat to their rooms for the rest of the day, decompress, and discuss strategies in the
morning.

There wasn't much to discuss at the time, anyhow. No one to turn to who would listen and be
effective enough in bringing down Aberfield and Rose.

So, they all sat on the information. Napped and sulked and attempted to recharge after a day of
intense revelations and unpleasant confrontations.

And there comes a moment towards the time of the day when the moon begins to rise and shine its
light on the dark world in order to illuminate it—grant it knowledge, perhaps—when Hermione
concludes that she needs to watch Graham's memories. Be strong and witness the horrors for
herself in order to piece together why this happened and why it continues to happen.

"We can solve this right now," Hermione adds, holding Graham's vial in the palm of her hand.

Draco bites his lower lip, evidently apprehensive about examining the contents of his vial.

"We need to know what happened here," Hermione pushes, holding the vial in her hand and
rocking it once in the air. "Theo could explain those scenes to us a hundred more times and it still
wouldn't help us decipher how the program plays a role in his... sick and convoluted obsession with
Voldemort. There has to be something here—a why. A reason for it all."

With a solemn sigh, Draco says, "You'll never be satisfied until you know, won't you?"

"I'm afraid that's in my nature."

He nods understandingly, shifting closer to her on the bed and placing his hand around hers,
steadying his fingers and stroking his thumb over the back of her quivering palm.

"You're sure?" Draco asks one more time, raising his eyebrows in meditation, and it's in that
moment that Hermione feels undeniably safe and protected, regardless of the content that is
harbored between the particles of the beam itself.

"Are you sure?" she asks, lowering her head to meet his eyes. "He was, after all, your friend."

Draco purses his lips and ruminates on both the question and the insight. Hermione doesn't entirely
know what Graham meant to Draco—if she recalls correctly, he seemed relatively unphased by the
news of his death that first day in the Ministry. Was instead occupied with how he was going to
attain some drugs in that moment.

But Draco has clearly changed from that first day, and Hermione has learned that it's unfair to
judge him for the way he was feeling. With an insurmountable weight on his shoulders and an
unexpected turn of events in his life, Draco was preoccupied in that moment. Probably didn't
process the news he received until later that night. And his emotions were once as palpable as the
wind, and so reaching into that hub of feelings within him was probably a task not worth ensuing—
a lost cause. Now, that's different. Now, he's a cornucopia of sentiments, each one like a flower that
must be nurtured and cherished so that they don't die out, shrivel up, and revert back to a measly
root.

Hermione doesn't want to take the credit—she can see Draco doing it for himself.
Finally, Draco answers, "Yeah. I'm sure," and there it is. Hermione's confirmation that Draco is
stronger than who he was before. That he's capable and ready and stable enough to watch such
catastrophic and unnerving events unfold. He's emotionally here, and it feels like he's taken forever
to get to this place, but it's good. It's progress. It's almost perfect—almost.

With her thumb and index finger working in tandem, Hermione unhooks the cork of the vial and
drops it on the bed. She lifts the glass in the air to allow the beam to seep from the top and expand
in the space of the air around them. Graham's memories are so big, so packed, and so bloated with
evidence that the light expands several feet in both length and height, and it's as if Hermione and
Draco are in their own personal movie theater, and that feels wrong—so wrong—but it's also
advantageous to guaranteeing that they catch any sly movement, any clue, any bit of information
about Aberfield's involvement with what happened to Graham.

The blue light loses its opaqueness overtime, its transparent nature suddenly unfolding when mixed
with the oxygen that surrounds it.

Hermione holds her breath, mutters that spell—"revela locum"—and out of that mystical, blue light
appears Graham's memories.
 Chapter 34
Chapter Notes

tw // mild violence, mention of drug use

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There's a bright, white flash of light. And then—

“This is a rather interesting approach to rehabilitation, Aberfield.”

It’s like an out of body experience on the other side of the memories. But within them, he’s the
subject. The focus. The unarguable theme.

Graham’s eyes glaze to his left, and he watches as Quincy Aberfield places the tip of his wand on
Lucius Malfoy’s left forearm. His own arm stings like he’s just been burned with something, but
after lightly massaging the site of his own implantation, the throbbing sensation wanes, and he’s
left with a small, red imprint on his skin. Right on top of his Dark Mark.

“It’s a new approach to healing,” Aberfield explains, raising his eyebrow and smiling as the beam
of light settles against Lucius’s pale forearm and then seeps through his skin. “It’s going to help us
regulate the amount of dark magic present in your body.” A small portion of the beam bleeds out
again, and Aberfield collects it with a small vial. “Totally noninvasive. Just helps us keep track of
your physical progress.”

Unconvinced by that explanation, Graham looks away and inconspicuously shakes his head.

“And it’s been… approved? By the Ministry?”

Narcissa Malfoy’s voice is almost like a whimper. It’s softer than Graham has heard in the past.
Whereas before she held this sophisticated and resilient tone, it’s now evident that Narcissa is
wispier. Feebler. Even physically paler. The blush of her cheeks doesn’t exist anymore; it’s
replaced by a ghostly hue, which only strengthens the deep, purple bags that are settled under her
icy eyes.

Aberfield smiles at her. “Of course. Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“And just how many more of these meetings are we to attend?”

The woman who asks that pestering question is tall and beautiful, with slick black hair and
accentuated cheekbones. Her posture is unmatched, and her gaze stoic. A spitting image of her
daughter, Mrs. Parkinson crosses her arms over her chest and taps her fingernails against her
biceps, impatiently awaiting Aberfield’s answer.

“As many as it takes before the Ministry approves each of you for temporary house confinement,”
Aberfield explains, taking a step back and examining his work. He settles the eighth and final vial
into a small, wooden rack, and then he sighs with relief and slips his wand back into the pocket of
his blazer. “Associates of the D.M.L.E. need to see that at least some progress has been made in
this program before it can be launched into a fully-fledged rehabilitation effort, equipped with
proper funding and a broader network of employees.”
“So, we’re—what—your guinea pigs?” a man to Graham’s right asks. He’s colossal, and his brown
hair is perfectly tidy on his head. But it’s the tone of the man’s comment—sardonic and cynical—
that reminds Graham of his son: Adrian.

Chuckling at the insinuation, Aberfield clasps his hands together behind his back. “You’re more
like… vessels of discovery. An example to all of the possibility of restoration.”

“Sounds rather complicated,” Mrs. Parkinson argues with a roll of her jade eyes.

As he indignantly tips his chin up in the air, Mr. Parkinson tsks at the air, as if he’s tired of
listening to what his wife has to say or nitpick.

“You always find a way to complain about things, don’t you?” he mutters under his breath, but it’s
just loud enough for his already irritated wife to scoff back at him.

“Well, excuse me for wanting to ensure that whatever we are doing here is actually going to be of
any benefit to me or my life,” she snaps back, placing her hands on her waist. “I am a woman of
needs and refinement, and I refuse to be dragged into this insulting course every day if it is not
going to do me any sort of good. I’m already exhausted.”

“And what other plans do you have to attend to, hm?” Mr. Parkinson retorts. “Don’t tell me the
dirty fucking house elves break the wards so that you can host your little man-whores whenever
you and your wretched cunt pleases.”

“Oh, you righteous, entitled bastard,” she spits back, flaring her nostrils. “And I suppose the Floo
is completely void of your little sluts?”

“On the contrary, it’s riddled with them. And each one of them has done me ten times better than
you ever have!”

“I pity the sluts that have to shove your infinitesimal cock down their throats—”

“Mrs. Parkinson,” Aberfield warns, tipping his head to the side to guide the argument to a close.

At the sound of her name being used in such a patronizing tone, Mrs. Parkinson groans. “I cannot
be in the same room as this insufferable arsehole.”

“Believe me, there’s nothing more I’d like than to never see your repulsive face again—”

Graham begins to dissociate from the situation, because it’s all too much to handle and process.
With a sigh, he longingly stares at the wall in front of him, wishing that it would open itself up and
swallow him whole so he wouldn’t have to suffer through the Parkinsons’ incessant bickering.
Arguments are exhausting to him and his soul. With every malicious word that spews from the
Parkinsons’ mouths in a series of spits and growls, Graham feels like he’s been thrust in the center
of an unbridled tornado. It’s one that relentlessly sucks the whole world into it and just twirls and
twirls until a person can’t feel their limbs, can’t process the scattered thoughts in their mind, can’t
even tell where their body starts and where it stops. They’re simply being stretched and
compressed by the elasticity of the wind, the bend and curve of the gyrating, monstrous twister,
and that’s cause enough for mental exhaustion.

Graham wouldn’t touch confrontation with a ten-foot pole, so he ignores it to the best of his ability.
Instead thinks about being escorted back to his home by his assigned Auror, tossed into his living
space like garbage, and then left in his confinement. It’s the same routine every damn day, and
Graham imagines that if things don’t change soon, he’s going to lose his fucking mind in his tiny,
one bedroom loft.
Company. Graham misses that facet of human life dearly. He’s an introvert through and through,
never the first one to initiate a conversation. But he has to admit that there was always something
comforting about spending time with a friend every once in a while. Or, at the very least, and
thanks to the restrictions of the program, conversing with them by means of letters. An owl still
delivers to him weekly; he hopes that he’ll soon be able to send mail out himself rather than just
stare at the messages meant for him with the knowledge that he cannot respond. That kills him—
not being able to explain why he’s unresponsive.

He’d probably write to Adrian first. The second he has a pen and paper in hand and an owl perched
on his windowsill, patiently waiting for him to slip a letter into his beak, Graham will write to
Adrian and explain as much as he possibly can.

What Graham lacks in this program is a sense of comfort in another person. Being much younger
compared to the other released Death Eaters, Graham has discovered time and time again that
forming a connection synonymous to his with Adrian seems almost impossible.

The question of engaging with Adrian’s father is nonnegotiable—there’s no way in hell that
Graham will ever willingly tolerate the bastard. He’s unnerving to be around, and his harsh and
objectifying humor sets Graham’s insides on fire with intense discomfort. And the things he has
said about Adrian and his mother makes Graham—passive, relatively docile Graham—want to hurl
his fist into the man’s face. Yell and scream with each strike about how much better Adrian and his
mother deserve than the scum that he is.

Theo’s father is almost a carbon-copy. He’s cold and cruel, but the genesis of that demeanor stems
from the moment his wife died. And that was years ago. Mr. Nott’s exterior is tough and surly, and
his demeanor is unfriendly and unsympathetic. He could put crushed glaciers and shattered icecaps
back together with his callous, icy disposition.

Then there’s the Parkinsons, and they are… something else. An enigma in a world that assumes a
marriage between two people is built on everlasting love. It is clear that the two despise each other
to the bone. Graham’s less uncomfortable with that reality and more perplexed as to why they
remain together if they’re unhappy, because wouldn’t everything be more serene if they just
fucking up and left one another? There’s no use trying anymore—too much baggage. Far too
cataclysmic of a history.

Blaise’s mother tends to squat in the corner of the room; occasionally, Graham will turn over his
shoulder and gaze at her. He notices time and time again that no matter how hard she tries to hold
her head up high—manifest some sort of positive outlook on her life—she can barely get through
the days without having some form of a panic attack. Over Blaise. Over her husband. Over the fate
of the family. Her thoughts are skewed and discombobulated, but they’re always about her boys.
About their addictions. About how her son survived the war while her husband overdosed. Died by
himself in one of the guest rooms of Zabini Manor. That was the beginning of the end for Mrs.
Zabini, but it was simply the beginning for Blaise.

The Greengrass’ are exempt from the program. Rumor has it that Astoria’s testimony in front of
the Wizengamot was so tear-jerking, so tender, so emotionally driven, that they were far more
lenient about their sentences. And at the end of six months, they were released from Azkaban. And
they implored Daphne to join the three of them in Paris, where they’d permanently relocate, but
she refused. Cited that staying with her friends was far more important. Loyalty rushed fiercely
throughout her blood, and so the Greengrass’ departed the second they could, leaving behind their
oldest daughter.

The only people in the program that have a sliver of compassion for Graham are the Malfoys, and
that comes in the form of complimentary cocaine.

There’s the commonality between all of them. Everyone is a fucking addict. Have been for years
now—ever since Voldemort’s return. Coping took the form of that angelic powder in their systems,
and it helped in several ways. The Death Eaters were faster and smarter. They were less fearful of
Voldemort. When he’d stealthily stalk by their sides, threaten them, or taunt them with promises of
dark fates should they disobey him, the Death Eaters would channel the cocaine in their system to
counterattack their doubts and fears. It made them more cohesive. Ironic that a muggle substance is
what kept them a unit.

Perhaps it’s unfair to claim that the Malfoys only show Graham compassion by offering him free
cocaine. In reality, the Malfoys, particularly Narcissa, are actually quite warm. And when she isn’t
plagued by incessant panic attacks and fainting spells, Narcissa molds beside Graham like she’s his
own mother. Possessing this innately nurturing disposition, like a mother lion who’s just given
birth to cubs, Narcissa insists on sitting next to Graham every day. Lucius settles himself right next
to her, and even though he’s still cold (his top priority is Narcissa—now and forever), he is cordial
enough. That’s all Graham needs, really. An earnest presence.

“Right, Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson,” Aberfield interrupts, raising his right hand in front of him to
sternly cease their bickering, “I think we’ve heard enough out of the both of you today.”

Graham sighs a breath of relief when the couple surrenders midbattle.

Surveying the crowd once more, Aberfield continues speaking. “Your Aurors are waiting outside
to take you upstairs to the Floo Networks and escort you back to your homes. I will see you here
tomorrow morning at our regular time to assess your health levels. Until then, remember that you
are a part of something big here. Something revolutionary, should you choose to accept my help.”

Aberfield’s language is fascinating to Graham because it’s self-centered and righteous. There’s an
implication hidden between the lines—I, me, and my are used far too comfortably in his sentences.
It’s as if the aim of the program is somehow redirected to his eventual glory rather than the former
Death Eaters’ journey towards restoration.

As they all turn to depart, Graham briefly looks over his shoulder at Lucius with entreating eyes.

“Lucius,” he whispers, the allusion ripe in his voice and in the raise of his eyebrows.

Lucius is quick to dig his hand into the pocket of his pants and secretly pass a dime bag into
Graham’s hand. Graham is even quicker in shoving the drugs into his pocket.

“You’re using the charms, yes?” Narcissa whispers as they begin to file out of the room.

Graham nods, his head facing forward. “Yes. But to a certain point, it just doesn’t do the trick.”

“I understand,” Narcissa sighs, placing her hand on Graham’s shoulder. “We all do.”

“Don’t let Aberfield see you touch him,” Lucius hisses, and Narcissa drops her hand as they pass
by Aberfield’s focused glare. “Just keep walking. Do not stop walking.”

Once they are just about to cross the threshold of the door and step into the corridor, Graham turns
over his shoulder and quietly mutters, “Thank you.”

“Everything will be alright,” Narcissa whispers. “We will get through this together.”

Before he has a chance to confirm what Narcissa says, Graham is snatched and dragged away by
his elbow, and he turns over his shoulder to watch as Narcissa shifts closer to Lucius. Dips her head
against his shoulder and sighs heavily.

And when they’re out of sight, Graham remembers what it’s like to feel utterly alone.

Because there are positive parts that embody and sustain the idea of loneliness. Time for oneself is
like a gift in this world, and Graham intends to grab onto that reality as often as he can.

But he wouldn’t mind writing a letter.

Perhaps soon he’d be able to do more than just savor the notes which Adrian sends him from time
to time. Maybe—just maybe—Graham could one day write him back.

Two weeks later, Graham and the others are given the clearance to leave their homes. Go to a pub,
a restaurant, a library, a park. It’s under strict surveillance of their assigned Aurors who follows
them like a shadow in the sunlight, so it’s not perfect, but it’s enough. If the price he has to pay for
the feeling of the sun’s rays on his cheeks is that his shadow is three-dimensional, then Graham
will compensate. Enthusiastically.

He’s having a pint in a local pub. He sips the beer at the long, mahogany bar, his back arched and
his head low. Over his shoulder, Graham peeks at his assigned Auror, nestled in a booth towards
the back. He’s subtly reading the Daily Prophet and drinking his own glass of whiskey. When he
turns his head back and lifts his pint to his mouth, Graham hears the door swing wide open and
feels the pleasant summer air sweep into the interior of the pub. He glances towards the door as the
resounding hum of laughter fills his ears and nestles around his aching heart, and then he notices a
group of six stumble in with merriment in their smiles. Most of them pile into the third booth in,
save a young woman who instead makes her way to the bar.

Graham’s breath catches in his throat when he realizes that she’s leaning her stomach against the
edge of the bar just to his right. Her arms settle against the mahogany, and she raises her hand in
the air to draw the bartender’s attention.

“Your usual round, Olivia?” the bartender asks, streaking the wisps of her short bangs from the
center of her forehead to the sides of her face.

Olivia. Gods, that’s a beautiful name. Graham’s never heard of that name before.

“Please, Alice,” Olivia responds in a voice that sounds like a lattice of satin and silk, and Graham
has to force the pint to his mouth to cover the pathetically bright smile that’s forming with his lips.
He takes a sip and places the glass back on the napkin, and then—oh gods—he can feel her staring
at him now. She’s definitely looking—he can tell out of his peripheral—and her gaze is like fire,
and she’s so pretty, and why’s she looking at him of all people?

Her fingernails tap against the bar. Graham’s stomach twists as he anticipates an inevitable chat.

“Hi.”

That’s all she says.

It’s all she has to say, really. Graham’s insides fade to mush at the sound of her voice, the cadence
of that one word, one syllable, one fucking sound.

Slowly, at the risk of not appearing to eager, Graham cranes his neck and gazes at her, and gods,
she’s beautiful. Her dark, brown hair is creased in waves that even the ocean would be envious of,
and it falls past her shoulders and onto a pair of dark, navy blue scrubs in cascades of
unquestionable beauty, save two pieces at the front that are secured at the back of her head. She
has these piercing brown eyes, but they’re not boring like Graham’s. Hers are hazel with a twinge
of fire—a perfect window to her bold and effervescent soul. Her lips are as beautiful as the color of
freshly bloomed rose petals, and when they curve up into a small smile, Graham confirms it all:
Olivia is far too beautiful for someone like him. Someone whose features are stained with what lies
within—a dark past, and a hopeless future.

Something within him surges forward, though.

“Hi,” he responds, forming his own smile that he is positive will never match the beauty of hers.

“You don’t come here very often, do you?”

Graham’s eyebrows shoot up in shock. His lips stutter over his answer. “Oh. Erm…”

She giggles sweetly, alleviating the tension. “Sorry. It’s just that I come here with my colleagues
almost every day after our shifts at St. Michael’s and I have never seen you here before.”

His eyes wander to study her outfit, and then he connects the scrubs to the place where she works.
St. Michael’s—it’s a hospital down the road.

He subsequently glances around the bar and notices a few other patrons in their scrubs. The wall
lining the side with booths is filled with pictures of nurses and doctors, and there are decorative
signs thanking them for their service. Laughing at himself, Graham returns his gaze back to
Olivia’s eyes.

He clears his throat. “This is my first time here. I didn’t realize it was a bar for Hea—doctors.”

“It’s for anyone,” Olivia responds, tilting her head and offering a sunny smile. Her gaze lowers to
his pint, and she points her finger to the drink. “How’s the ale treating you?”

“It’s a little bitter,” he laughs.

“Figures. That’s why I prefer a lager,” she says. “Much smoother and lighter.”

“I guess I don’t usually drink beer.”

“No?” she asks, intrigued by his forthcoming explanation.

“More of a whiskey guy, usually.”

Yeah, firewhiskey. To drown out my fucking sorrows.

“Very classy of you,” she jokes, and then she giggles and tucks a piece of her raven hair behind her
ears, and that causes Graham’s stomach to flip. How are such simple actions able to make him feel
so warm and content? And how—Graham is still on this fucking question, because it’s an absolute
enigma to him—is she, arguably one of the most beautiful people he’s ever laid his sorry eyes on,
talking to him of all people?

Suddenly, her hand is out, ready for him to shake.

“I’m Olivia.”

Take her hand, Graham. You dumbarse. Take her hand.

He settles his hand in hers and shakes it. “Graham.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Graham,” she says, releasing his hand. “Are you here alone?”

No, not really, Graham thinks to himself as he stares into Olivia’s eyes, I’m actually here with an
appointed officer of the Wizarding World because I was a part of an evil association of wizards
whose goal was to eradicate your kind from the world.

Definitely not the route he should travel down. That would sever the connection in a moment.

Graham nods instead. “Yes.”

“Do you like being alone?”

Graham hesitates. Thinks that his answer will sound unquestionably pathetic, but he answers Olivia
anyways. “Sometimes, yes. Gives me time to think and reflect.”

“I understand that quite well,” Olivia says with solemn nods, her eyes glazing past Graham for a
moment before returning to his. “We all need some time for ourselves once in a while to
decompress and relax. No shame in that.”

“Are you…”

His question falters—he never even knew where he was going with it in the first place. It’s the way
that she shines in the shitty lighting of the bar that causes him to stumble and forget his question
for a moment. Graham knows that she’s a muggle, but there’s something bewitching about her
features, and not just those on the outside, but also the ones on the inside.

He has to say something.

Graham’s eyes wander to her friends, nestled in that third booth on his right. “So, you’re… here
with your friends?”

“Right on time for happy hour,” she gleams, curving her lips in a devious smile. “We typically
work morning shifts at the hospital, so it’s nice to come here after and unwind. Gossip a little bit,
too, but don’t let my boss in on that secret.”

A laugh escapes his lips as the bartender sets six beers on a round tray and pushes it across the
height of the bar to Olivia, who dips her hand into the pocket of her pants, pulls out a card, and
passes it to the bartender, verbally confirming an open tab.

Wrapping her hand around the edge of the tray, Olivia turns back to look at Graham again. A part
of him begins to wither as he realizes that she’s heading back to her table soon.

“Well, Graham, it was really nice to meet you.”

Please, don’t let that be it. Stay a little longer.

“It was nice to meet you too” is all he says as she sluggishly turns around.

But before she can even take her first step, Olivia spins again and places the tray of beers back on
the bar top.

“Perhaps… one of these days… you and I could have a drink. Here. I can wear something a little
more presentable.” She giggles at that thought, then patiently awaits his answer.
Graham’s too shell-shocked to speak. His mouth hangs open, desperate to exhales his answer.

Yes. Of course. Yes. Gods, yes.

He sees Olivia’s expression shift, and then desperation takes over his body.

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head, “that’s so… overconfident of me. We’ve only just met, and
I’m already inviting you for drinks in the future. It’s totally understandable if you’d rather pass on
that opportunity, seeing as though I am a total stranger with no connection to you—”

“No, wait,” Graham insists, instinctively reaching his hand out and touching hers. He pulls back
almost immediately, thoroughly embarrassed by his risky action, but Olivia doesn’t seem to mind.
Her eye light up with hope, and that guides him to answer her request with a courage he never
knew he had inside of him. “I’d really like that.”

She breathes a sigh of relief, looks down, and then lifts her eyes again. “Great! How about…
Thursday? Eight in the evening?”

Graham nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Olivia huffs in relief, and then she reaches for the tray again and picks it up, balancing it
against her stomach and smiling one more time. “I’ll see you then, Graham.”

He smiles as she turns around and saunters back to her table. His head turned over his shoulder, his
eyes follow her all the way back to her table, and when she settles into the rectangular booth, her
friends reach for their beers and, clink their tall glasses together, and drink.

It looks so fun—drinking with friends. Graham knows all about drinking alone, but there’s
something about the camaraderie of sharing the nectar of the gods with a group of friends.

He remembers doing that once or twice at Hogwarts.

Christmas Eve, at the Shrieking Shack. The first year was right after the Yule Ball. The second
year was because Adrian insisted that he tag along with the others.

That was… nice. He misses that.

Graham ruminates his mind to confirm whether or not there’s a rule against interacting with
muggles while the program continues. Isn’t it about… interacting with them? Accepting them?
Recognizing their value in society as much as a witch or wizard’s? His Auror watched the entire
interaction—there’s no way he was that invested in the Daily Prophet that his eyes neglected to
look up for a second. And yet, Graham is still here. There were no infractions, no forced magic, no
complaints. Perhaps meeting Olivia on Thursday will not be as difficult as he thinks. Perhaps the
restrictions of the program will continue to subside as meetings go on, and then finally there will
come a time where he won’t need to be followed. Where he can simply live his life beyond the
bounds of his past mistakes.

Tipping his drink back, Graham savors the last bits of his dark beer. It trickles down and satiates
his parched throat—talking to Olivia felt like he was stranded in a desert for years. She made him
nervous, but in a perfectly acceptable way. He’s surprised but bloody relieved that his voice didn’t
crack.

After setting his drink on the napkin and passing it back to the other end of the bar, Graham rises
from the stool. Almost immediately, his Auror rises from the booth and begins to follow him to the
door. He can sense his Auror close behind him, but as he passes by that booth that Olivia is in and
turns to look at her one more time, he thinks that they’re the only two people in the room. She’s
already looking at him and smiling oh so sweetly. With a brief nod, Graham makes a nonverbal
promise that he’ll see her again.

And he does.

That Thursday.

And several more time after that.

His Auror is there. Watching. But there’s nothing against interacting with muggles. There are rules
in place, yes, but the program is still rather unstructured. No specific guideline exists that prohibits
him from mingling with someone from outside the Wizarding World. If he was reprimanded for it,
he’d argue that it’s inconducive to the aim of the program, and then what would Aberfield say?
No? That wouldn’t pass. It’d be a complete juxtaposition to the idea of integration.

They consummate the integration when Olivia kisses him.

It’s on a walk down the streets after a night of drinking. Her arm is wrapped through his, her head
leant against his shoulder. It’s in the middle of the sidewalk, midsentence, when Olivia stops, takes
Graham’s cheeks in her hands, and kisses him. Right there in public is where she showers him with
her already arduous affection.

He’s astonished, but there’s no chance in hell that he’s pulling away from her. His hands find her
cheeks, and they’re warm to the touch.

Olivia eventually pulls away, wraps her arm through his again, and continues to walk as if nothing
has happened.

Graham’s enamored by her confidence and gentleness, but he’s also cautious. Because his baggage
is full, he’s clearly an addict, he has hundreds of secrets he can’t even consider telling Olivia about.
And as sweet and kind as she is, Olivia cannot possibly understand the things which he is going
through. He doesn’t want her to. Doesn’t want to be a burden.

But even with those struggles, and with the hours of the program weighing him down, Graham
starts to consider that there is light at the end of the tunnel. Happiness nestled in the horizon at the
end of a long and winding road.

He’s intent on crossing that road and finding peace on the rays of sun.

Adrian,

I’m sorry for only getting back to your many letters just now. Things have been complicated, to say
the least. I wish I could share everything with you, but I’m not allowed. Secret Ministry business.
Apparently, a conflict of interest. Even sending a letter has been advised against, but since you
refuse to quit bugging me, I figure that I owe you an update. You were always rather invested in
discussing our feelings. I can’t imagine you are any different now about being “emotionally
available” to “openly discuss our deepest, most palpable feelings.” Merlin, you always had a
knack for vocabulary, even when we were younger. The Quidditch team always got a laugh out of
your ostentatious insults.

Graham pauses his note, letting his hand rest. He twirls the pen in his hand and occasionally
compresses the button at the top to make the ink appear, disappear, appear, disappear, until finally
he feels ready to continue writing.

I know you tend to worry about me. You always have. But I’m writing to assure you that things in
my life are actually looking up. I’ve met someone really nice. She’s a muggle, but I like that a lot.
Because she doesn’t know what I am. Yet. I’d like to tell her one day, though. You should see her
compassion in action. I think it comes with her muggle profession, but it’s also clearly innate. I’d
like to tell her a lot of things, but I’m not sure how. You were always good with that stuff. Talking
about your feelings. Sharing secrets. Being open. Perhaps your next letter will include something
to help with that obstacle.

I do feel worn out by this program which I am in, but I like to think that there is light at the end of
the tunnel. A reason for all of the pain. I hope the same is the case for you, wherever you are. I’m
keeping as low of a profile as I possibly can, but it’s hard when the world is hyper focused on you.
Not sure if you’ve seen the papers, but it’s been a crazy, few weeks. By the end of this, house
confinement will be my fate, and then once I have fully rehabilitated, as stipulated by my advisor,
perhaps we will be able to see each other in person again. I’d really enjoy seeing everyone again.
Catching up at the Shrieking Shack like old times. I’d make the trip in a second.

I’ve rambled. Of course. Always enjoyed writing. I’m trying to stay optimistic, and this certainly
helps. I hope you’re doing the same. You did always have a penchant for glee.

Penchant. Thought you might like that word. Took me a while to come up with that one, but when I
did, I thought to myself, good on your, Graham. Adrian will smile when he sees that you’re using
big words.

Here’s to reuniting once I am free of this program. Until then, take care of yourself and the others.
I’m sorry again for not writing more often. I’ll try to be better about that.

Warmly,

Graham Montague.

A week after his uplifting letter to Adrian, Graham’s optimistic spirit begins to dwindle, and the
program swallows him whole yet again.

His left forearm begins to hurt. His mark stings and burns, the skin around it red and enflamed and
bumpy. Graham doesn’t know where the sudden surge of pain and discomfort is coming from, and
because he doesn’t want to worry anyone, he forces himself to wear long sleeve shirts in the middle
of summer. He wants to avoid questions, so he layers himself physically and figuratively. Conceals
the pain with some cocaine and then carries on with his day.

But at the meetings, Aberfield is borderline erratic. He’s bringing up completely off-based ideas
about rehabilitation, and it’s confusing to Graham but somehow intriguing to the others.

He feels uncomfortable, like he’s impeding on a meeting he shouldn’t be attending. Like he’s right
back in Malfoy Manor at that long, dinner table, listening to Voldemort himself spew such bullshit.

And why is Aberfield talking about Voldemort like he’s his lord and fucking savior? That no-nose
bastard ruined Graham’s life—ruined all of their lives, really—and now he has to sit through a
lecture where Aberfield is passionately discussing the fascinating qualities which he possessed?
And a majority of the others here are… intrigued? It’s odd.

“A wizard like that does not come around often,” Aberfield says, huffing in disbelief and placing
his hand over his heart. “You all were quite close to him. Knew exactly what he sounded like.
Smelled like. Felt like. His power must’ve suffocated you all. I can only imagine how potent his
leadership was.”

What the literal fuck is this bastard talking about?

“He was enchanting,” Mrs. Parkinson says, staring at the floor. “Charismatic without question.
And everything which he stood for aligned with my own principles.”

“His message aligned with all of us,” Mr. Nott interjects.

“You all do not have to kiss his arse anymore,” Lucius groans. “He is dead now. Can’t hear you.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Lucius,” Mr. Pucey retorts, and that causes Lucius’ jaw to grit. “O-
oh, m-my Lord… p-p-please use t-the manor as y-your d-d-d-domain. You were scared shitless of
the man.”

“And that’s precisely what makes him so intriguing,” Aberfield continues, his eyes unfocused as he
reflects inwardly. “He ruled with fear. Fear drives us all, wouldn’t you agree?”

Graham’s fingers begin to twitch. He’s physically uncomfortable, and Narcissa notices.

“Graham,” she hardly whispers, extending her hand and securing it over his. “Relax, darling.”

His whole hand judders now. The way that everyone is speaking is too disconcerting. A storm
brews in his head, constructing a pressure like no other, and he releases a loud exhale to try to
dispel the terrible thoughts. Because it seems like the program is all of a sudden going backwards.
He thought this was supposed to be about forgetting their past and forging a new life. But if they
continue to talk about Voldemort like they miss him dearly, then how is he ever going to be able to
move forward with his life?

Narcissa tightens the grip of her hand over his. “Please, Graham. Try to stop shaking.”

“I can’t,” he whispers back, his eyes lifting to latch back onto Aberfield. Aberfield, who is still
deep in contemplative thought, staring at the center of the circle and slowly allowing a devilish
smile to form across his lips.

That look—it’s petrifying. It’s confusing. Chilling to the bone.

He can’t be here.

He wants to leave.

So, he gets up.

“This isn’t right. I have to go,” he says, darting across the circle to the door.

Aberfield rises, his hands already bunched into fists. “Graham—”

“I’m sorry,” he croaks over his shoulder, glancing at Lucius and Narcissa briefly before storming
out of the door, the last image in his mind being Narcissa’s panicked expression. He hates that he’s
walked out on her, but he can’t sit through that without wanting to scream at everyone involved in
the perpetration of the praise.

His Auror isn’t waiting outside the door, so he rushes through the corridors by himself, stampedes
out of the dim basement into the stairwell until he reaches the atrium and is free of the anti-
apparition wards. As soon as he steps foot on those liberating tiles, Graham disapparates. Lands in
his living room and desperately combs through the air for a breath of fresh oxygen. His mind
moves a million miles a minute, yet all he can think about is how deranged that lesson turned out
to be. How he never wants to return to that little room, tucked away in the confines of the Ministry.
Never.

Olivia comes by later that night for the first time, and she immediately notices something is
different.

Graham knows that he’s acting more closed off and drained than usual. His responses are curt, and
his energy levels are at rock bottom. He doesn’t want to be so cold and callous, especially with
Olivia, but he can’t stop the gushing feelings of fear and anxiety and anger colliding within him
and stamping their presence on his heart—holding him captive from the happiness that was just an
inch away from seeping into his soul.

She finally pushes him enough to briefly open up.

“I don’t want to die,” he mumbles, fiddling with his hands in his lap as they rest on the couch, “but
I feel like this program is dragging me under.”

Olivia has her right arm wrapped over his shoulders, and she sets her forehead against his damp
cheek and sighs.

“I thought you were telling me that things were beginning to look up.”

He shakes his head. “I thought so, but… there’s something not right. I can feel it.”

Her left hand finds a home on arm, and she strokes his skin with soft caresses. It’s near his mark,
but he doesn’t let her know. Just tries to take in the sweet touch of her fingers right atop the
throbbing skin, as if that will somehow act as an ailment to his physical and mental strife.

But he can barely take it.

“I’m in… so much pain,” Graham whimpers.

“Oh, Graham,” Olivia sighs, drawing him into her and placing a delicate kiss on the side of his
head. “Have you written to your friends lately?”

“I don’t want them knowing about this.”

“Why not?” she asks. “They would help you if you asked.”

He shakes his head. “No. They’ll worry too much. I don’t… I can’t have them bear that burden.
They have enough to deal with.”

“We all have things to deal with,” Olivia says. “None of us are perfect. But I’m sure if you just
reached out, they’d be able to help you in some way.”

“I just… Olivia… I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I know I don’t know exactly what it is you’re going through right now,
but I’m here for you. As fresh as this—” she gestures her finger between the both of them— “is, I
am here for you.”

That confirmation sounds like a blessing he doesn’t deserve, and so to show just how thankful he
is, Graham lifts his head, meets Olivia’s eyes, and gently kisses her. When he pulls away, he drops
his forehead against hers, dying to stay in this position forever.

Eventually, he pulls away. Because a voice starts to ring through his head.

You’re either going to drive her away, drag her down with you, or kill her.

“Shall I stay?” she asks.

He wants more than anything in the world to say yes. Beg her to spend the night wrapped in his
arms and hold him tight—make him feel somewhat important. He needs that someone, as
unhealthy as it might be. And so, he totters between placing a burden on Olivia and also accepting
her help, because where the hell is the line? What if he crosses it and can’t come back? That
thought is too dreadful to consider.

It’s why he shakes his head. “You have work early in the morning.”

“I know. But I could stay. You just have to say so.”

She’s offering her help, you fucking arsehole. Why aren’t you saying yes?

Because you’ll ruin her. You don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve anyone.

“No,” he croaks, shaking his head again and again. “I don’t want to be a burden. I’m fine.”

Adrian would be disappointed that you’re not opening up.

I can’t open up. I can’t be as strong as him. I’m sorry.

“Graham,” Olivia starts, taking his hand in hers, “you’re not a burden. Why do you think that
you’re a burden to me?”

He doesn’t answer. But he does whimper, attempting to hold back tears.

“I can help you,” she says, “but that means you have to let me in.”

Let people in! Graham can hear Adrian’s voice speak to him as if they’re right back at Hogwarts. It
feels like shit to keep feelings bottled up, man. Let people in, and they can help.

“Can you at least tell me what sort of program you’re in?” she asks, treading as lightly as possible
on the request.

He initially stammers, but eventually gives in. “It’s like a rehab. But… not exactly.”

“Okay,” she says with a nod. “One step at a time. You’re in something like a rehab. That’s
wonderful that you’re getting help.”

“It’s not,” Graham responds, dragging the balmy palms over his eyes and then down his face. “It’s
exhausting. I’m exhausted. And I’m scared.”

Olivia purses her lips. “Rehab is hard work.” She pauses, holding off for a moment before finally
muttering, “My… dad was in rehab, too. Alcohol addiction. The first time, he was in there for sixty
days. He got so much help from therapists and social workers who were so patient with him. They
really wanted him to get better. They cared about him. And it took several more trips to rehab, but
he’s clean now. Almost five years without a drink.”
Graham didn’t realize Olivia could be even closer to him.

“So… there’s hope, Graham. I know it can be difficult, but there is hope. And there’s people who
will do anything to make sure you get better.”

Admires is an understatement. Graham venerates Olivia’s positivity and strength. Wishes he could
emulate it and be just as resilient.

But it’s not the same. There are so many other challenges in his life, and he can’t tell her about
them just yet. They’re too shameful—far more than an addiction, and that says something. If he’s
more ashamed of his past than he is of his present—his present, which is dragging him down
below the depths of the earth—then how can he ever pull himself up just enough to be able to tell
her about what got him here in the first place?

For now, he’ll bite his tongue.

“You should go,” he whispers. “You have a twelve-hour shift that starts soon. I don’t want to keep
you.”

Olivia sighs. “Are you absolutely sure?”

He nods. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a rough patch. I’m sorry for bothering you about it.”

Reaching out her hand to cup his cheek and turn his head to face her, Olivia smiles. “You’re not
bothering me. I swear. I’m still here, aren’t I? And if you need me…”

She trails off, and Graham knows why. Her hours at the hospital are relentless, and so as much as
she wants to promise she’ll be there for him, Graham knows that reality is still too far-fetched.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

Olivia nods, and after lingering for several more seconds, she rises from the couch with Graham.
Hugs him like she’ll never hug him again. Then kisses him once more before making her way
towards the door.

Graham watches her walk away, and it’s painful. It’s like his heart is twisting and coiling into
itself. But he doesn’t want to burden her, because he thinks that might be even more painful. To
watch her burn to the ground with him. He can’t have that.

Before she leaves, Olivia spins on her heels and says one last thing. “I admire you, Graham. I don’t
know what led you to this moment in time, but you are a wonderful person. And you deserve to be
happy. You deserve some peace.”

She departs right after, closing the door softly and leaving Graham in solitude.

Graham doesn’t care about his dramatics—he throws his back onto the couch and sighs, whimpers,
and cries. Sobs, actually. Then screams. Throws his arms over his eyes to stop the tears from
flowing but instead just feels them grow damp with his sorrow. He’s exhausted, he’s hurting so
badly all over but particularly on his arm, and he just wants some fucking cocaine at this point. It’s
been tough trying to shield her from that part of his life, because it feels like he needs it at every
moment. Can’t be without it just as much as he can’t be without her.

But Olivia was so…. thoughtful. Understanding. Not repulsed by him. She doesn’t even know
exactly what his ‘rehab’ is, and yet she still responded with compassion and care. Graham never
knew people like that existed in this cold and cruel world. And he certainly never thought anyone
could care about him like that in such a short amount of time.

He’s lucky to have met her when he did.

He might’ve given up, otherwise.

It’s in the late hours of the night when the moon begins its descent and promises the advent of
another day that Graham hears a sudden gush of wind hiss at the foot of his bed.

Suddenly, that new day is stolen right out from under him.

A spell is muttered as Graham regains his consciousness: “Muffliato.”

His torso rises off of the bed in the speed of lightning, and in the dim light of his room, the only
source of luminescence coming from the glow of streetlights outside of his window, Graham
makes out two distinct silhouettes. They’re both tall, but one is broader than the other. That’s all
he’s able to distinguish between them before the larger one marches to the right side of his bed.

Panicking, Graham turns over his left shoulder to reach for his wand, settled right on top of his
nightstand. His efforts are thwarted as he feels two hands wrap around his bicep and jerk him the
other direction—drag him from his bed and toss him on the floor.

The sole of a shoe settles on his back, and Graham shrieks as the side of his head is kicked in by
another foot.

And then one of them bears their voice, and it’s indisputable. There’s no doubt in his mind who is
speaking to him right now.

“You think you can just walk out of my program?”

Graham’s ribs are kicked in with the top of the same shoe, and he groans in agony. Feels his lungs
beg for air and release.

“You think you can just speak to muggle scum whenever you please?”

He tries to answer. “There… there were no rules against it—”

Thump. Another kick to the ribs. Then, a hand flattens against the back of his scalp and yanks his
head up by his hair.

“You’ve missed a day of your medicine, Graham.”

He sputters. Shakes his head. Cries. “Please, I don’t like that potion. It makes me feel bad.”

The man drops his head without care, and Graham faceplants back onto the hardwood floor. The
other foot on his back digs deeper into his spin, and he croaks and drools against the floor.

“It’s for your own good,” the man says, and then Graham hears the uncorking of a small vial—a
little pop in the air. He panics, because he can already smell the sins of that wretched potion.

“I don’t want to take it anymore,” Graham begs as the scent grows stronger. “Please, please don’t
make me take it.”

“This is the only way you can feel happy again—”

“No, no, I’m happy in other ways. I don’t need this please—”

“Lift him up.”

“No, no—”

The foot on his back disappears, replaced with two hands underneath his arms that heave him up to
his knees and then hold him firmly in place. Graham’s head is tipped back, his jaw held wide open,
and he stares the other bastard right in his erratic eyes. Even in the darkness, they’re threatening.
Unpredictable. More terrifying than the slits in Voldemort’s.

A moment later, Graham feels the liquid being poured into his mouth.

He gargles, trying everything he can to spit it back up. It trickles down the sides of his mouth in hot
spurts of desperation, and for a moment, Graham thinks that he might escape that desolate feeling it
stirs inside of him.

But then they force his mouth closed, and it stings so damn bad as it drips down his throat.

It’s not supposed to sting.

It’s never stung before.

It’s tasted horrible. Time and time again that antidote was a pain to ingest. But it’s never stung.

Now, Graham feels lightheaded. Fatigued. Cold. Almost lifeless. His limbs lose their robust nature
and wilt under the antidote’s dominance.

“There, there.”

His voice is so condescending.

“Just relax, Graham.”

His body heeds the command quite literally as it wilts to the floor. Graham’s chest lifts up and
down as his eyes rapidly flutter. He can feel himself glide across the brink of unconsciousness.

A tiny dime bag hits the floor in front of his face, and Graham’s eyes fall to behold what looks like
an eight ball. It almost glows within the dark room.

“I’m fully aware that you typically procure this from the Malfoys. However, seeing as that bastard
took off with his pathetic wife, I suppose my concoction will have to do.”

He kicks the dime bag closer to Graham’s face.

“Trust me. All you have to do is listen to what your body tells you, and that cocaine will make you
feel great.”

Graham doesn’t have much time left. Insentience is just a moment away.
Before he can respond, his eyes shut.

And when he comes to a minute later, he’s alone, except for a voice in his head:

Go on, Graham. It’s so simple.

You’re right, he thinks to himself, too tired to fight it. It’s so, so simple.
 -

Graham Montague glares at the shadowy, black serpent and skull etched into his left forearm. The
mammoth design is impossible to ignore; even though it has faded slightly, it still stings like a
bitch, and it feels like his whole limb is submerged in scalding hot water. No amounts of drugs or
alcohol can numb the overwhelming pain bursting from his arm to the rest of his body. It coils
around his veins, infiltrates his muscles, and melts his bones with ease.

And he can’t fucking take it anymore.

Chapter End Notes

all aboard the pain train, choo choo !! we’re gonna be on board for a while, so, settle
in bffs.
 Chapter 35
Chapter Notes

tw // character death and mild violence.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When she sees the precursor to a sea of red in the hollow light of the Memory Beam, Hermione
panics.

"No, no, no." The words tumble from her lips like rocks off of a cliff, and when they crash into the
open waters below, it's as if someone's pulled and activated a tripwire in her system, an alarm that
sounds through the cavernous core of her mind.

She's undeniably rattled by the prospect of what's to come, and so to avoid watching that scene
unfold in a graphic affair, Hermione swivels her torso to the right and swings her legs off of the
bed. She drops the empty vial from her damp fingers in the process, having been playing with it all
while watching Graham's memories. It simultaneously kept her distracted yet focused. Grounded
her in the truth of his life. And in that rushed moment, Hermione stands and faces the window.

A glow out of her peripheral and the muffled sounds of glass shattering and someone groaning
confirms that the memories are still playing, but she can't watch them.

Instead, Hermione crosses her arms over her chest and shivers. The breaths that escape her mouth
are full of titanious pressure, each exhale heavier than the last. And shaking that last image of
Graham—towering over his bathroom sink and gripping a piece of broken glass—out of her mind
feels as strenuous as the demons that Graham fought himself.

Everything feels so heavy.

She can hear the duvet of the bed rustle and crunch behind her, and then she also hears a sharp
hum in the air, one that she remembers hearing in Aberfield's office a few months ago when she
watched Adrian's memories. Then there's a brief whiz, and that aqua light in her peripheral ceases
to exist.

She pleads with the invisible string between her and Draco to coil, twist, and tighten. Drag him
towards her so that he can wrap his arms around her trembling body, sink his face into her hair, and
whisper reassurances in her ear. Because even though she's strong-spirited and deeply resilient,
there's a part of Hermione that craves comfort and security.

Draco is still here. There hasn't been an auditory sign of him leaving; in fact, Hermione can hear
him breathing a few feet away. So, where is he? Why hasn't he teared through the patch of hell
between them to reach her, hold her, promise her that everything will be okay?

With a cautious glance over her shoulder, Hermione beholds Draco's stance. He's at the foot of his
bed, his fists bunched up and colored pale white, and his jaw gritting and jerking with every twitch
of his nose. Flattened lips begin to curve down into a scowl, and then a surge of hot air blows from
his nostrils like smoke leaving a dragon's snout.
His anger is unquestionable.

"Son of a fucking bitch," he growls under his breath, drawing more pressure to his tightened fists
and shutting his eyes to keep them from setting whatever they land upon up in flames, because his
glare is as deadly as the killing curse.

Hermione doesn't know whether to drop to the floor in a pool of her own tears or saunter to Draco's
side to cool him down. On the one hand, she wants to comfort him any moment she can. Prove to
him that he is deserving of kindness. But on the other hand, she's tired—so fucking tired.
Overwhelmed. It's in her nature to search for solace—to balance her bright rays with luminescence
that harbors a cooler shade. And she just wants to crumble. Hit the floor and weep for the way she
once considered Graham to be dispensable. But she wants to do so in Draco's arms, not alone.

And there she goes again with her odd little complex. Self-pity in the face of cataclysmic
discoveries seems to run rampant in the organization of her emotional being. Overtime, she's
learned that it hinders the formation of connections with people around her, and so Hermione has
tried to be better about her tendencies to steamroll over others for the sake of feeling accomplished
and mighty.

Nevertheless, she feels horrible for thinking those things about Graham—for being... glad... that he
was the one who ended his life, as opposed to Draco.

Perhaps she would've loved Graham just as much as she loves the others now. And that possibility
—that admittance of fault—tips the scales within her off-center, and with that imbalance,
Hermione's back collides with the wall, and she slides down and lands on her arse, bending her
knees and setting her thighs against her chest in the process.

She cries. Knows that she looks pathetic doing it. But she weeps for Graham. Weeps for Draco. For
Adrian, Daphne, Blaise, Pansy, Theo. For Narcissa and Lucius, who she now knows more about
too.

Behind her tear-soaked retinas, Hermione posits Draco's reaction to it all. Evidently, he's galled.
Enraged with the visions projected before him in that source of light. But underneath the
perceptible and irate emotions present on his face and in the sly movements of his body, there
dwells another response to the memories. Beneath those fiery eyes lies a complicated lattice of
shame and sadness, and before Hermione knows it, those same grey eyes fill with glistening tears.
None sink onto his cheeks, though. Draco is able to suppress them easily, just as he has always
suppressed everything in his life.

But Hermione doesn't make a mistake when she witnesses the shimmer in his soaked eyes.

It's clear as day—he's crying.

But above all else, Draco is angry.

"I could kill him," Draco says, the rasp in his voice both chilling and inspiring. He shakes his head
and cracks his knuckles in the concaves of his hands. "I'm... I'm going to kill him."

Hermione purses her lips, sympathizing with those zealous feelings. "Draco—"

"Don't give me any bullshit about showing mercy, Granger," Draco snaps, jerking his head to the
side and glowering at her, the red in his cheeks spreading to his ears. "He didn't just hurt Graham.
He hurt my mother. My father. Poisoned them the same way I've been poisoned when what they
really fucking needed was someone helping them. They didn't have someone like you who gave a
shit about them, okay?" He pauses, attempting to control his intemperate resentment, and when he's
able to reach that point of composure, Draco continues. "I went down that path of mercy already. I
listened to you and let Andrew go because he was just a pawn. But there's... there's no chance in
heaven or hell or whatever other fucking dimensions of this universe there are that I am letting
Aberfield walk away alive. With his legs. With a heart. Not after what he did to my family. He is as
good as the dirt that he'll be buried under once I'm finished bashing his fucking skull into the
ground."

She quivers, not because she's scared, but because she doesn't doubt a single word that he's saying.
Hermione knows that Draco has a rough touch to him. His nature is composed of two base
reactions—tough and tender. Tender is the side that she wishes would wrap its arms around her to
comfort her, but tough is the side she craves protection from. She's convinced that either side
would lay its life down for anyone.

"I'm not trying to convince you that he deserves anything less," Hermione mutters, and that issues a
tilt of Draco's head in her direction. "Aberfield deserves to rot for everything. For his association
with Voldemort, the unethical practices he was able to implement, even murdering Graham. I
just..." She pauses and purses her lips in fear of the consequences. "I just want us to consider how
impulsive actions might lead to detrimental outcomes."

She knows this all too well as a Gryffindor, and perhaps that's why Draco takes it rather seriously.
Why the anger in his appearance slowly dissipates the longer he perceives her.

"What..." She croaks. Needs a moment to compose herself before asking her very important yet
terrifying question. "What do we tell the others?"

When his shoulders drop and his jaw untenses, Draco chases away the fury in his blood enough for
him to behold Hermione, study her, accommodate her needs. He saunters towards where she's
seated against the wall, and then he bends his knees in front of her. While crouching, Draco reaches
his hand forward and cups her cheek, striking a tear from her cheek with one clean swipe of his
thumb.

He finally speaks, and his answer is brief but exacting.

"The truth."

Hermione's eyes lift to meet his. "But do we show them?"

His large gulp implies apprehension, like he's trying to convince himself of the answer he's about to
give. "Only if they want to see it."

"I worry about... Adrian," Hermione admits, tilting her head to the side to sink deeper into Draco's
palm. It's warm there. "It seems like he and Graham were close."

"Very," Draco replies, nodding his head but retaining perfect eye contact. "But he deserves to
know. He deserves to have that choice."

"And when it hurts him further?" Hermione pesters. "He's suffering enough as it is. I don't want to
make things worse by showing him this."

"He would want to know," Draco pushes back, his fingers on her cheek losing their warmth and
suddenly feeling cold, very cold, like his very interior is morphing into something different.
Glacial. Taciturn and arctic dipped in a snowflake's condensation.

"You think he'd feel any better watching this?" Her tone is brusque, her motivation solely to protect
Adrian. After everything that he's been through in the last few days, Hermione can't even fathom
being the reason that he loses himself again.

Draco scoffs and rolls his eyes—a stab right through the skin on her chest. The bickering is
frustrating but simultaneously grounding. Foundational and raw and authentic. It's all she's known
with Draco—arguing. Sideward glances. Add a level of passion and that's what they are: two
strong-headed individuals with a pension for being right.

"Ever heard of something called closure, Granger?"

She can feel the argument reach fruition.

"Adrian deserves it," Draco continues. "I know he thinks about Graham all the fucking time. So,
it's not your decision to make whether he should know what happens. It's his, and deep down, you
know it."

Plunging her head into her hands to avoid looking defeated, Hermione sighs against her skin, the
weight of her breath settling on the palms of her hands. She whispers, "I can't bring any of you
more pain than I already have."

Another scoff, like the idea is preposterous.

"When are you going to get it through your head that you are not the one bringing us pain?" he
indignantly asks, clenching his fists. "When are you going to believe us when we tell you that you
are the reason that we are even fucking alive at this point?"

Hermione lifts her head just in time to watch him collapse on his arse with an exasperated groan,
and after bending one knee up to his chest and resting his elbow on top of it, Draco says to
Hermione, "When are you going to start not just listening but understanding, Granger?"

Now. In this moment.

She's always considered herself to be a steamroller. Like a train, she glides on the tracks of life
without paying close attention to what lies beneath the tracks or in those thin and narrow crevices.
And she's famous for her adept self-pitying skills. She thinks it's because she's harbored such
intense responsibility over the last several years of her life to keep the world in balance.
Internalizing every mistake that she ever made was her downfall, and so rather than consider
putting anyone in danger—rather than steamrolling over the people she genuinely loves—
Hermione opts to protect them. Shield them. Not let them be privy to the devastating truth
concealed in that tiny little vial.

But she can't protect everyone.

And she certainly can't drag the Slytherins over the finish line if they're not ready to cross it, just as
she can't shunt them back towards and beyond the starting line. They deserve to run at their own
pace—finish the journey in their own way. They've earned that autonomy. Withholding these
memories would be a disservice to their route towards healing. And that's exactly what she wants to
avoid.

Draco is right. Hermione can't shield them from this. She can hold their hands as they amble
through the valley of death, but she can't hold them back. Can't shove them forward. She has to
reach a balance.

"I steamroll," she whispers, tears sticking to her eyelashes.

Draco replaces his scoff with a chuckle. And it's brief, but it's consoling.

"And I have anger issues. We all have shit, Granger."

That moment of authenticity and self-awareness leads the side of Hermione's lips to curve in a
trying smile. But it fades rather quickly when she reminds herself of the pain she just witnessed.
Graham's life was much more complicated than she thought, and she wonders how someone so
soft-spoken and docile in those memories could've been the same person that snickered at her in
the corridors of Hogwarts. Called her a mudblood once or twice in passing.

She never thought much of him in those moments—figured that he was likely just going on with
what his friends considered to be funny. And anyways, she'd grown numb to that dirty word by
year three. But Hermione did sometimes notice bouts of apprehension in Graham's mannerisms and
in the cadence of his voice.

But he was still there.

It's all convoluted and, to be quite honest, confusing.

She wishes that she knew this Graham as opposed to the other, whose walls were high and mighty.
Not because she wishes she could fix him, but because he seems to harbor more compassion here
rather than in her own memories.

But then again, they were all rather cruel to her. Draco, Blaise, Theo, Adrian, Pansy—even Daphne
snickered in her direction several times. Yet now here they are, all begging to be near Hermione,
and so if she can forgive the others—if she can recognize that they were all capable of change and
acceptance—than she ought to give Graham the same benefit of the doubt.

He just needed someone.

And that's no excuse, but it's certainly humanizing.

"We can tell them together," Draco says, interrupting her inner thoughts. "But they should know
about this now. No more waiting around."

No more waiting around. Hermione couldn't agree more with that statement. There's a lot of things
that need to transpire sooner rather than later.

Aberfield and Rose need to be exposed.

And Hermione needs to find Kingsley.

Wiping the remaining tears from her eyes, Hermione rises with a newfound sense of motivation.
She reaches for her wand and glances at Draco.

"Before we show them, I want to try something."

Draco rises with her, stuffing his hands into his pockets and watching her movements intently.

Hermione takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Thinks of a happy memory—a recent one. One
that replaces the habitual memories of late nights with Harry and Ron in the Gryffindor Tower,
sneaking a brief kiss with Anthony Goldstein during her fifth year in the Owlery (she doesn't know
what she was thinking then—she lends it to her rebellious phase), and even punching Draco square
in the face.
She can smell her memory as it cleanses her mind: mince pies. Mince pies and snowy dew. Mince
pies and snowy dew and Christmas day, all wrapped in the general memory of him, standing next
to her as they faced the Shrieking Shack those several weeks ago. Mint seeps into the plethora of
scents as Hermione settles herself back in that moment of kindness. Draco handing her that tin of
mince pies feels like forever ago, but it's already replaced her memories as one of the brightest she
has. It was a moment of reconciliation and new beginnings, and that gesture was enough to make
her modify her memory bank—slip that one at the top like the prized recollection that it is.

And just like that, an otter appears from the tip of her wand, twirling in spirited and vibrant circles
and then floating in the air just in front of her, waiting his instructions.

"Tell Kingsley... wherever he is... and if you can find him... that he needs to come back to the
Ministry immediately. It can't wait any longer. Please. It's very serious."

The otter hesitates, and Hermione fears that because she doesn't know where exactly the Minister
is in Europe, her Patronus will not know where to go. Perhaps he's too far for that beam of light to
reach.

But that apprehension subsides when the Patronus darts towards the window and floats off into the
sky like a shooting star. Hermione's eyes follow it until that light in the sky turns into a speck of
solitary luminescence, and then when it passes over the moon, it becomes obliviate. Transgresses
the power of the human eye and continues on its path to Kingsley, wherever he is.

With a renewed sense of empathy, Hermione turns back around to face Draco. He already has
Graham's vial in his hand, and the beam within it circulates like it's itching, desperate to be
explored again. With a mind of its own, the beam bursts back and forth against the glass, succinct
clinks in the air confirming its need to be release.

She takes a step forward—apprehensive in nature but brave nevertheless—and then exhales to
calm her nerves, because that's always helped. Perspiring all the worries away in one, perfect
breath.

"Okay," she whispers, nodding her head. "Let's show them."

Once the Slytherins have been drawn from their bedrooms and are convened in the living room,
their eyes fixed on Hermione as she stands before them with Draco to her side, Hermione feels that
rush of trepidation shroud her body yet again. She struggles to open her mouth, because how does
she even begin to explain what happened? Where does she begin? And how can she ever express to
her friends just how sorry she is?

Comfort takes the form of Blaise's face as he folds his hands in his lap and leans forward with a
pleasant smile. "You said you had something to tell us, Hermione?"

The way Blaise speaks to Hermione is like he's had his hand locked in hers since the beginning,
the finish line of their race against time in plain sight. Reachable with just a few more steps
forward. It's soothing—the way he speaks. The manner by which his eyebrows rise on his
forehead, like he was born predisposed to alleviation. Like all his life he's been a Healer, whether
he holds the official title or not.

It pushes Hermione to speak up, be brave, and persevere in the midst of what feels like utter agony
—like the edges of a roaring hurricane. Blaise is like the eye—tranquil in this otherwise unbridled
storm.
She clears her throat. "Right. While I was at Aberfield's office yesterday, I grabbed something on
the way out because we thought it might be of some value to have and to see." Holding up the vial
in front of everyone to see, Hermione gnaws at her lower lip and then just forces herself to say it.
"It's Graham's. It's his memories."

All of the Slytherins react in unique ways, but it's Adrian that Hermione's focus shifts towards. It's
in the way that he straightens his back and places his hand on his knee to lift him up. He's next to
Harry on the couch, and when he makes that sudden motion, Harry turns his head and regards his it
clearly. Begins to ask him a question.

"Did Graham—"

"I want to see it," Adrian snaps, his eyes glued to the vial and his plump lips parted. "I want to see
his memories."

Hermione lightly bites her. It's exactly what she feared he's say, but how could she say no now?

On the couch opposite of them, Pansy shrinks out of Theo's arms and leans forward onto her knees,
her eyebrows angled downwards in a state of concern. "Adrian, are you sure you want to see—"

"Hand me the vial, Granger," Adrian orders, his voice assertive as he rises from the couch.
Hermione's eyes follow him up as he straightens himself out, and suddenly he looks much taller
than usual. It's in the tone of his voice—it almost makes him look menacing. Threatening. His
extended arm and his solemn frown are confirmation that he's repressing his typical playful mood.
There's no ounce of mischief. Only urgency.

She hesitates. Tries to fight that steamroller within her.

But when Adrian takes a foreboding step towards her, Hermione passes the vial into his hand.
Seals his fate with that gift.

Hermione opens her mouth as Adrian frantically slips the cork out of the mouth of the vial.
"There's a spell—"

"Do it, then," Adrian commands, his frown quivering and his eyes ablaze. "Do it. I want to see
this."

Everyone's faces harbor grave concern. They look between one another as Adrian stares at
Hermione, waiting for her to fulfill his request and activate the memories. When she finally raises
her wand and mutters the charm, the blue and white light seeps out again, and just as it did before,
it expands and rewinds and begins to display moving scenes from the moment Graham's tracker
was implanted to the moment right before his inevitable death.

Adrian watches with tear-glistened eyes, and he finds it particularly difficult to remain standing
upright when he rereads the letter which Graham wrote him the week before his death.

"I remember that," Adrian croaks, shaking his head as the scene disperses and another one takes its
place. "I remember that letter. It's here. In the drawer of my nightstand."

The memories continue, each Slytherin entranced in their own way by the sight of Graham's final
days on earth. They scowl when Aberfield arrives, cower and grunt but also almost weep when
their parents are shown, and then holds their hearts when they perceive Olivia.

Adrian in particularly shakes at the sight. His legs grow weak as he watches the way that she looks
at Graham and he looks at her, and as evident in his watery eyes, Adrian feels entirely despondent
about the entire situation.

And when that fatal moment comes—when Graham finds himself alone in his bathroom snorting
cocaine, chugging firewhiskey, punching the mirror above his sink, and then sliding glass over his
arms to stop the festering pain of his mark—the group collectively looks away. Everyone but
Adrian.

As if his eyes and the beam are magnets that have searched the world for one another's electric tug,
Adrian retains his gaze on the memories as he watches Graham end his life. Hermione has to look
away—couldn't bear to watch it the first time and still can't bear it now—but Adrian... he watches.
Frozen in place, he watches as his best friend takes his own life.

And when the light in the beam fades to black as Graham takes his last breath, and it seeps into the
vial without cajoling, Adrian does the unthinkable.

He drops to his knees, lets the vial roll out of his palm, croaks once to avoid crying, but then
succumbs to the tears that are pooling at the corner of his eyes.

Adrian weeps for Graham.

And perhaps he does so because the realization that it could've been him washes over him in that
moment.

Hermione's never seen him cry before. Never considered that tears could swelter in his optimistic
disposition.

Yet here he is, crying. No, not crying—sobbing. Raging ballistically on his knees like Graham's
body is right in front of him. Like he's found him. Like his blood is on his hands and painted across
his crumbling heart.

Hermione covers her eyes and turns her head, and it just so happens that Draco is right there to
catch her. Hold her in his arms and let her cry into his shoulder.

She can hear the echoes of other tears swarm the acoustics of the room, creating the most painful
symphonic number ever composed. And through those tears, she hears the couch squeak as Harry
rises, approaches Adrian's side, falls to his own knees, and dips Adrian's head against his shoulder.
He molds perfectly into the part of Harry's body where his shoulder curves into his neck, and in
that cocoon, Adrian cries. Allows himself and his emotions to run free like a river.

"I should've been there," Adrian rasps, shaking his head. "I should've answered his letter faster. I
should've tried to find him immediately. I should've done something—anything at all—differently
than how I let it play out."

"It's not your fault," Harry whispers, looking over Adrian's head at Hermione with a look of fright
in his eyes. He repeats himself, caressing Adrian's arms as he does so. "It's not your fault, mate."

Daphne's cuddled in Blaise's arms, her eyes heavy with tears, but she removes herself and darts for
Adrian. When she reaches his free side, she drops down, nestles her head against his, and throws
her arms around his waist in a comforting hug. She shushes him sweetly, coaxing the tears to either
reembark up the path of his cheeks and into his eyes like a receding waterfall, or fall faster from his
irises like an unrestrained monsoon until there's nothing left—until the skies themselves have dried
up.

Blaise rises. Begins to pace. "We have to show someone," he exhales, flagging to Draco's side.
Hermione looks up from his arms at Blaise, and he delicately lifts a finger to wipe away a tear from
the bottom of her eyelid. It's a careful action, characterized by that natural healer within him.

"I've sent Kingsley a Patronus," Hermione whispers, lifting herself from Draco's chest and facing
Blaise. "He has to see this. I can't understand how he wasn't aware of all of this before. But it's
necessary that he know about it now."

"This doesn't end with Kingsley knowing. The man could give less than a shit about us," Adrian
seethes over his shoulder. "This ends with Aberfield's severed head on a fucking stick. I'll take
Dementor's sucking the soul out of my body in a tiny cell in Azkaban if that means I get to be the
one drives that curse right through his tiny, black heart. Him and my arsehole of a father. I'd kill
him all the same."

Hermione's experienced this side of Adrian a few times before, but the anger in his voice is so
palpable that it sends shivers up her spine. She physically trembles; watching her shake, Draco
takes Hermione's arm and pulls her back into his chest. He holds her tighter. More possessively.
Like if he ever lets her go, he'll lose her.

Adrian turns his head over his shoulder, his eyes bloodshot.

"We're going back," he says to Hermione. "First thing in the morning. We're going back to
Amortentia, and I'm going to beat the living shit out of that psychotic arsehole. Perhaps tonight I'll
sleep and then dream about killing Aberfield. It's deserved, wouldn't you agree?"

Adrian directs the question at Hermione. Truth be told, she does agree. Harmony elates her spirit as
she realizes that she shares Adrian's anger, because Aberfield deserves to rot in a grave six feet
under for his crimes in the Wizarding World. For his surface level yet uniquely deep obsession
with Voldemort. For his discontent for the lives of other. For his improper and nonconsensual use
of ingredients in potions, and for his trackers, his dark magic, his complicity in the death of so
many people.

Sleep is required. A necessary endeavor after this exhausting day.

But in the morning, Hermione expects that retribution will rise with the sun. Its rays will stretch
beyond her wildest imagination, touching each of the Slytherins' souls individually and compelling
them to face Aberfield and Rose.

She expects that the sun will give her that strength, too. It always has.

Hermione rises with the sun at the crack of dawn. Takes a moment to gaze out the window and
admire the bright hues of the sky. Behind white, translucent clouds there is a sky bluer and more
inviting than ever. She wonders what it would be like to float on those clouds, and then she feels
the ghost of Draco's lips on hers, and she comprehends it—the feeling of soaring. And with the sun
beating down and shining its eclectic rays on the duvet it patches of beauty, Hermione knows
something beyond soaring. She knows exploration. Understands redemption. Appreciates new
beginnings and rebirths and restoration.

When she sighs an arduous breath, Draco rises. His body seems to react intuitively, like her sorrow
is a signal for him to grow tall, wrap her in his arms, bury his face in her hair, and cradle her back
to glory.

His hand touches her lower back, and it's with that endearing placement that she swivels her body
around, swings her legs over his waist so that their bodies create a cross-shape, and then settles the
side of her head against his chest. Breathes against him. Feels his heartbeat through her ears. Can
trace the pattern of his tattoos by just being close to him. He leans his chin atop her head, and with
his fingers, he strokes her hair. Softly. With immense care. Searches diligently for natural knots in
her curls so that his fingers can get lost in her beauty.

The moment is serene, but Hermione knows all too well that those are always bound to end in pain.
So, to avoid that sorrow, she resolves to pull away from him. Find those silver, morning eyes and
smile as they connect with hers.

"I'll wake the others," she whispers, her voice soiled with dreamless sleep.

She turns to climb out of bed, but before she can swig her legs over, Draco grabs her wrist and pulls
her back.

"Wait," he rasps, clearing his throat. "I want to try something."

Hermione halts and intriguingly watches as Draco twists his back and reaches for his wand on the
nightstand to his left. He sits back upright, rotating the wood in his hand and staring at it with a
sense of... hope. Desperation.

Optimism sweeps across his pupils as he leverages the tip of the wand up, and after another deep
inhale and an equally profound exhale, Draco says, "Expecto Patronum."

And it's as if she's been transported to a medieval time, because all Hermione sees in front of her is
the manifestation of Draco's happiness in a brilliant, white light that bursts from his wand—a
massive dragon that emerges and circles around the room. Draco's lips part in a small exhale of
relief as he regards his Patronus. The light reflects off the glisten in his awestruck eyes, and
Hermione smiles all the same at the sight. Giggles at the beauty which Draco's dragon possesses.

It lands in front of him, his wings outstretched and his snout long and full of intrigue. The dragon
flaps his wings over and over in beautiful strokes that swimmers would be envious of.

"Wake the others," Draco says to his Patronus. "Tell them we need to leave for Amortentia as soon
as possible."

With several noble flaps of his broad, pointed wings, the dragon leaps from its spot in the air,
cartwheels three times around itself, and then sails out of the room, percolating through the door
with ease.

Hermione turns to study Draco's face. The corners of his lips are spun up in a soft, vulnerable
smile. But it's that contented look in his eyes that compels Hermione's question to burst out of her
mouth:

"What was the memory?"

Curse her curiosity.

But Draco doesn't seem to mind. He lifts his eyes to gaze into hers, and Hermione melts.

"It was more of a... feeling... associated with multiple memories."

She's like ice cream on a sweltering, summer day. Dissolving into a puddle of abject wonder and
love, Hermione gingerly huffs out of her nose and offers a trying smile. Because perhaps there's
something stronger than Draco's happiness at play here. If it was more of an emotion than a
memory that caused him to cast his Patronus, then that emotion must've been stronger than simple
happiness. Perhaps the amalgamation of memories into one base feeling—a feeling stronger than
anything else in the world—that Harry spoke about nonsensically towards the end of the war—is
enough for Draco to produce that beam of light.

Perhaps he feels the same way about her that she does about him.

Draco laughs to himself; it's contained but joyful, nonetheless. "I just think that my Patronus—"

Hermione cuts him off rather quickly. She surges forward, swinging her right leg across his body
to straddle him. She sets her hands where his neck meets his head, right at the base, and then she
passionately parts his lips with her own. The drive of her fervent action pushes him backwards, and
his head and back collide against the headboard with a pronounced thud. He accidentally bites her
lower lip at the jolt, but Hermione could care less. Draco could care less. Nothing else matters, and
is that so wrong? In the midst of absolute turmoil, is it wrong for both of them to seek light where
they can find it?

Hermione finds light when she kisses him because it's as if she's entered a heaven of sorts. Draco's
lips are infused with redemption and resurrection, and Hermione can feel her body ascend through
clouds and time itself. His tongue is sweet against hers; it's like a gentle caress meets an icy fire,
and it resembles a burn that feels good, like sun-kissed weather.

But before they can continue—before Hermione's fingers can find the waistband of Draco's briefs
—there's a light hum in the air.

Pulling her lips from Draco's and turning over her shoulder, Hermione gazes down behold a
Patronus on the floor beside the bed. A shimmering, reflective golden retriever stands at the side,
his tongue out in a pant and his eyes bright with a message. He smiles and stares at them, his tail
wagging back and forth in cheeky little strokes.

"You showing off with your colossal Patronus now, Malfoy?" It's Theo's voice that comes from the
dog, and it's just as mischievous as Hermione knows him to be. "We'll be ready in two minutes."

As the retriever turns to leave, he stops and notices a fuzzy, orange cat stroll around the foot of the
bed and meet him in the middle. Crookshanks' face is curious but cautious as he patters his paws on
the hardwood floor to reach the dog. Theo's Patronus lowers his front legs and sticks his backside
in the air, and he shakes his hips to invite Crookshanks to play. Perking his ears in intrigue,
Crookshanks mirrors him, shimmying his backside up in the air before pouncing on the Patronus.
And somehow, it becomes a piece of matter in the world. They're able to roll on the floor with one
another, coiled up in a playful rendezvous. It's spirited and humorous to watch Crookshanks and
the manifestation of Theo's happiness play with one another; Hermione swears that the Patronus
grows even brighter as if Theo himself knows that his Patronus is here with Crookshanks. Finally,
after they grow tired of frolicking, the retriever finds his bearings and disappears in the air, and
Crookshanks settles himself in the space between Draco and Adrian's bed, pleasantly thumping his
tail against the wood and relishing in the merriment of that moment.

"A few minutes," Draco hisses, tightening the grip on Hermione's thighs. She turns her head back
to face him, and he smirks. "We have a few minutes."

"If my memory serves me correctly, then I'm almost positive Theo said two minutes," Hermione
teases, her fingers caressing the back of his neck and occasionally traversing up to get lost in his
criminally soft hair. She envies how collected his is in the morning—hers has a mind of its own
when she sleeps.

Draco jokingly rolls his eyes. "You and your undying need to be right."
"Pretty sure that you have a similar complex."

"Fair, but mine's a complex. Yours is in your nature."

"It's a good thing that I'm often right then, isn't it?" she teases, placing a quick kiss on his lips.

But before she can pull away enough to look at his face again, Draco's hand finds the back of her
head, his fingers get lost in that untamed pile of hair on her head, and he tugs her back towards
him. Allows his lips to linger just before Hermione's as he says, "Yes. It is a good thing."

He kisses her. Arduously. Perhaps with the chance that she'll fall privy to the soft yet passionate
caress of his lips on hers and then decide that she wants to stay here with him forever. Leave the
troubles of the world to whoever else finds themselves unlucky enough to fall into the pits or trials
and tribulations and just... kiss. Be here with one another. Find bliss in this shared feeling.

But Hermione knows that's impossible, because they can't be truly happy until they solve what's
happening. They can't attain that higher love without sorting through who they are. And they can't
cross that finish line until they're both ready to say to the other what they've been feeling for so
long—how they've always felt, really.

So, as hard as it is, Hermione pulls her lips away and begins to dismount him. It's much to Draco's
disappointment, but when she rises from the bed and begins to dress herself for the day with the aid
of her wand, she can hear Draco amble off the bed and do the same for himself. And once they've
charmed new and fresh clothes to wear for the day, they turn over their shoulders and meet one
another's eyes. Trailing the edge of the bed and meeting Draco in the middle, Hermione places her
hand in his, and they exit the room together, but not without Draco stealing one more desperate
kiss.

There's a clear dichotomy of emotions present in the room. Exhaustion holds the Slytherins and
Harry captive, but there's also a twinge of vengeance in each of their eyes, Adrian's in particular.
His pupils speak of nothing but fire; even when the rest of his body appears withered by a thousand
storms, his eyes glow with revenge. There are ember flames dancing beneath his skin.

"Are we ready?" Adrian asks, temperament etched into his tone.

Everyone nods in response, like they're afraid of speaking. Hemione can't imagine that Adrian
would hurt even a fly, but there something about the way he speaks that's disconcerting. She fears
that he's bottled up too much these past few months, and now comes the moment of complete
fruition. One more thing could set him ablaze—ignite him like a fiendfyre scathing land and sea.

But when Harry slips his hand through Adrian's, there's a diminution in his anger. A pause. A
moment of grounding, like all Adrian needed was someone to alleviate the stirring ache in his
heart.

Without saying a word, Adrian disapparates, pulling Harry with him. The others follow quickly,
and soon Hermione finds herself emerging from a white mist in the middle of Amortentia's
dancefloor. Her feet touch the floor, and her hand squeezes Draco's. She shudders on arrival,
because...

Something feels different.

It's too quiet.

Silent.
She doesn't know what she expected to hear when she landed, but it's not silence. Hermione
predicted anything else—commotion from the office, Aberfield rambling, Rose evilly chuckling,
Titus shouting. Verbalizations of all kinds.

But none of those sounds greet her ears today.

She does, however, hear a cough. A gasp—more like a wheeze. More silence. And then another
desperate wheeze—a plea for air.

The others hear it too, and it's coming out of Titus' office.

Draco's hand embraces hers tighter, and his eyes widen as the sounds continue. Without warning,
he charges forward, calling Titus' name as he does so. The pack follows, the sound of their feet
tapping against the floor like pouring rain on a window.

And then they finally approach the office, and the door is wide open.

Turning the corner and peering inside, Hermione's heart stops.

Her heart has skipped beats many times before. Bounced around in her chest in inexplicably
terrifying ways. She's not immune to an ache or a tug or a squeeze in her chest. She's endured some
of the most strenuous tasks that any person should ever face—came out of them alive and well, no
less. She's found herself in situations most people would fail to crawl their way out of, yet she's
been victorious. She's seen life and death—experienced the poles like the backs of her hands—and
knows just how quickly one's breath can be their last.

But her heart has never stopped in this way.

Flashbacks to finding Adrian in the bathroom seizing on the floor occupy her mind as her eyes land
on Titus on the ground, convulsing, shaking, sputtering, choking, dying.

There's a shriek to her right—Daphne is the culprit. Her little screech echoes in the office like
waves in a shell, and the reverberations pierce right through Hermione's frozen heart. Shatter it to a
million little pieces.

Tunnel vision takes command over Hermione's eyes; they blacken. This time, she doesn't faint. She
doesn't crumble to the ground in a fit of tears and shakes. Instead, she rushes forward and drops to
her knees next to Titus. Begins to reach her hand out to touch his shoulder—stabilize him—but
then she stops herself. Tries to diagnose where there's an injury, a malediction, something that is
causing Titus to convulse on the ground like a fish out of water.

She doesn't want to restrain him—doesn't even know what's happening. Doesn't know how to help.
Just knows that his face is turning purple and his chest isn't moving.

Then, their eyes meet. His lack life, though. They're greying, dulling—that jade beauty in his irises
is nowhere to be found.

"Titus," she whispers, tears pooling in the corner of her eyes. "T-Titus—"

Someone drops to her side as another person screams. She can conclude from the familiar scent
that it's Theo beside her, and the intonation of that scream—it's Adrian. In more pain. Hermione
can't bear it.

Theo's hands shake as he leverages them over Titus' shuddering chest. He too resists placing them
on Titus, though. Opts to just pant and gasp and stumble over his words.
"Titus? Titus?" The desperation in Theo's voice is consuming and profound. "Can you talk? Titus,
can you... can you tell us what happened?"

Titus sputters drool out of his mouth and gingerly shakes his head.

"T-they... g-g-got... o-out—" He wheezes for air between words. Can barely get a sentence out
without running out of breath in his lungs. "S-stole m-my w-w-wand—" Another gasp. His face
grows more purple. "C-c-cursed me—"

Hermione waits for nothing else—lets that steamroller within her take over as she whips her wand
out of her pocket and immediately mutters, "Finite," hoping that the charm will break whatever
curse Aberfield and Rose have cast upon Titus to make him choke so violently.

But that doesn't seem to work. Titus continues to shake and sputter on the floor, and now the veins
in his throat are edging out of his skin in deep blue and red lines. It appears so painful, so
uncomfortable, and Hermione can't even imagine how tired Titus' lungs must feel as they
desperately gasp for even a smidge of air, only to be met with the inability to expand and release as
they were built to do.

She tries again. "Finite. Finite. Finite! Fucking damnit, Finite!"

There's no change, no improvement, no hope. Whatever curse Aberfield has placed on Titus is
either too powerful—insusceptible or typical ceasefire methods—or is just too far along to be
stopped.

But—no—there must be something. There has to be a way to stop the dark magic. Hermione has
read hundreds of books about spells. There has to be one thing in her mind that she can refer to—
one method for obstructing this curse from spreading any further—

Titus' hand lifts slowly to find Hermione's. He places his trembling palm on the back of her hand to
calm her down—almost assure her that it's alright, he's okay, she doesn't need to try to save him.
There's even a transfer of responsibility in that moment through his eyes and touch—Hemione can
feel it in the sparks surging through her fingertips.

"H-H-Hermione—"

"Titus, please don't," Theo whimpers, shaking his head and allowing his curls to fall and spread
across his forehead. "Please don't go—"

"Titus, please." Adrian's voice behind her carries like a ton of lead. His voice hits the ground with
his heart—Hermione can't even bring herself to turn around and look at him.

And she doesn't even want to think about how Draco feels. How he looks.

Gods, you're pathetic. Turn around and help him.

No. No, don't. You don't know what he needs right now.

But you can't not look at him. You can't expect him to ever open up if you don't keep providing
spaces for him to feel comfortable doing so.

Turn around, Hermione. Turn around and look.

You have to.

Her hand remains fastened to Titus', but Hermione does turn her head over her shoulder to behold
the harrowing sight of Draco, curled up against the wall with his legs bent to his chest, shaking and
crying and practically tearing the blonde out of his head with his quivering fingers. His bloodshot
eyes have cobwebs running through them, red and despondent in nature. Staggered breaths are all
that he's able to respire, and glistening tears as clear as the glow of the moon fall down his rosy
cheeks. He looks the same as he did the night that they found Adrian just a few doors down—
worse, perhaps.

His father is dying right in front of him. Slowly. Painfully. And there's nothing he can do to save
him. Nothing anyone can do.

"H-H-Hermione."

She looks back down at Titus, who's now on the brink of unconsciousness. It's clear in the dark
purple tint of his skin and the now severe bulge of all of his veins. Death seems to slowly work its
way through his system, and as much as he fights its inevitable glory, he also knows that his time is
dwindling. That his children—his family—are in the loving hands of Hermione Granger now.

Titus gulps, fighting with everything he has left to get this last thought out. "T-t-t-ake c-c-care of
th-th-them. P-please." His voice cracks and pops under the weight of the curse. "D-d-do b-better th-
than m-m-e."

"You did wonderful, Titus," Hermione whispers, gripping his hand tightly. "You are exactly what
they needed."

He's able to shake his head from left to right just once before saying, "N-no. Th-they n-n-need y-
you. R-r-rehab, and y-you."

"Blaise," Theo begs, turning over his shoulder, "you... you must have something that can help.
Please. Anything."

Blaise's back is glued against the wall, and he's got Daphne cradled in his lap. Tears stream down
his cheeks as he watches everything unfold from a distance, and then he parts his lips for a moment
to speak. Can't get anything out, though. Just drops his face into Daphne's sunshine hair and
continues to cry. Shake his head.

"I don't..." he croaks, continuing to move his head left and right in a fit of denial. "I don't know
what to do."

"You have to," Theo begs.

"I don't!" Blaise exclaims, his voice now raised in a fraught yell. "I don't! I don't! Stop pressuring
me! I don't know how to save everyone all the fucking time—"

"You have to do something—"

"N-n-no," Titus interrupts, gargling his words. "S-s'okay. B-b-be n-nice t-t-o each o-other."

Suddenly, Draco's at Hermione's left side, his hand reaching forward to settle beneath Titus' head
—cradle it from banging against the floor any longer—and there are tears falling from his eyes and
staining the floor below him.

"Titus," he whispers, "Don't die. Please don't leave us. We can help you, okay? Just hold on a little
longer. Don't do this."
Now violently choking on his own saliva, Titus does manage to force a smile, but it's haunting.
Representative of inevitable mortality.

"Y-y-you all d-d-deserve t-to be h-h-happy. B-b-be h-happy f-for m-me."

“We need you,” Pansy gasps.

“W-w-where’s H-Harry—“

Hermione looks over her shoulder at Harry, who has Adrian’s broad body somehow tightly
sheathes around his lanky arms. Somehow, he’s able to repress Adrian’s shakes with that firm
hold. But his eyes are watering, his lips are quivering, and his nose is doing that thing it does when
he knows something will go wrong. When he knows that there’s little he can do to help.

“I’m here,” Harry mutters, and now his hands are in Adrian’s hair, and he’s streaking his fingers
through his locks to soothe him.

“Y-y-you t-take c-c-c-care of m-m-y k-kids, y-you hear m-me? Y-you and H-Herm-mione. R-
remember w-what I a-asked of y-y-ou t-that n-night.”

Harry’s frazzled eyes meet Hermione’s. He nods. “Yes, okay. Of course, Titus.”

Titus gags again, and then says, “I r-remember y-your d-d-dad. F-f-few tears o-o-older, b-but s-
such a l-l-laugh. Y—you h-h-have h-his s-spir-rit. I c-can t-tell.”

Tears fall from Harry’s eyes, landing promptly on top of Adrian’s head. Harry lowers his face and
buries himself in Adrian’s hair, trembling and crying.

Titus exhales another choke. Then another gasp—his second to last. He uses his last bit of energy
to look at Draco, who’s still begging him quietly to stay alive, fight, not leave them.

"If y-you're g-g-going t-to c-c-ontinue p-popping p-p-pills,” Titus whispers, “th-they b-better b-be
h-happy ones o-only. D-draco—a-a-ll of y-you—b-b-be h-happy—"

Suddenly, Titus takes one last desperate gasp for air. He grabs onto Hermione's wrist and squeezes
it tight as he inhales one more time. With one ultimate bulge of his eyes and one final exhale of
peace, Titus's body stops convulsing and freezes. The color in his face disperses. The veins against
his skin sink.

And then he dies, praying on nothing other than the Slytherin's wellbeing.

Silence falls on the room again, save the occasional sniffles and whimpers from everyone else.
Titus' hand falls limp in Hermione's, and she eventually sets it on his chest and unravels her fingers
from his one by one. She glances over at Draco, whose mouth hands wide open in a state of total
shock as he leans over Titus' stiff body, begging his eyes to fill with life again. Life that he knows
will never return.

The room is eerie. There's hesitation in everyone's movements, everyone's breaths. Stupor strikes
the hearts of the young adults as their true mentor wilts into oblivion.

And then, an eruption to Hermione's left.

Draco soars up, stomps towards Blaise, takes him by the collar of his shirt, and drags him to his
feet. He uncaringly thrusts his friend against the wall, huffing hot air out of his nose and gnashing
his teeth together in a state of total fury.
"Why didn't you do anything?" he cries, jolting him over and over again. Each time Blaise's back
crashes against the wall, the room seems to rumble and shake as if an earthquake has struck the
town of Hogsmeade.

Blaise flails his arms in an attempt to writhe out of Draco's grip, and in the process he's able to grab
onto Draco's forearms. Grip his skin tightly.

"Draco, stop!" he shouts back.

"You always have the answers!" Draco bellows, his jolts slowing down and becoming more
staggered. "You son of a bitch! You could've done something—anything!"

With one forceful shunt, Blaise effectively propels Draco backwards. He stumbles over his
unsteady footing and runs into Hermione's back, causing her to quickly rise and reach for him. But
as Blaise rolls his sleeves to his elbows and flares his nostrils, Draco lunges forward again, grabs
his shirt, and shakes. But the action is weak. He begins to crumble.

"I'm not perfect!" Blaise screams into Draco's wilting face. "I'm not perfect! Screw you, Draco!"

"But you..." Draco trails off, his eyes falling to the ground.

"But I what, huh?" Blaise continues, pushing Draco again. "Stop putting me on a fucking pedestal
and let me grieve like all of you get to do!"

Hermione finds Draco's wrist, pulling him back towards her. As cliché as it all is, Hermione prays
that her touch will somehow draw him back to reality. Ground him. Give him enough strength to
return to himself. She can feel his anger writhe through his veins and against his skin, but when the
pumping slows down and Draco turns his head over his shoulder to meet her eyes, Hermione
believes that it might just be working.

"You all get to grieve," Blaise croaks, shaking his head. "And I feel like... I feel like I'm being
taken advantage of every time something happens because I sometimes know what to do. I don't
have the fucking time to feel things, too." He wipes a stray tear from his eye, and Daphne appears
behind him to hold his arm. Center him in the same way that Hermione does. "I'm sick of
stumbling upon people I love while they die. It happened to Titus, it almost happened to Adrian,
and it happened to my father, and the fact that you all think I can just save people without feeling a
sliver of sadness about the situation—"

He stops himself before going too far. Bunches his fist and slams it against his thigh.

"Let me be human. For once."

Eyes glazing over to Titus, Blaise drops to his knees and cries into his hands. Daphne meets him on
the floor and wraps her arms around him from behind, nestling her chin into his shoulder and
crying with him. She holds him tightly, trying to stop him from shaking, but the tremble in Blaise's
body is unquestionable. Suffocating, even. And then her eyes look up at Draco, and she pleads with
those sweet, glistening irises to be civil. Practice compassion.

Draco gulps as Hermione squeezes his hand.

"I'm..." He pauses, looking down in shame. "I'm... sorry."

It's with those two simple words that Draco proves to Hermione, to everyone, to himself, that he's
growing. Working on his anger. Learning how to center others' emotions before his own, even if
that means he has to suffer a little more than others. There's a kindness that thrives in the pit of his
 stomach that soars to his heart and out of his throat.

And Blaise notices it. Closes his eyes and tentatively nods in appreciation.

Pansy has Theo wrapped in her arms now, and she's holding his head against her chest. She
eventually lifts her eyes to connect with Draco's, and they flutter to hold back tears, because all that
plays in her head is the voice of her mother, telling her to shove those emotions down, repress her
feelings, ignore that sadness within her because it simply doesn't exist. And it's hard—impossible,
almost—to fight what's been conditioned.

But a tear falls. Lands in Theo's chocolate curls. And she strokes his cheek and gingerly hushes his
weeping.

"What do we do now?" Pansy asks, regarding Draco and Hermione as the source of their
resolution. Her voice is frail yet determined.

"We fight like Hell," Adrian snarls, still sheathed in Harry's embrace.

Draco nods, glancing at Hermione over his shoulder quickly before adding, "We fight like Hell for
Titus. For Graham. For all of us."

Chapter End Notes

everything hurts and I’m dying

 Chapter 36
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It's the age-old question of time that keeps her blood pumping through her veins.

When does it—time, that is—have the most meaning?

Hermione's answer: when Death finally catches up to her.

When the cold grip of Death's gangly fingers seizes a person and rips them away without any
mercy. Yes. That’s when time suddenly becomes more vital than oxygen itself.

It's the sinister kiss of Death—the inevitable end of life as one knows it—that forces time to stop,
speed up, fluctuate. Swing like a pendulum in outer space, controlling the earth below like its
creator.

Funny that it appears to create yet simultaneously destroy. Anomalies like this don't come often.

Death greets the Slytherins, Hermione, and Harry in the office of their save haven—the club that is
Amortentia—and all that's extant in their fraught minds is ending all of this once and for all.
Ensuring that Death does not take anyone else from them.

Hermione vowed once to protect them all. Keeping that promise remains a priority.

"They're probably long gone by now," Theo mutters, his voice hitting the ground. "Rose and
Aberfield."

"What do we do?" Daphne asks, turning over her shoulder to look at Theo while retaining her
consoling grip on Blaise's arms. "We can't let them get away with this."

"They won't," Draco rasps, the tone of his voice denoting his preparedness to fight. "We're going to
find them, and they'll get exactly what's coming to them."

"He's right," Hermione adds, tilting her head up and reaching Draco's eyes—eyes that are filled to
the brim with a glare of vengeance. "They're not going to get away with this."

"They've already taken people from us," Adrian says in a whisper, but it simultaneously overflows
with rage. He cranes his head out of Harry's chest and glares at the group. "Our parents, Graham,
and now Titus. If they take one more person—" Adrian's hand defensively tightens around Harry's
bicep, his fingers curling in possessive tantalization— "then so help me, I'll go to the ends of the
earth to find them and kill them myself. With my bare fucking hands."

"They're not taking anyone else from us," Hermione asserts, leaving Draco's side and stooping
before Adrian. She gazes up at Harry briefly before cautiously extending her hand forward and
running her fingers across Adrian's damp cheeks. His tears are still fresh and tepid to the touch—
she feels his grief in those droplets of pain, and that's all the more reason for her to make this
promise yet again: "Adrian, I promise. I got you all into this mess, and I swear I'm going to get
everyone out alive. I swear."

Adrian's gleaming, jade eyes look up and reach hers, and he stares at Hermione for what feels like
an eternity. Her heart thumps against her ribcage as his response looms like a storm cloud just
before the downpour. She knows that, at this point, her words are likely vacant, failing on ears that
are tired of the unchanged promise being made over and over again.

"Stop making promises you can't keep."

The way Adrian says it breaks her. Every ounce of strength inside of her begins to dissipate into
nothingness. It's all in the cadence of his delivery, and the exhaustion in his eyes.

"You've said that very thing before," Adrian continues, shaking his head, "but here we are. Titus is
dead, and he was just as a part of this group as anyone else here. He was family."

"I know," she croaks, biting her lip to conceal the guilt in her voice and compel the tears filling her
eyes to rescind. "I'm sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. You have to believe me."

She's terrified that he won't. But Hermione presses forward.

"The F.D.E.R.E. was not supposed to hurt you. It was supposed to help. But I've realized that the
intent of the program does not cancel the impact. I was so fixated on what I thought you needed,
and what I considered was the right way to go about this, that I didn't leave room for you all to
express exactly what you needed. And I'm..." She tentatively reaches her hand out to rest upon his,
and he accepts her touch—thank gods. "I'm so, so sorry for not fighting harder for you then. And
I'm sorry for dragging you into this."

Adrian doesn't reply immediately. Just stares at her, studying her eyes. Calculating her level of
sincerity. And then he slowly exhales out of his nostrils, and his eyebrows lift in an ultimate
moment of contemplation. Finally, he says, "We were going to be dragged in, anyways. If
Aberfield was able to do this to our parents and Graham, then he was going to find a way to do it to
us, too." Suddenly, Adrian's hand trades places with Hermione's—wraps around hers and pull it to
his heart. He meets her bronze eyes with his jade ones and whispers, "But... at least we had you."

The dam behind Hermione's eyes shatters, and without proper consideration, she throws herself
against Adrian's body and consequently, into Harry's arms. She buries herself in him—begs for
forgiveness again as her lips meets his cheeks, pressing passionately against his skin in an apology
that's dipped in pure sweetness. And she sighs in relief when Adrian dips his head towards hers and
returns those speckled kisses.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again as Adrian's hands press firmly against her lower back. "I'm so
sorry."

"I know, Granger."

Hermione pulls away from the embrace, her hands secured to Adrian's shoulders as he now finds
the strength to sit up straight on his own. With his arms, Harry maneuvers Adrian so that he's
nestled between his legs but sits up by himself. Adrian inhales deeply, then exhales, releasing his
flecks of anger with that breath. And then he glances over Hermione's shoulder at Titus. Does a
double-take and parts his lips in a silent gasp.

Hermione shifts to the right to block the view of Titus' body, because Adrian doesn't need to see
more death.

"Don't look," she whispers, coaxing his eyes to swing back to hers.

"But... it's beautiful."

She has no idea what she means by that—not until she turns over her shoulder and beholds a sight
that is, indeed, beautiful.

Were she situated right in the middle of a field of flowers that stretches for miles and miles of
pastel tones and colors galore, Hermione would feel just as tranquil as she does right now—she'd
be unable to spot the difference, particularly in the way that her heart begins to beat faster.

Because before her, Pansy and Draco are working together to conjure flowers from the tips of their
wands and contour the silhouette of Titus' body with them.

Draco summons white flowers—daffodils, with their distinguishable golden centers and dulled
petals—and Pansy summons... purple and yellow pansies. Splotched black and gold and lavender
spots in the center of the flowers lend them intensely beautiful dimensions, and when scattered
between the daffodils, they resemble constellations in a clear, night sky—bold and stunning against
a backdrop that others would consider ominous.

It's a ceremony that occurs in total silence, everyone watching in awe as Pansy and Draco
collaborate in creating this illustrious, picturesque landscape right in the middle of a dull office
floor.

And although he'd dead, Titus somehow gleams next to the florae. A natural pale complexion falls
across his cheeks.

He looks at peace, surrounded by a matrix of flowers.

A minute later, they're finished, and it's like a sight straight out of a film set. The bright flowers
against the dusty, coal-colored floor of the office seems to push the agenda that beauty exists in
even the dingiest of places, or simply a place where people never suspected it would ever occur.
Yet somehow, here, it's perfect. It looks simultaneously out of place yet harmonious.

Pansy straightens her spine and takes a step back, wiping one stray tear from the inner corner of her
eye. "That looks... better," she whispers, rocking her head up and down.

Draco copies her action, standing up and approaching Pansy's side. He inhales—doesn't say a word
—then lets his shoulders drop in a moment of acceptance, although judging by the solemn gleam in
his eyes, he's still attempting to fully come to terms with it all.

Tears begin to swell deeper in Pansy's eyes, and Hermione watches as her nostrils flare and her
eyelashes flutter with intense speed, as if she's trying with everything inside of her to keep those
tears from falling, just as she's been told to do her whole life. Repress it. Ignore it. Repeat your
mother's words in your head:

It doesn't exist, you're just being dramatic.

But now, Pansy's fingers start to quiver, judder, tremble. Draco glances down to catch the sight.
She's biting her lower lip to preserve those tears, maintain that strong façade, but it's crumbling.
Hermione suspects that the waterfall behind Pansy's eyes is poised to burst at any moment—shed
its barriers and allow a torrential surge of water to flow from its base.

Pansy sputters a cry—a choke. Covers her mouth with her hand. Her legs go weak—bend at the
knees—and in the next moment she's dropping into Draco's arms. Wailing in his chest and staining
his shirt with her tears.

"I tried," she sobs, gathering her fingers into fists and slamming them against Draco's broad chest
over and over and over again, each thump slower than the last. "I tried. I'm sorry. I can't... I can't...
I can't hold it in." With a panicked inhale, Pansy stammers over her breathing, like she's held it in
for far too long, and that painful repression of her emotions is now finally meeting its limit—
reaching fruition.

And Draco holds her tight, cloaking his arms around her body and holding onto her for dear life.
He hushes her cries as they echo off the wall and stab each of them in the heart, and he slows her
flaying arms as his hand rubs up and down her back. Hermione knows that feeling—knows that
there are little currents of sweet electricity that surge from his fingertips to electrify and illuminate
broken hearts. She hopes that Pansy can feel that sensation, too.

"It's okay," Draco mumbles into her perfectly straight hair. "Cry, Pansy. You can cry."

"I'm so tired," she groans into his chest, accompanied by another wail. "I can't do it anymore,
Draco. I can't. I can't."

"Shhh," he whispers, lifting his head to find Theo, lingering over Pansy's shoulder. Theo's lips
tremble as he restrains his own downpour, but he nods at Draco to affirm that he's ready to receive
his love, his life, the piece of the puzzle he's been trying to solve since he theoretically knew what
love was—what it could one day feel like. "We've got you, Pansy."

Slowly, Draco passes Pansy into Theo's arms, and he embraces her warmly. Whispers little
affirmations into her ears and kisses her cheek over and over and over, perhaps to soak up those
tears in a way that signifies his undying love. Tender lips meet her tired cheeks, and Pansy
descends into Theo's arms. She's embraced. Held. Squeezed like she'll never be let go.

And after dragging the palm of his hand down his face in exhaustion—perhaps to conceal any
festering tears of his own—Draco looks up and locks eyes with Hermione. She parts her lips
slightly to speak, but he gestures his head to the side before she can. Her feet fly to him, and when
she reaches him, Draco cups her cheeks with his hands and strokes his thumb against her skin,
trailing her cheekbones like they're cuts of gold.

Draco doesn't initially speak. Just gazes at Hermione.

"They're not going to get away with this," Hermione says, leaning her head into his touch.

He gulps, afraid of his own question. "But where are they? What if it's been hours since they
escaped? What is they're long gone by now?" He pauses, angling his head down and looking at
Titus' bare desk in the corner of the room. "What if—" he curls his fingers a little tighter around
Hermione's face, and they're tense but still docile— "what if I'm the reason that he's dead?"

"No, Draco—"

"I brought them here," he whispers, his eyes widening as he contemplates that reality. "I abandoned
him. Practically handed them a getaway on a silver platter." He looks back at her, and now
Hermione perfectly perceives the tears in his eyes. "What if they cursed Titus and stood there and
laughed at him for not being able to breathe—"

Hermione raises her left hand to cover his on her face, and it's with that touch that Draco
immediately exhales a deep breath and releases the tension in his fingers.

"We're going to find them," she says plainly, securing her fingers between his. He curls his own
within hers, creating a tangled mess upon her cheek, but it's perfect. "They could've sought refuge
at one of the manors. All the adults who were a part of the program are still confined to their
houses. Perhaps the Pucey's, or Nott's, or Parkinson's house is—"

"So help me," Draco suspires, closing his eyes, "if they're camped out at my fucking house like he
was during the war—"

"Your parents despise Aberfield the same way that we do," Hermione interrupts, reminding him of
the way that they abandoned the meetings just as Graham did that day. "I don't believe for a second
that they would go to the manor."

"So, what do we do?" Draco asks. "Where do we go?"

She sighs, scouring her mind for the right move, the perfect thing to do, something—anything—
that will not only reconcile what's happened, but also end the turmoil that lies ahead.

And then, Hermione reminds herself of the Patronus she dispatched to Kingsley. Perhaps, with
some stroke of luck, he'd received it and had already returned. Yes, perhaps he is already waiting
for them at the Ministry—anticipating not only their arrival but also a bout of heavy news.

It's the only lead she has to go on in the moment. She believes in the desperation of her Patronus—
the way her voice shook when she imparted the message had to have been enough for him to
finally listen, right?

If it even made it to him in the first place.

Gods, that's the scary part. For all she knows, Kingsley could still be missing—travelling Europe
with the vision of rebuilding the Wizarding World while she and these Slytherins crumble under an
oppressive system that's only goal is to destroy them, their essence, and everything which they love
and cherish. And then they'd all be really fucked. Royally, completely fucked.

"The Ministry," Hermione answers. "We should go to the Ministry and see if Kingsley has
returned. We can tell him—show him—everything that happened."

"He didn't believe us before," Draco says, rolling his eyes with a brief scoff.

"He'll believe us now," Hermione responds, her tone grave as she reaches into her pocket with her
free hand and pulls out that miniscule vial—Graham's vial. "No more willful ignorance on his part.
If we all go together, we can convince him."

Draco attempts to smile. "Maybe."

"No," she insists, gripping his hand a little snugger. "I swear it. I refuse to let this go. You all will
get your share of peace.

Slowly, Draco sets his forehead against Hermione's. They close their eyes—breathe each other's air
for a moment that feels frozen in time.

"Seriously, Granger," he barely whispers, the flutter of his voice invigorating her skin, "the sun
itself doesn't promise anything quite like you do."

"I mean it," she responds.

"I know."

"I really mean it."

"I know you do."

She withdraws her forehead from his, regarding the admirable look on his face as he opens his eyes
and gazes down at her. Her hand drops from his, and she turns around to face the group.
"We don't know where Aberfield or Rose are," she starts, fidgeting with her fingers as she searches
for a way to properly convey her plan. "But I think the best thing to do here is to go to the Ministry
together, find Kingsley, and tell him everything that has happened. We can show him the
memories, show him the marks, tell him about Titus. And hopefully... he'll listen. And we can all
search for Aberfield and Rose before they become untouchable—before they're out of our
jurisdiction."

The group is stagnant, no one willing to make the first move. Hermione sighs—hates that she has
to pull them out of this necessary period of grief. There is shock still settled in their miens, pain
centered in the forefronts of their heads, anger coursing through the warm blood in their body, and
Depression with a capital 'D' threatening their very existence—the sheer chance that they pull
themselves out of this catastrophic loss. To force them through the stages of grief this quickly—
impel them to move on as quickly as time requires—feels like she's dragging them through another
immoral, unscrupulous program.

But time is of the essence. Death looms over them like a hanging garden, its vines swaying in the
wind and threatening to wrap around their necks—wring them dry, too.

She thinks that they all eventually become aware of that reality, because slowly but surely, they all
begin to rise like phoenixes from ashes. And there are newfound guises of vengeance that cover
their faces—color them angry beyond what language can describe. Red and blistering as fire itself,
the Slytherins adopt the soul of a dragon. Serpentine in classification yet protective in nature, they
rise, bunch their fists, and nod at Hermione. Assent to the undertaking like it's the only thing
keeping them going anymore.

Then, there's a quiet hum that rings from behind her, and so Hermione turns around and regards
Draco casting some sort of protective charm over Titus' body. A translucent haze trickles down his
body and encases him like a coffin, everything inside protected by this glorious luminescence—
Titus, the flowers. All of it, sealed with a kiss of protection beneath this glowing casket. It's
gruesome and troubling yet beautiful at the same time, and damnit, Hermione knows that feeling
all too well.

Draco shoves his wand back into his pocket, and he looks up at the group.

"He'd want us to fight for our peace."

His eyes reach Hermione's, and the glimmer—they fucking glimmer like she's never seen them
glimmer before.

"So, let's fight."

It's not what she expects.

Apparating into the Ministry is not this difficult.

But when all seven of them continue to land on Whitehall Street, just outside the magical
boundaries of the Ministry, Hermione begins to suspect that the wards which were once taken
down after Voldemort's defeat—the ones that prohibited witches and wizards from simply
apparating into the Ministry—are now reimplemented.

It's the only explanation—but why is it so?

She panics. With each failed attempt at apparating, Hermione grows more apprehensive about the
situation. Frustration attaches to her nerves, and her entire body judders.
Hermione considers the toilets but remembers quite quickly that they're attached to the Floo
Network, and if the apparition wards are back as she suspects, then there's no chance that the
backup system will work. It's as if she can already see those metal bars guarding the passage from
the Floo to the atrium—can feel the cold metal of them around her fingers.

There's no hope in that route.

But there is in another pathway.

And Hermione blesses the moment that Kingsley once informed her of it.

"The stone on the sidewalk with a splinter that resembles a lightning bolt that's thirty paces from
the telephone booth was once used as a secret passage into the Ministry," Kingsley once explained
to Hermione in his office with the sliest look on his face. "Not many people are privy to that
information. However—" He had pointed his finger at her and smirked— "you are certainly
worthy of that surreptitious secret, Ms. Granger."

She flies down that sidewalk—exactly thirty paces over—followed by the others, and when she
reaches the slab of concrete with a splinter in the shape of a lightning bolt—a river with multiple
tributaries streaming into it—she exhales in a moment of relief. Takes her wand, casts a quick
Disillusionment Charm over the area which they occupy, and then meticulously studies the curves
of the crack in the concrete with the tip of her wand.

Her leap of faith drives the charm out of her wand: "Revelio."

The ground rumbles. Like an earthquake splitting the earth apart, the slab of concrete pulls back
into another piece of the sidewalk, and a brilliant, stone staircase emerges from the depths of the
ground. One by one, each stair settles into place, alluring them into the dark, hollow cave that
serves as a secret entrance to the Ministry.

"Merlin, Hermione," Blaise comments, leaning his head over to capture the sight of the magic.
"That was bloody brilliant."

"Kingsley once mentioned it," she responds, glancing up at him and immediately becoming
transfixed by his gleaming eyes—eyes that wonder at the magic like they're a child's once again.
Like they've no preconception of the magical world and its very existence. "I'm just glad it actually
worked."

"Hopefully it gets us in," Daphne adds, meeting Blaise near his side and offering a hopeful smile.

"Where does it lead to?" Theo asks.

Hermione gnaws the inside of her cheek. "Not sure." She takes one step down. "We'll see."

Minutes pass between the descent and eventual ascent. The tunnel is dark, the only light coming
from the tips of their wands in little lumos beams. They wander, hand in hand, through the narrow
passageway until a wall appears in front of them. The floor begins to rise in an incline, the ceiling
becoming closer than before, and Hermione bends her eyebrows in confusion. There's just a wall in
front of them—no door. No way out.

"Up here." Theo's voice ricochets off the stone walls of the tunnel.

Everyone's eyes follow the light of his wand, pointed at a trapdoor in the ceiling. It's wooden—a
darker shade—with metal fixes and panels crossing over it. A black, metal latch hangs to the right,
begging to be tugged and unlocked.
Shooting onto his toes and reaching his hand up, Theo grabs the handle and turns it. He pushes
himself higher, throwing the trapdoor wide open. And they begin their ascent.

One by one, they're lifted out, and when Hermione meets light again, she spins around and
curiously inspects her surroundings.

She's standing right in the middle of the atrium—an odd place for the passage to lead to, but that's
not what she questions. That's not what sends chills up her spine.

She's only seen the Ministry this way once before—that night at the Department of Mysteries.

But even the atmosphere that night wasn't as chilling as what has been exhibited here today.

Because normally, at this time in the morning, the atrium of the Ministry is bustling with
employees. They're everywhere, swarming like ants who rush towards a delectable food source.
They're like vultures, scouring the area for their meal. They're like a stampede of gazelle or buffalo
or wild horses, beating through the wilderness in search of prosperity. But today—today is
different. It's ominous. Everything is fucking ominous—empty. Void of life.

There's nobody here.

The others notice it immediately, too. Each time one emerges from the ground, they twirl and
search the ginormous room for a source of life—a living, breathing thing. With perplexed eyes and
creased foreheads, they search but find nothing. And once everyone is through the door—once
Harry has been pulled up by Adrian and the door has been closed yet again to hide the secrets
below—hands wrap through one another's as they march through the atrium towards, Hermione
and Draco leading the pack.

Aberfield's office is the first stop.

"The Memory Vials," Hermione issues as her reason. "Kingsley has to see everything."

The others agree without protest.

Silence permeates each turn, each corridor, each corner of the building. It feels like there's not one
soul present. So when they reach Aberfield's office, they barge right in, expecting no one to be
inside, and when she confirms that it is indeed empty, Hermione darts for that shelf where the vials
are normally kept. But when she stops in front of it, her breath hitches in her throat—she can
plainly hear it in the silence.

Because the vials are gone. They're not in the rack. Nonexistent.

"Fuck," she mutters, turning around and securing her eyes on the jars resting on the shelf on the
other side of the room. She pushes through the Slytherins, arriving at that shelf, praying that
perhaps the Nulliwinkle is still there—

Her hands go to work, pushing through jar after jar after jar, and her eyes wander furiously over the
precise labels. But there's no Nulliwinkle—no menacing purple plant situated in a clear jar. Just
random powders and stems and leaves and petals.

"Where are the vials?" Adrian asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

Hermione shakes her head, her eyes darting between the group. "I don't... I don't know. I don't
know where the Nulliwinkle is, either."
"Perhaps they took it when they poisoned Adrian," Pansy quietly suggests with a shrug.

Adrian huffs, glancing down at his arm for a brief moment before curling his fingers into a fist.
"Gods, fuck them. What do we do now?"

"We should just go find Kingsley," Daphne proposes, crossing her arms over her chest as if to
protect herself from some omnipresent but invisible threat. She exhales, stress passing through her
lips in a flutter. "It's just horrifying being here all... alone."

"You're not alone," Blaise whispers, placing his hand on her back. "We got you."

Draco is the first to storm out of the office, throwing the door open so hard that it creaks at the
hinges and crashes against the wall. Everyone follows quickly, Hermione rushing to the front of
the pack to grab Draco's hand—calm him down. But his palm is hot, and judging by the blush of
his cheeks, Hermione assumes that his entire body is burning with anger.

Wands are out in a cautious state of being as they pass through corridors, each one of them
carefully maneuvering their way through the intricate maze of the Ministry as if danger lurks in
every corner—as if out of nowhere, someone will appear out of the thick silence to thwart their
already dwindling plans.

And perhaps it does—perhaps there is danger everywhere. Everything is so fucking eerie that
Hermione can feel her skin crawl with anticipation and anxiety. It's like any second could be there
last.

Hermione mutters a spew of gratitude when they make it to Kingsley's office unscathed, but she
knows that their fight is not over just yet. She can see that wooden door in the distance—that
Garden of Eden. Tranquil and perfect—the answer to their problems. Or, as it was in the story, the
breeding ground for chaos. Behind that door, there is either peace, or there is danger. Temptation.
Evil.

That auspicious feeling of wickedness is confirmed when, while just a few feet away from the
door, Hermione finally hears a noise—a struggle within the confines of the office. Glass breaks.
People cackle.

She doesn't bother knocking—is miles past that stage now.

Instead, Hermione flings open Kingsley's office door, and when her and the gang stumble into the
room, they're met with a horrific display of mutiny. Insurrection beyond anything Hermione has
seen up close and personal—practically synonymous with the moment that Voldemort infiltrated
Hogwarts, although this time, it's somehow even more chilling.

And perhaps it's because it occurs in this office space, where the indigo tiled walls feel like they'll
concave on everyone in there in one swift motion, whereas Voldemort confronted people in an
open courtyard. The world felt bigger then.

The world feels much smaller as her eyes connect with Aberfield's crazed ones.

He's got his wand aimed at the Minister. His head is turned over his shoulder and his hand shakes
with unbridled rage—rage that spills from his eyes to every limb. Rose is to his left, her wand
pointed directly at Kingsley, and she turns over her shoulder and glares at the group through her
peripheral.

Kingsley has his back pressed up against the back wall against his own volition—he appears to be
struggling under a spell of some sort. His neck strains against the barrier which Aberfield and Rose
have constructed in front of him, and as he tries to push forward, he fails and blunders over his
breathing. It's rocky and paced oddly, causing his eyes to bulge and his temples to sweat. His
perspiration glistens like the tears that form against his eyes.

Hermione glances down for a moment and finds Kingsley's golden desk overturned and shoved out
of the way. Loose pieces of paper cover the Persian rug and tiled floor beneath the spread. And
Rowena, his assistant, is sprawled on the floor between Aberfield and Rose, petrified. Possibly
dead. She's not moving, not breathing. Hermione knows well now just what Aberfield is capable of
—death does not escape her mind when it comes to the innocent assistant.

And then to the right, backed up against the shelves that line that wall, are five adults. Watching,
waiting.

Four out of the five of them are recognizable to Hermione from Graham's memories and fleeting
moments with the Death Eaters throughout the war, but then there's one that stands removed from
her memory. She's never seen him before, but by the cut of his cheekbones, the shape of his
jawline, the soft pink of his lips, and the charcoal black hair on his head—not one silver hair in
sight—Hermione infers his identity quite swiftly.

Mr. Montague.

And the others—they're carbon fucking copies of their children.

There's Mr. Nott, as trimmed and proper as she remembers in the memories. And then there's Mr.
Pucey, tall and horrifyingly threatening with his broad shoulders and downturned lips which slowly
but surely turn into a menacing smirk. And then there's the Parkinsons, and although they stand
side by side with victorious facades strewn across their perfectly sculpted faces, each sideward
glance and scoff confirms that they hate each other now just as much as they did during those
meetings.

But where are the others? The Greengrasses? The Zabinis? The Malfoys?

Aberfield's eyes are ablaze with revenge, and his lips curve in a sinister smile. He cackles as the
members of the group stumble into the office and linger near the doorway, shock painted across
each and every one of their faces. It's a sight that intoxicates him—Hermione witnesses those deep
inhales through his nostrils, as if cementing this moment is time can only be done through
subsuming the bloody particles in the air.

Kingsley widens his eyes even further, flaying his fingers at his side to fight the barrier again. "Ms.
Granger—"

"No!" Aberfield shouts, throwing his head back and jabbing his wand towards Kingsley. "Shut up.
No talking from you."

Insanity runs through the veins on Aberfield's neck. His voice trembles, lips quiver, and teeth
chatter with a madness that's attached to his bones—transfixed in his being. His breaking point is at
a culminating period. He's going to burst any second.

Hermione doesn't even know where to focus her attention. Because while her friends are focused
on their families in front of them, Hermione can't take her eyes off of Kingsley. He looks so
powerless, and how can that fucking be? He's the Minister of Magic, yet in this moment, he looks
nothing more than a scared solider, a mirror of a young boy in the throes of a war he was never
supposed to fight.
And is that representative of just how threatening Aberfield can truly be? He could possess a title
lesser than the garbage he'd scrape and clean from a sidewalk, and yet he'd still be petrifying and
volatile beyond words in this moment. Kingsley is terrified of him—they all are. There are
different levels of fear in everyone's eyes, like they know he's unhinged and dangerous.

Rose, on the other hand, is totally stoic. Calculated. Knows exactly what she's doing.

"Did you have an appointment with the Minister, Hermione?" Aberfield taunts with a tip of his
eyebrow. "I'm afraid you're a little late."

Draco grabs her arm as she steps forward.

"Where is everyone?" Hermione asks. "The Ministry should be full at this time of day."

Aberfield cackles—gods, it's horrifying. "It's incredible what sorts of spells I contrive in my mind.
Endless possibilities present here." He taps his wand against his head and then redirects it back to
Kingsley. "Did you know that with careful studying of the security here at the Ministry, you can
time a defensive charm just right that it blocks all magical entrances? Of course, you found your
way in somehow—should've fucking guessed you would. Our Minister found his way in as well.
But everyone who was here already wasn't as... lucky... as our friend. Our fearless leader." His
tone is so sardonic that it hurts.

"No, they weren't," Ms. Parkinson speaks up, crossing her arms over her chest and regarding
Aberfield with glee. "My wand hasn't felt such power in years. Petrifying and sending them into
thin air has never felt so good."

"You twisted bitch," Pansy mutters under her breath, and that causes her mother to turn sharply and
glare at her daughter.

Hermione's never seen such displeasure in someone's eyes like the way Ms. Parkinson looks at her
own daughter. Filled to the brim with disgust, Ms. Parkinson's eyes are like black holes.

"Merlin, you're look horrible," Ms. Parkinson seethes, shaking her head in utter disappointment.
"Still using those dirty drugs, I see?"

"And you aren't?" Pansy shoots back. "You're the one who taught me, anyways."

"I think we know who really got us all started," Ms. Parkinson replies, her eyes trailing towards
Draco. He grits his teeth and tightens his grip on Hermione's hand, holding back whatever insult
Hermione is sure he's contriving in his cunning mind. "Your father has a lot of gall, Draco."

"And you're psychotic—what else is new?"

"Charming," she seethes through gritted teeth.

Kingsley finds the courage to speak again, and this time it's directed at Harry.

"Harry, I—"

"No!" Aberfield shouts again, and from his wand he casts a silencing spell on Kingsley, the same
one he used months ago on the group during one of their outbursts in the meeting. Kingsley's lips
latch and seal together, and his cheeks fluster. "I do the talking," he orders with a trembling voice,
"I'm the one with the power now."

"You're insane," Blaise growls.

"No, no, I'm not insane!" Aberfield exclaims, throwing his hand down in frustration. "I'm a
visionary!"

"Of what?" Adrian shouts, curling his lips in disgust.

Aberfield smirks. Laughs. "The Dark Lord was right about many, many things. He paved the way
for greatness, and now I am picking up where he left off. I am emerging from the shadows and
becoming everything that he could've been. I am just like him, really. My army was built from the
ashes of his, and I will stop at nothing to eradicate this world of the people who stand in my way."
He turns to Rose, that smirk still palpable. "Rose here feels the same."

"So much so that I took on a whole new identity the same way my Lord did," she says, redirecting
her wand to the middle of the room and shooting red sparks from the tip, painting her given name
—Rose Mulciber—in the air. With a second precise flick of her wand, the letters begin to rearrange
themselves, and suddenly they spell out her false identity—Cleo M. Bruiser.

"Brilliant, isn't she?" Aberfield coos. "Her name held more disgust than my nothing name. The
name given to me by my disgusting muggleborn parents, who threw me out when they decided that
my irrational tendencies were too difficult to manage. Wasn't until that oaf showed up that I
became aware of what I really was—a wizard. And a damn good one at that. One capable of all of
this and more."

"You can't possibly think that you're as charismatic and charming as Voldemort once was," Theo
snaps. "Not with those fucking lessons you made us sit through. I wanted to turn my wand to my
head and off myself right then and there every single day. No leader is that fucking drawling."

"You know nothing!" Aberfield shouts, the fingers fastened around his wand shaking.

Theo turns to face his father, gritting his teeth. "And you? You're standing there like this guy has
any fucking hold over you? You're pathetic."

His father winces. "Do not speak to me like that—"

"I don't fear you anymore," Theo responds. "Not if he's who you look up to."

"Presumptuous of you to think that we look up to him," Mr. Pucey chimes in. "Perhaps he's simply
a steppingstone for our next revolution." He takes a step forward and then turns his attention to
Adrian, coiling his lips into a sinister smile. "Hello, son—"

"Choke on glass and die," Adrian spits.

His father sardonically recoils, raising his hands and eyebrows in the process. "My, my, my, that's a
new one."

"Would you rather I wish something more gruesome upon you?" Adrian taunts, taking one step
forward before stopping himself from getting any closer.

"Oh, please do. I'm in need of more ghastly methods of killing the unworthy scum of this world."

"Why, I ought to—"

"Alright, shut up!" Aberfield barks, rotating his wand between everyone in the room—parents,
kids, Kingsley. "No more talking! No more! You're all insufferable."

"Now you know how we felt during your lessons," Draco mutters under his breath.
 Hermione glares at Aberfield—they glare at each other. His lips lift like they've been soaked in
intentions more sinister than the Devil's own goals.

"Quincy, what are you doing?" she asks, shaking her head. "What is it that you want out of all of
this?"

"Power."

"Over who—"

"Over them!"

Aberfield points to the parents, to the Slytherins—to everyone.

He exhales as Hermione takes in that answer, and then he says, "I don't understand it. I never did.
How was it that all of you—you children—were able to receive the mark when I, one of the Dark
Lord's most devoted soldiers, did not?"

Chapter End Notes

so, I'm on a twitter break right now (which is usually where I post announcements
about chapters) but this will NOT stop my fanfic update schedule. the next chapter
should be out next saturday around the same time. thanks for your support--can't
believe we're almost done <3
 Chapter 37
Chapter Notes

cw // violence

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The ringing in Hermione's ears is hollower than a distant hum—weightless, lingering in the cavity
of her ear and drawing her mind to inevitable ruin—and it's all due to Aberfield's unsettling and
positively harrowing confession.

But beyond that buzzing in her mind, Hermione is able to hear someone yell, "You're out of your
fucking mind!"

And that pulls her right out of her daze. Her hearing resets, the faint buzzing sound dissipates into
nothingness, and she returns to reality, though she wishes she could be anywhere else.

It's true—what one of her friends said. Aberfield is out of his mind. He's a raging lunatic. Madder
than Voldemort, zanier than Scabior, nuttier than Bellatrix herself. And that's not an easy thing.
That consists of vengeance bubbling in someone for years, defining all of their actions in intricate,
detailed steps—plans concocted since the genesis of whatever stirred his vengeance.

Aberfield has that same beam of insanity in his irises, filling them to their brims without a trace of
mercy. He looks psychotically unhinged—a moment away from self-destruction. Consumed by a
shadow more dark and twisted than his own heart.

"This is all because you didn't receive the mark?" Pansy asks, curling the corner of her lip in utter
disgust.

"Precisely." Aberfield's crazed eyes dart between everyone present, rotating in his head in an
accelerated speed. "It should've been me. I should've at least been among you. I should've been
there."

Adrian scoffs, his eyes rolling with an incredulous tang. "Listen to yourself! Do you understand
how crazy that sounds? Fixating on this little thing almost three years after the fact? You're
pathetic."

"Do you want to know what's really pathetic?" Aberfield scowls, lifting his free hand and pointing
it at Kingsley. "That your so-called fearsome Minister of Magic could not smell even a hint of
insurrection, even as it bubbled under his leadership. Shows just how important you all were to
him." He starts to cackle, his index finger tauntingly shaking left and right. "I have to admit that the
lack of due diligence was absolutely astounding."

Daphne parts her lips in bafflement. "So... Kingsley was just—"

"A pawn," Aberfield spits in the Minister's direction. "An obtuse pawn. Nothing more."

Catching his eyes with hers, Hermione purses her lips to keep from letting a tear leave her tired
eyes. Kingsley returns the glance, apologizing vehemently with his troubled stare, but it's too hard
for Hermione to look at, to accept, to be alright with. One day, she'd get there, though it's not her
apology to forgive, really. It's theirs—the Slytherins.

But for now, looking at Kingsley, all that Hermione feels is disappointment. In him and partly in
herself—for perhaps, if she'd been more vocal and forthcoming about everything, then he would've
seen the light—or, the darkness—sooner.

"And you psychos just went along with it?" Adrian implores, pointing at the group of complicit
parents across the room, all of whom stand idly in front of the shelf against the wall.

Mr. Nott replies, "Sitting in the manor for months after our program ended with minimal
communication about the progress of the new program was torturous but worth it if it meant
recruiting more people to rebuild the world we could've had with the Dark Lord."

"You're sick," Theo whispers under his breath.

"But where are the rest of you?" Blaise asks, eyeing the crowd deeper. "Where is my mother?"

"And my family?" Draco asks, continuing the line of questioning. "Why is it just you five?"

Aberfield sneers, like even the thought of Mrs. Zabini or the Malfoys is more abhorrent than
allowing the Slytherins to actually be happy. "All too weak to continue with the initiative. You
must be so proud of them. Seems like other things were more important than what they all
dedicated their lives to, but alas, it just shows that they were not as capable as I always thought."
Menacingly rocking his wand between his thumb and index fingers, Aberfield adds, "Perhaps
they're dead at this point."

Hermione feels Draco's grip on her hand tighten like he's trying to keep that anger at bay. But the
fire surging from his fingers is all too palpable. Hermione feels the electricity of his throbbing
heartbeat through the palm of his hand against her skin, and she squeezes back to pacify his heart
yet remind him that the one beating in his chest is just as valid as the one tattooed on his forearm.

"And you," Hermione starts, addressing Mr. Montague with confusion in her eyes, "what are you
doing here? Do you have any idea what this man did to your son?"

Mr. Montague smirks, releasing cold shivers up Hermione's spine. "Oh, I've heard all the details.
That my pathetic, little shit-for-brains son abdicated from the program when things became
difficult. That he started falling for a muggle, of all the people on this earth. That he tragically
overdosed and died in his little, rundown loft." He snarls and lifts his nostrils is repugnance. "That
is not the boy I raised. He turned into a pitiable basket case."

"Don't you dare talk about him that way," Adrian murmurs under his breath, though Hermione
knows he would scream those words if he could. Shout them from the highest mountain like a
battle cry, a profession of his undying loyalty to his friend.

Mr. Montague glances at his feet, laughing at the ground. "Graham is dead." He casts his eyes
back up, staring right at Adrian as he compounds his statement: "No need to defend him while he
rots in his grave."

"I will defend him with everything in me," Adrian says with the grace of a trailblazing stallion,
paving the way for justice in a field of corruption. "It's more than you've ever done for him. And
all his life, that is all he wanted from you. If anyone here is weak—" he jabs his finger at Mr.
Montague again— "it's you."

"Where have you even been?" Theo interjects, shaking his head in disbelief—puzzlement. "You
weren't... we didn't see you when we watched Graham's..." His sentence trails off, losing itself in
the cold air around then—the air that appears to be suffocating them rather than supplementing
them.

"The program didn't last long for me. Once I suspected what Quincy's real motives were, my mind
was made up." Mr. Montague meets Aberfield's eyes from across the room, and he smiles
diabolically, like he's reliving the glorious moment of fruition. "We met privately, and an unspoken
understanding was formed. I knew his motives—he knew I was devoted. There was nothing more
to say. My dismissal back home was expedited. Gave me time to prepare properly for the
revolution in private."

Hermione closes her eyes and shakes her head, still confused and desperate to tie up loose ends.
"But how did the others not grow suspicious of your whereabouts when you left?"

Aberfield clears his throat, redirecting the attention back to him. "All it takes is a little white lie,
such as the following: 'Mr. Montague has been awarded special leniency for a medical condition
and will resume the rest of the program in the comfort of his home, where the best Healers will
tend to his needs and ensure a speedy recovery.' A simple, unquestionable lie is all it takes, Ms.
Granger, to get what you want, especially when certain people do not pay attention."

"Eventually, lies catch up to you," Hermione says, her eyes beating against Aberfield's like waves
against rocks.

Aberfield snorts—bobs his head from side to side with a promise of more leverage. "You know
that better than anyone, don't you? You forget that these—" Aberfield dips his available hand into
the pocket of his pants, pulls out several tiny vials with little blue beams of light pulsing against the
glass, and holds the bunch of them proudly in the air— "memories exist. Not only did you lie about
your strictly professional relationship with the Slytherins—"

"Stop," Hermione whispers, shaking her head in a display of fretfulness and anxiety.

"But you have also engaged in various illicit activities," Aberfield finishes, delight coating his
voice at the end of his sentence.

"What I have done does not compare to the crimes you have committed," Hermione retorts,
dumbstruck at Aberfield's hallucination of the world and what constitutes as corrupt. "In my eyes,
and perhaps in many other's too, insurrection is far more repulsive and dangerous than
experimenting with drugs once or twice."

The laugh that leaves Aberfield's mouth is chilling. "Your morals are backwards, Ms. Granger."

"Unbelievable," she whispers under her breath, feeling Draco's hands enfold hers in comfort yet
again.

"And what was even better than watching you break the law was watching everyone squirm and
cry and suffer under the effects of the Draught of Peace," Aberfield continues, inhaling deeply.
"Watching each one of you cry about the pain felt riveting. Like sweet retribution for acquiring
what should've always been mine."

Unsettled by the profession of Aberfield's motives, Theo shifts the weight in his feet, and his voice
carries over Hermione's shoulders like a sharp bolt of lightning. "You know, maybe you didn't
receive the mark because you weren't fucking strong enough," he taunts, his teeth grating together
with each syllable. "Perhaps you just didn't have what it took."

That strikes a nerve. Aberfield's malicious smile disappears, and in the speed of light, he's returned
to his state of total fury. "And you all did?" he bellows, his cheeks filling with a dangerously rouge
hue. "I am far stronger than all of you! And I am far more devoted to this cause!"

"Clearly!" Adrian roars. "None of us want this. None of us ever really wanted it!"

"Do you know how terrifying it was to be in his presence?" Blaise adds, pain all to tangible in his
voice. "We all held our breath every time we were around him. With you—I mean, you just made
us want to blow our fucking brains out!"

"You don't believe that I am strong enough to match the power and might of my Lord?" Aberfield
hisses, followed by a demonic curl of his lips.

Hermione watches in fear as he slowly redirects the aim of his wand from Kingsley to the group of
parents. The crowd of them squirms. It's not entirely obvious—it's only recognizable in the
uneasiness of their feet, each one of them stepping a few inches to the side, as if that will help them
escape whatever combustion of rage Aberfield plans to explode into.

Then suddenly—

"Crucio!"

Mr. Montague hits the ground like an axed-down tree. Sputtering and shaking and seizing, his
body folds and writhes against the indigo floor under the merciless wand of Aberfield, posed to
prove that he is just as strong—perhaps just as insane—as Voldemort once was. That he too can
rule with fear.

Saliva foams at the corners of Mr. Montague's mouth, but underneath the torture, Hermione notices
that he's smiling—laughing. The mix of his cry and cackle throws Hermione's mind into
everlasting orbit, and she exhales a terrified breath for the man on the floor, because he's so
fucking brainwashed, so crazy, so out of his mind, that each contortion actually appears to bring
him more joy than anything else in the whole world could.

Aberfield joins the scene, grinning and laughing as his eyes dart between the gang and the parents.
He tightens the grip around his wand, coercing the spell to breed even harsher results. The cry that
emits from Mr. Montague's throat denotes that increase of the pain, and he continues to flail and
cry, then laugh, then wail, then cackle, and it's like a never-ending cycle of insanity.

Daphne's had enough. "Stop!" she yells, but Blaise holds her back. "Stop! Stop it!"

"You still think I am not powerful?" Aberfield yells. "Explain this, then! Explain their looks!"

Hermione sees the expressions of the parents. She notices the uneasiness in their stances. They are
frightened, or, at least, nervous that they'll be next. Tense at the unpredictability of the man before
them.

After what feels like hours of watching Mr. Montague wither away into madness, Aberfield jerks
his wand away and sets him free. He catches his breath, and with Mr. Nott's assistance, he rises to
his feet, shakes off the lapels of his jacket, and grins victoriously at the children.

"Do not question whether I am strong or not," Aberfield taunts, taking a step towards them,
"because I guarantee that I am strong than you all think. Just like my Lord."

"You're not that strong. You just both govern with fear," Hermione speaks up. "You, know, you're
right—you're just like him. A horrible man with twisted morals and a perverted outlook on the
world, willing to hurt the people around you to prove some diabolical point—tie up unfinished
business in the form of a sick vendetta." She takes one step forward, much to Draco's fear as he
tightens the grip on her hand. "And you both harbor so much shame about who you are. Why?"

Plainly, Aberfield responds, "Nobody wants a mudblood."

"So, you try to join the people that swore to torment your kind and then—what—your identity is
simply erased? You're no longer a muggleborn?"

"I was never meant to be one," Aberfield insists, raisins his hand and curling his fingers into a fist
to curb his fury. "Never. I shouldn't have been born from those people. I should have been someone
totally different. But instead, I was egregiously abandoned. Thrown out like a freak of nature."

"You're ashamed of who you are because it's what compelled your family to throw you away,"
Hermione says, her voice softening in a cruel realization.

Aberfield's nostrils flare. "Precisely."

Hermione's mind reels, and she has to close her eyes to catch her breath. "But why create these
programs?"

"To put up a front while I did my recruiting."

"And why the Nulliwinkle? Why the trackers? Why recruit them like this—"

"Who would suspect a recruitment inside the Ministry itself?" Aberfield jeers. "I was never a
Death Eater—there was no record of my alignment with Voldemort. It became a way to carry out
my plans. And the Nulliwinkle, the trackers—all to watch you suffer for what should've been mine.
Even the thought of your skin peeling off was satisfying enough, but being able to watch it
manifest and simmer and unfold—that was fulfilling beyond words."

"You're insane," Draco growls, "literally fucking insane."

"I have my reasons," Aberfield responds, straightening his back and turning his attention back to a
befuddled Hermione. "I should've known employing you was going to be my downfall. I thought
perhaps you'd retain that docile personality I saw at your previous post and let me do my bidding in
peace. And then, a small part of me believed that you might agree with me one day—that the
people before you did not deserve to be forgiven. That if they weren't going to fight for me, then
they were going to burn. We were supposed to come together. You were supposed to follow in my
footsteps, Ms. Granger. Avenge yourself under my secret pretext."

She wants to laugh her arse off at the idiocy of Aberfield's comment, but Hermione holds her
snicker in. Instead says, "I'm absolutely nothing like you."

"No, you're not." Aberfield's eyebrows jut up and then settle back down. "You're gullible and
weak."

"You know nothing about Hermione," Harry suddenly interjects. "Her heart is pure and untainted,
unlike yours. She fought through the harassment and emerged stronger—fiercer in every aspect.
You, on the other hand, turned out sad and pathetic."

"Choice words from the Chosen One," Aberfield taunts with a snarl. "It should've been you that
died that day—"

"Hey!" Adrian warns, stepping forward and pointing his finger at Aberfield. "Watch... your
fucking... mouth."
Harry reaches forward—grabs Adrian's arm and tugs him back. "It's alright, Adrian—"

"So help me, if you threaten him like that again—"

"What is it with you Gryffindors and falling for your fucking tormentors?" Aberfield scowls,
frenziedly shaking his wand in their direction and causing the group to take one collective step
backwards, like a well-rounded unit.

"It's called forgiveness," Hermione answers, creasing her eyebrows. "Reconciliation. Redemption.
Qualities that you will never possess if you continue living out this sick vendetta of yours."

Aberfield laughs at the idea of it. "You think I want any of those things? They made people weak
—"

"They make people strong," Hermione fights back, unrelenting and unremitting in her defense.

"That's rich, coming from a mudblood," Mr. Pucey comments, rolling his tongue around his mouth
in a lackadaisical attitude.

Glaring at his father with daggers in his eyes, Adrian says, "Don't you dare talk to her like that—"

"Shut up, boy," Mr. Pucey orders, stepping forward menacingly and shaking his head in
disapproval. He snarls at his son, eyeing him up and down and grimacing at the sight of Adrian's
hand settled through Harry's. "You are just as fragile and pathetic as all of them. I thought I could
pass everything I had onto you, but you're weak. Just like your mother."

"Fuck you," Adrian spits back, the rage in his voice grave.

Hermione knows it's to do with the mention of his mother. It's been something triggering for
Adrian for as long as she can remember, and although she isn't aware of what actually happened,
Hermione knows that Adrian loves his mother. Would do anything to tell her that he's alright, that
he misses her, and that he would give anything to see her again.

But Adrian's father continues, pressing buttons and allowing his temper to run free.

"Ah, yes. You're mother. Couldn't handle everything we had with the Dark Lord. Had to run off
like a scared little bitch—"

"You better shut up now while you're ahead of yourself—"

"Watching her squirm under the Cruciatus over and over again was like getting drunk on a
perfectly aged rum. And when she ran off that night, I rejoiced. I didn't need a weak woman like
that holding me back."

"You were sick for what you did to her—what you made me watch," Adrian seethes, his hand
trembling in Harry's from the trauma of it all. "How could you do that to her?"

Mr. Pucey laughs. Eyes the group of Slytherins slowly, a threat growing on the horizons of his
vexed eyes.

"I could do it to anyone I'd like," he hisses, promptly pulling his wand out of his pocket and aiming
it at the group.

That simple move elicits everyone else to do the same. Parents' wands are turned against the
children's, and the tension in the middle of the battleground blazes like the ghost of the spells
Hermione knows will soar from the tips of their wands soon enough.

Adrian's father repeats himself, but this time, he's eyeing Hermione.

Her heart begins to beat—fast.

"Anyone... I'd... like."

That's when her heart stops. The look in his eyes is telling—decisive. She once saw it in Bellatrix's
—this yearning for chaos and persecution.

And just as she did almost three years ago, on the cold floor of Malfoy Manor and beneath the
crazed Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione fears for her life. Sees the traces of that curse manifest upon
Mr. Pucey's lips before he even says it.

She closes her eyes.

Waits for the surge of pain.

Squeezes her eyes shut even tighter to brace the agony of the curse.

Prays for it to be over quickly.

"Crucio!"

She can hear the burst of magic surge from the tip of Mr. Pucey's wand.

But it never reaches her body.

And when she opens her eyes to understand why, Hermione looks down at her feet to see that the
curse has centered itself on the writhing blonde before her—the dragon sworn to protect pure gold.

She screams with a different kind of pain.

"Draco!"

And then the room erupts. It erupts like a volcano spewing molten lava after years of lethargy. It
becomes a breeding ground for chaos—a rumble in a dark, moonlit street.

With a cry that could break glass, Adrian lunges across the room and tackles his father, screaming
profanities and hurling punch after punch against his face. He knocks the elm wand out of his
father's hand, granting Draco's body releases from the Cruciatus, and it rolls across the floor against
the traffic of the parents' feet, all of which are trekking towards the gang.

"You don't learn anything, you son of a bitch!" Adrian yells, overcoming his father's power by
straddling him and beating his face over and over with his fist, already swollen and bloody from
the repeated collisions. "You don't get to torture the people I love anymore! Do you understand
me? Fuck you! Fuck you!"

In the midst of the yelling, and as her friends race into battle, Hermione drops to her knees and
secures her hands on either side of Draco's head. He sputters in her arms, the aftereffects of the
torture still pumping through him.

"Draco, you—why did you do that? Why did you jump in front of it?"

His cheek burns at the touch of Hermione's hand against it, but when he responds, she feels the
cool kiss of sacrifice and love surge from his words through her body.

"I couldn't stand by and do nothing," he whispers. "Not again."

If only she could hold him here forever.

But there's violence rocking the room they're in, and with strength that the gods would be envious
of, and despite the aftereffects of the gruesome torture, Draco slowly rises. Forces himself into a
seated position.

Hermione settles her hand on his back for support as he removes his wand from his pocket, presses
his lips against hers briefly, and then exhales in resolution.

They have to get up.

She wishes they could stay this way forever. Not fight anymore. Just live and breathe one another.

"I'll never look away again," Draco says, and he confirms exactly how she feels.

And then he's rising to his feet and stumbling once under the pressure in his brittle bones before
rounding his fingers into a fist—summoning all the fortitude in the world to see him through this
last push for freedom—and charging towards Aberfield, who is already engaged with Harry in a
burst of colorful spells.

And she's in awe of his brilliant resilience, because not even one minute ago, Draco was seizing on
the ground in abject pain, and he did so to protect her. Save her. Prove that maybe he loves her too.

Hermione's almost too shocked to stand up, but she finds the same strength that Draco just did and
jumps to her feet. There are bursts of colors zipping past her and above her—reds and purples and
blues and whites and greens—and she joins right in, directing her attention to Mr. Montague,
whose sinister smile makes the hair on her skin stand erect.

"Graham deserved better than you!" Hermione exclaims in anger, winding her arm back and then
hurling a vicious spell his way.

Mr. Montague repels it with a fleeting white barrier, drawn from top to bottom in the air. "My son
was weak," he snarls as Hermione's curse gets swallowed by the barrier.

"Your son needed help—"

"He needed to grow up!" Mr. Montague roars, casting a purple spell her way, but it's deflected by a
skillful swish of Hermione's wand across her body. The wand absorbs the magic effortlessly.

"How cruel can you be?" Hermione returns in spite.

"I do not need a mudblood telling me how to raise my child—"

Unexpectedly, Mr. Montague is hit square in the chest with red sparks, and his body is flung into
the air and against a shelf. He plunges to the ground like a pile of lead, hitting the tiles with a
hollow boom.

Hermione turns her head over her should a moment later, witnessing the final moment of Blaise's
wand sizzling with the crimson remnants of the spell, but before Hermione can verbally thank him,
Blaise is quickly nodding and then reengaging in a fight with Rose, Daphne glued to his side in a
similar combative stance.
In the midst of the turmoil, Hermione's eyes wander and locate Kingsley cowering on the floor.
The original spell on him seems to have been destroyed in the skirmish, and so through the chaos,
Hermione rushes towards him, ducking and avoiding stray curses in the process.

He's gasping when she reaches him, trying to catch his breath as she squats and places her hand on
his shoulder. Glancing up at her with disappointment, Kingsley shakes his head and turns away,
ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he croaks over the explosions. "I... I don't know how I didn't see—"

A spell ricochets off of the overturned desk near them, and Hermione sheathes Kingsley beneath
her arms in a moment of impulsive protection. Blue lights stream overhead, and so she rapidly casts
a protective charm over Kingsley's body. Levitates him to the closest corner of the room to let him
recuperate in seclusion. He's far too weak to fight now, anyways.

She barely offers him a sideways glance when she dashes back into the middle of the battle.

Her attention is drawn to her right. Hermione watches as Theo casts a marvelous spell at Mr.
Parkinson, sending him soaring across the room and against a patch of exposed wall. He flops onto
the ground—tries to rise under the pressure of his quivering limbs, but Theo unrelentingly hits him
again with a spell that stuns him—renders him unconscious.

Ms. Parkinson makes her move. Orange sparks leap from her wand against Pansy, but Theo's adept
skills shine through as he leaps in front of Pansy's body and shields her with some sort of
translucent blockade. It drops a moment later, and the woman cackles. Upon hearing that
threatening laugh, Theo snakes his left arm behind him and around Pansy's waist. He extends his
other hand forward.

"You don't come anywhere near her, you hear me?" Theo rasps, his wand aimed right at her.

"You pathetic boy," Ms. Parkinson slurs, taking a menacing step towards them. "You're all weak.
Especially her." She gestures her wand towards Pansy and tilts her head to the side in a
condescending manner. "She's always been weak. Look at her—cowering behind you right now as
if she doesn't know how to defend herself."

"She's not cowering," Theo protests. "I would shield her from anything. There is a difference, you
stupid bitch."

Ms. Parkinson scoffs in disagreement, meeting Pansy's eyes behind Theo's shoulder. "What did I
always tell you, Pansy? Hm? What did we try so hard to instill in you? Don't show fucking
weakness. You can't even stand up to your mother. Pitiful little girl—"

"Shut up!" Theo bellows, shooting red sparks from his wand with a quick flick of his wrist.

Ms. Parkinson deflects the spell and laughs, addressing Pansy yet again. "You need others to fight
on your behalf, Pansy? You are a disgrace to our name. I should've known you'd never be able to
live up to our expectations—"

"Stupefy!"

Ms. Parkinson is blown backwards; she collides with a bookcase and drops on her stomach to the
floor, her stringy black hair covering her face.

Theo turns around to see the tip of Pansy's wand searing with the traces of the spell. There's an
ember fire in her eyes and a slight tremble in her lips, but when she exhales, Hermione witnesses a
small but victorious smile form on Pansy's pale lips.

Hermione hears more struggle to her left. Her eyes shift and follow that palpable sound, and she
watches Adrian and his father roll on the ground, ignoring their wands and fighting physically.
There's blood rushing from Adrian's bent nose, and there's a bruise the size of a snitch below Mr.
Pucey's eye.

In a flash, Mr. Pucey gains the upper hand of the struggle, holding Adrian down by his throat and
successively banging the back of his head against the floor, probably attempting to draw more
blood and reduce him to a blackout.

Hermione is about to leap into action—cast Mr. Pucey so high in the air and then hard against a
wall—when a bright, white light strikes him in the back. He falls off of Adrian and rolls over, bolts
of lightning coursing across his body in a fit of electrocution. Sputtering on the ground, Mr. Pucey
simultaneously begins to foam at the mouth, and his eyes rolls back into his head.

She follows the trail of the spell over her shoulder to Harry's wand. He seems to have stepped away
from fighting Aberfield, leaving Draco to the defenses while he valiantly interceded in the
destruction of the only boy that he's ever truly revered.

Hermione nods at him with gratefulness.

But then—

"Sectumsempra!"

Harry is cast into the air and he crumbles to the ground, his chest rising and falling in an
unhealthily quick pace. And when his trembling hand reaches up to touch his chest, and he
removes it to inspect the damage a moment later, Hermione notices that his fingers are painted a
deep, crimson red.

She shrieks in fear as her eyes follow the trajectory of the spell back to Mr. Nott.

"Hey!" Adrian croaks, flipping over onto his hands and knees and dragging himself across the floor
to Harry. "No, no!"

Blood rapidly pools below Harry's trembling torso, and like watercolor on a canvas, his wounds
splatter the tiles like a morbid landscape. As Adrian meets his side, he presses his timorous hand
against his shirt to curb the bleeding, but the blood fluently seeps between Adrian's fingers. He
panics as Harry squirms in pain. Tears as rageful as a tempestuous river course down his red
cheeks, and he calls Harry’s name over and over, begging someone—anyone—to help.

When Hermione raises her wand to blow Mr. Nott off of his feet, she sees that he's already being
pursued by a vicious Pansy Parkinson, high on the thrill of assailing her own mother just moment
ago. Quicker than the speed of light, she aims her wand at his head, casts a silent spell, and through
a burst of white light, she sends him spiraling in the air. He falls onto the ground, paralyzed. A
bone cracks on contact; Mr. Nott's leg bends into a crooked right angle.

And then Pansy is dropping to Harry's side across from Adrian, and she's receiving his head in her
lap with quivering hands.

"Oh gods," she laments, running her hand across his hair. "Oh gods, Harry, Harry?"

He's in the middle of combat with Aberfield, but when Draco's eyes glance over and witness Harry
bleeding out on the ground, he hurls several successive stupefies at Aberfield, and when one finally
strikes him in the chest and sends him flying across the room, Draco breaks from his spot and
sprints towards Harry.

Hermione takes his place, passing by him in a flash. There's just so much happening—so many
places to look, so many people to help.

They seem to have the upper hand, but each struggle that she focuses on is a recipe for victory or
defeat. Stress courses through her like a raging river as she watches Blaise and Daphne engage with
Rose, who appears to have such fierce combatant skill that she is able to ward both of their spells
off without problem, on one side of the room, and then she twists her head and watches Aberfield
write on the floor in pain for a few moments before rising onto his hands and knees. He grips his
wand tightly in his hand and trembles when he tries to straighten out his knees but tumbles back to
the floor. His lip is bleeding bad, another cut trailing over his cheekbone. His shoulder looks
dislocated, and when he attempts to stand again, his knee bends awkwardly; he stumbles to the
ground—screams into the floor.

Just before she storms towards him, Hermione hears Draco's voice behind her:

"Vulnera sanentur. I've got you, Potter. It’s okay, Adrian. Vulnera sanentur. Pansy—Pansy cover
me."

Over her shoulder, Hermione watches in awe as Draco heals the wounds that sliced Harry's chest
wide open. He's quick yet calculated, dragging his wand across Harry's chest as Pansy holds his
head and Adrian holds his hand.

Adrian’s lip quivers. “Draco—“

“I got him,” Draco says, nodding. “I got him, Adrian.”

She wishes she could watch this moment forever, but she gasps when a spell flies past her face—
barely skims her body—and that draws her out of the picturesque scene. Redirects her attention
back to Aberfield, who bangs his wand against the floor once and then lifts it once again.

"You ruined everything!" he wails, shooting another spell in her direction. She easily deflects the
weak spell, sending it ricocheting off the back wall and then disintegrating into the side of the
monstrous bookcase to the left.

"You were never going to get away with this!" she replies, pointing her wand at Aberfield.

He cackles so hard that a tear comes out of his eye, and then he sardonically slams his palm against
the ground over and over, but it morphs into something angry and vengeful. Aberfield grits his
teeth and screams again, his face turning a deep red color.

Suddenly, someone stumbles backwards against Hermione. She blunders over her feet, hitting the
floor, and when she spins and rises, she sees Blaise rolling on the ground, his hand glued to his
chest as he attempts to control his breathing. Daphne attempts to throw up a protective charm
around him, but Rose somehow bypasses it with another set of red sparks that hit Blaise's legs. He
cries out in pain, his wand slipping out of his hand.

Daphne tries another spell—it fails, rebounding and hitting the wall instead.

Rose hits Daphne with a stun. Sends her flying against the bookcase. She crumbles to the ground.

"Daph!" Blaise calls out, turning onto his stomach and crawling towards her.
Hermione rushes to Daphne's side as she sluggishly stumbles to her feet again. She looks exhausted
beyond words, sweat trickling down her temples and through the loose pieces of golden hair on her
face, but there's power in her footsteps as she tumbles back to Blaise, whimpering his name with
every step.

Suddenly, Rose sets her foot against Blaise's back—bends over, wraps her hand under his shoulder,
and spins him over onto his back. She grabs him by the collar of his shirt, lifts him off the ground,
and points her wand right at his face.

"You want to be a Healer, huh?" she taunts, jabbing the wand into his skull.

Blaise recoils and shakes—tries to escape the fury of Rose's grip. He's able to fall back onto the
floor, and as Daphne walks with Hermione, she somehow escapes her grip and flies towards Blaise.

"But see," Rose slurs, straightening her back and snarling at Blaise, "how can you ever be a Healer
if you can't remember a thing?"

Rose points her wand at Blaise.

Daphne's a foot away.

Hermione calls out, "Wait, Daph!"

But she's already throwing herself in front of Blaise, holding her arm out in front of her in a
desperate plea to stop.

"Don't—"

"—Obliviate—"

"—No!"

The spell hits Daphne. Sends her rolling off of Blaise and onto the ground beside him,
unconscious, unaware, obliviated.

The ringing in Hermione's ears returns as she lets out a piercing cry.

Blaise bends his knee and kicks his foot into Rose's chest, sending her stumbling backwards and
onto the ground. He pushes himself up and forward, straddling Rose, pinning her wrists to the
ground, wailing, and screaming in pain. The veins in his neck bulge against his skin as his grip
around Rose's wrists tightens. She strains her arms against his, fighting to aim her wand at him, but
when Blaise knocks her wrists against the ground, her wand slips out of her fingers and rolls across
the floor. Rose grunts in anger.

Hermione drops to her knees next to Daphne—calls out her name, shakes her limp, little body, and
begs her to wake up. "Daph? Daphne?" But the blonde remains perfectly still, unaware of the
chaos around her. Unaware of anything, really.

Through the buzzing in her hears, Hermione hears Rose call out for Aberfield. A crushed but
desperate "Quincy!" escapes her lips, followed by several consecutive coughs as Blaise crushes her
trachea below his forearm.

Alarm spreads through Hermione's body as she realizes this isn't over. As much as she wants to
stay here to take care of Daphne, Hermione knows that there isn't time. Now when people are
tending to Harry, Blaise is attacking Rose, and Aberfield—Aberfield is still awake, alive.
"I'm sorry," she whispers to Daphne, stroking her soft, blonde hair one last time before rising to her
feet and turning to face Aberfield.

Quicker than lightning, Theo approaches Blaise from behind and drags him off of Rose, holding
his arms back as he tries to fight his way out of his grip. She gasps for air, the purple in her face
slowly dissipating, replaced with a more natural color.

But her freedom is short lived, because Adrian's standing now, and he has his wand pointed at
Rose, and with some sort of strange but beautiful magic, he's encasing Rose in a white haze and
lifting her in the air. Her body hangs limp, arms at the side, legs curved down, and head rolled
back, but then Adrian carefully maneuvers her so that she faces the floor. Her brown hair falls
across her face, coaxed by gravity, and it's like a scene out of a horror movie. It's an exorcist—a
cleansing.

"Kill her!" Blaise wails as Theo wrenches him back. "Kill her, Adrian!"

With a flick of his wrist, Adrian casts the ultimate spell. Rose's body combusts into ashes, black
sparks sputtering and crackling through the air as her only remains.

And then he drops onto his knees and crawls to Daphne—pulls her flaccid body into his arms,
cradles her, and cries.

Aberfield shrieks, and Hermione turns to watch him still fight his way across the ground. He's
unable to stand, and he pounds his fist against the floor like a useless child—a reflection of what's
always been inside of him.

In that moment, as she watches him slither across the ground, Hermione inhales the feeling Draco
instilled—nurtured—in her. She's missed that drive, that spirit, that fire within her, and it seems
that every time Draco is around her, it becomes stronger. But here, she's alone, and yet it's still so
palpable. It manifests in her fingers as she raises her wand and aims it at Aberfield.

Her lips shake.

"You wouldn't kill me," Aberfield seethes, glaring up at Hermione.

"You certainly deserve it," she bites back, angling her wand as she glowers into the eyes of pure
evil. "You don't deserve to live. You don't deserve a redemption. You deserve to rot in Azkaban for
the rest of your life."

Aberfield snarls. "Put me there," he spits. "I will never stop worshipping my Lord. Let me rot and
starve and bleed, and my dying breaths will consist only of him regarding most highly."

Her hand shakes in anger. "How are you this delusional?"

"I'm stronger than you will ever be!" Aberfield howls.

Suddenly, a potent scent arrives at her side. He smells like power, like safety, like everything she's
been missing and wanting and craving. Out of her peripheral, Hermione watches as Draco crouches
in front of Aberfield and snarls at him. He towers over Aberfield, even with his knees bent. There's
something valiant about his posture and telling about the look in his eyes.

"You're nothing," Draco says calmly, "and not because you're a muggleborn, because that simply
doesn't matter—never has, really—but because you deny the thing that makes you who you are.
And if you can't try to embrace that identity—that exceptionality—then you are nothing. And you
do not deserve to be the same as her—" he points over his shoulder to Hermione— "or anyone else
like her. Do you understand me? You are lower than dirt. Sicker than the deadliest plague. You—"
he inches close to Aberfield's face— "you're nothing."

Aberfield flares his nostrils. "Have you finished, little boy?"

Draco's fingers curl into a fist.

"I am more than you can comprehend," Aberfield continues, spitting blood from his mouth to the
right. "I am the revolution, the future, the new world."

With a scoff, Draco rises and towers over Aberfield. "The revolution? You're in such deep denial,
Aberfield," he says, shaking his head. "Perhaps this will help reset your mind—"

Draco jabs his foot against Aberfield's face, and when he flops onto the ground, Draco secures his
foot against Aberfield's cheek—squishes his face beneath the sole of his shoe. Aberfield grunts
aggressively, his throat rippling with a longing to be free. But Draco just increases the pressure—
tilts his head to the left and snarls.

"Voldemort saw nothing in you," Draco seethes. "And now, the entire world will feel the same
way."

With a brief glance down at Hermione, Draco slowly nods. She gazes back up at him, twirling her
wand in her hand and letting a relieved smile cross her face. Relieved, considering the tangentially
horrific circumstances.

Hermione purses her lips as Aberfield meets her eyes.

"Enjoy waking up on a cold, stone floor in Azkaban where you belong. Where you would've been,
anyways."

Just before Aberfield opens his mouth for the last word, Hermione silences him with a spell. He
falls quiet. Limp.

Unconscious... finally.

And then, there's only white noise. The blubbering of Blaise's lips as he cries before Daphne and
Adrian, the mini squirms of Harry within Pansy's tight arms, and the soft breaths from all the
Slytherins present. Hermione can't hear her own breathing, though. Knows that her chest is moving
up and down and her heart is beating as it should, but the sounds she makes are too soft to perceive.
Nothingness pervades her senses and renders her... exhausted.

When her eyes glance towards Kingsley in the corner, she sees that he's still shell-shocked and
concealed behind the barrier that she set up earlier.

"Hermione," Kingsley calls out quietly, the hum of the barrier creating a muffled tone. With one
swift motion, Hermione relinquishes the spell around him—sets him free.

But she can't bring herself to say anything. Not with all the damage that has been done. Not when
they could've had that peace that they so desperately wanted months ago.

Instead of responding to Kingsley, Hermione collapses into Draco's arms in total exhaustion. Dips
her head against his warm chest and then croaks a simple, small cry.

Draco catches her, guiding them both to the ground and setting her body between his legs. He
kisses her temple—whispers affirmations against her skin—as Kingsley rises to his feet, scours the
office, and sighs in distress.

"Minister," Blaise rasps, momentarily looking up from Daphne with soaking eyes, "you—you have
to save her. P-please. You have to restore her memories. I can't... she can't—"

Kingsley exhales a painful sigh, dropping his head in shame.

"Mr. Zabini..." he starts, not knowing what to say, not knowing where to go with his sentence,
because the end is something bleaker than an endless desert of disappointment. "I don't... I don't
think I can—"

"Don't," Blaise begs, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Don't say it, please."

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his eyes relentlessly studying the damage done to his office and the scene
of injured, paralyzed, unconscious, and dead former Death Eaters. Kingsley lifts his hand to his
chest and then exhales in sheer guilt. "I must... I must remove the wards. And... summon the
Aurors to take them all to... Azkaban—"

He pauses—chokes on his own words as if the culpability inside of him won't let him finish. Won't
let him take full accountability.

Not yet anyways. Hermione intends to make him face his wrongs.

Just not now.

Not when... Daphne is...

She can't say it.

It's written in Kingsley's eyes—he's traumatized, perhaps not by what happened here, but because it
all happened under his watch.

"Forgive me," he whispers before rushing out the door to bring down the wards and summon the
Aurors.

Moments later, in the thick silence that fills the room, Daphne stirs.

Blaise jumps up—everyone turns their attention to her.

Her weak eyes flutter open, and her soft, pale lips part in curiosity. She cranes her head to the left
to stare at her surroundings, and the inquisition in the shimmer of her eyes makes it look like she's
trying to solve a mystery.

But when Blaise reaches his hand out to lovingly stroke her cheek, Daphne recoils into Adrian's
chest in fear, and then she quickly jumps from Adrian's embrace in fear of him, too.

"Daph," Blaise whispers, careful not to scare her as he inches a little closer. "You're okay, my love.
You're okay."

Daphne's eyebrows bend in confusion as she regards Blaise.

Her voice is sweet as always, but the question she asks is more painful than a thousand knives to
the heart:

"Who..."
 No, Hermione thinks to herself, tears pricking her eyes and painting a cloud over her vision, please,
not that question.

The gods don't hear Hermione's plea.

"Who... who are you?"

Chapter End Notes

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry

one chapter left oh my god… and then three epilogues… thank you for sticking with
me my friends <3

I’ve got a busy few weeks coming up, but stick with me on twitter for updates about
the update schedule. If nothing changes, I’ll have the next chapter out next Saturday.
 Chapter 38
Chapter Notes

tw // drug overdose (no death)

last chapter before the epilogues. my god. deep breaths.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When she's subsequently asked by Aurors if she'd like to return home with the friends that she
arrived with, Daphne shakes her head in vehement refusal, and her eyes swell in fear. She swears
on her life that she doesn't know the group of people in front of her—insists that her lifelong
friends are nothing but total strangers now, faces that resemble clouds in a pitch black sky.
Ominous, otherworldly, unsafe.

Aurors have swarmed Kingsley's mangled office and begun the process of removing parent after
parent in wake of the gang's victory, if one could even sufficiently call it that. Their wrists and
ankles are chained in metal, bound with the consequences of their devious actions, and while some
of them are still conscious, with bruises as claims of their role in combat, others are not as lucky.

The corridor outside is full of workers now that Kingsley has terminated the wards which Aberfield
regenerated. Hermione swore that she felt a rush of fresh air caress her body when the magical
barrier fell, but moments later, that peace of mind was interrupted with the gangling sounds of
workers, then onlookers, then reporters. They swarmed that open door, aiming their cameras at the
scene and howling dozens of questions at the group of young people inside, but they were brashly
ignored; there were far more pressing matters to worry about, anyways.

Aurors have to simultaneously balance those bodies against their arms and shove their way through
the crowd of spectators, and the mauled faces and oddly bent limbs of the Death Eaters are
photographed over and over. Vivid flickers and sharp clicks from antiquated cameras echo through
the room, a reminder of their inevitable moment in the public eye as puppets of Aberfield's
gruesome campaign.

It requires three Aurors to restrain Daphne's frightened movements. Two of them hold down her
lashing arms, and one has her hands secured around her waist. Daphne twists and shrieks in fear,
her blonde hair whipping against her porcelain skin with every fearful thrash.

Pansy begins to approach her, slowly. She's like a puma with unmatched stealth and careful
precision, taking slow and calculated steps towards her troubled best friend.

"Daphne," Pansy says ever so quietly, like loud noise would send her into a deeper sense of terror.
She hushes her friend as sweetly as possible, in the same way that honey coats yogurt.

Beneath the damp hair that's glued to her balmy skin, Daphne crushes her eyes closed and violently
shakes her head, saying, "I want to go home," and she says it over and over and over, each repeat of
the phrase quieter than the last, like she's trying to hold onto lost hope—like if she just continues to
say it, perhaps it'll just come true, and she won't have to feel so confused anymore, so unrestful.

Pansy has to purse her lips to hold back tears, as does Hermione, whose limbs shake with mourning
and whose eyes weep with despair.

She's still cradled in Draco's arms—couldn't bear to leave the warmth of his lap, his chest, his chin
that rests on top of her head—just his whole body, homely and tender with his firm embrace. He
engulfs her in a cloak of security and affection, though it's apparent that he himself is in a state of
shock and lamentation, judging by the delicate whimpers that Hermione hears coming from his
mouth.

And yet, despite his grief, his arms remain fastened around Hermione. He does not stir from this
position—not when Pansy blubbers a hopeless cry, not when Blaise trembles against Theo's chest,
not when Adrian quietly whispers hopeful words to Harry, and not even when Daphne emits
another fearful shriek for her life.

No, Draco retains his protective post around Hermione, sacrificing his sanity for hers. Swearing by
the moon and the stars that she is more valuable than gold.

"We are your home," Pansy replies, taking a leap of faith. "You're Daphne Greengrass. You're the
daughter of Claudius and Penelope Greengrass. Sister of Astoria Greengrass. You're a Slytherin—
and a damn loyal one at that. You love to dance, you prefer fruity drinks, and you love
experimenting with eyeshadow colors. And you... you're in love with Blaise Zabini."

Pansy turns and gestures to Blaise, seated on the ground beside Theo with his head in his hands. He
glances up from his palms at the sound of his name being spoken, tears streaming down his rouge
cheeks.

From across the room, Daphne meets those lovely, broken eyes of his, and she stares for what feels
like forever. Overtime, her arms become less rigid, her lips unwind into a flat, inquisitive line, and
her cries subside into a contemplative silence. She bends her eyebrows in profound reflection, as if
the answer is right in front of her.

And then Pansy repeats herself, her voice still quiet and calm: "You're in love with Blaise Zabini.
He has protected you all of his life—dedicated every single day to taking care of you. He is your
family. Your everything. Your home."

Daphne's eyes remained fixed on Blaise as she breathes in and out, her chest rising and falling in a
steady pattern.

"He is the reason that you, me, Adrian—all of us—are alive," Pansy continues. "And you—you're
the reason he is still alive."

"I don't understand," Daphne breaks, shaking her head again and letting her erratic trembles
overthrow her breathing. "I don't know you. I don't know any of you!"

"You know us, Daph," Theo says, touching Blaise's arm in comfort. "You—"

Theo pauses, his eyes trailing to follow the path of two Aurors as they approach Aberfield's
comatose body. Widening his eyes and scrambling to his feet, Theo steps forward and approaches
the Aurors.

"Wait!" he exclaims, holding his hand out as they lift Aberfield by his armpits. "In his pocket,
there are several vials."

Hermione inhales sharply, immediately sensing Theo's objective—his brilliant, ingenious, kind
objective.
"Please—please, we need those," Theo begs, turning his palm up and waiting for the vials to be
transferred into his hand.

With a sigh, the Auror on the left reaches his hand into Aberfield's pocket and retrieves several
vials. He sets them in Theo's hand, and after briefly swiping his nostrils with the pad of his thumb,
Theo turns around and looks at Daphne.

"This," he whispers, briefly searching for the one labeled D.G. and then holding it up in his other
hand. "Perhaps this will help you remember something—anything—about us and about yourself."

With a quick pop of the cork, Theo opens the vial and lets the beam of memories seep out slowly,
and after reciting the charm to enable the memories, Theo and the others watch in awe as Daphne's
life projects before them.

Static fills the images, and for a moment, Hermione panics. Considers that because Daphne's lost
her memories in her mind, that maybe they won't convert themselves to the beam anymore.
Ignorant of how Aberfield's magic works, Hermione fears the worst as the beam continues to
crackle, the feedback sounding like recently lit fireworks.

But then, the blue and white light seems to hiss as the colors merge and then disperse, and the
sizzling in the air quiets; a scene appears, and Hermione lets out a sigh of relief.

It's in the apartment, and it's them, sitting in a circle, smoking a blunt, laughing, coughing
occasionally, snuggling against one another in sweet bliss. It's authentic and real and beautiful, and
as Hermione watches the Slytherins engage in such a genuine moment together, she's forced into
smiling through her tears.

Daphne's head tilts to the side, and her pale lips part. She stares and wonders at the scene,
attempting to pick apart and decode each action—each puff of the blunt, each jolly laugh, each
pinch of Blaise's bicep and wink at Draco and kiss on Pansy's cheek. When it transitions to a
moment with her and Blaise in their shared bed, her head resting against his bare chest and her
mouth saying something that makes Blaise laugh with a love stronger than anything Cupid could
dream of generating, Daphne tacitly gasps. The moment is nothing more than a perfectly pure and
unadulterated instant of time between two people living in existential love; it seems to pull at
Daphne's heartstrings.

The image in the beam shifts again without warning, placing the Slytherins in a dreadful circle in a
room painted an eggshell white. They're in the Ministry now. Hermione is there. Aberfield is there.
Bruiser—Rose is there. Daphne looks tired yet optimistic as she smiles across the circle at Draco,
whose head hangs low in defeat. He brings his eyes up to meet hers and slightly shrugs, to which
she offers a kind wink.

"Do you remember these moments?" Theo asks, gesturing to the beam.

Daphne purses her lips and, much to everyone's sadness, she shakes her head. "No," she whispers,
"but—" she looks up at one of the Aurors— "you can let go now, please. I'm okay."

The Aurors tentatively release her arms and waist, and with her freedom, Daphne cautiously steps
towards Blaise. He looks up, rises to his feet, and takes a deep breath as Daphne stops a few feet in
front of him.

She takes in the sight of his face with curiosity in her eyes, and then whispers, "I think... you and I
are... in love."
Blaise closes his eyes and nods. "You jumped in front of a curse for me," he whispers, slowly
opening his eyes again. "We are more than in love. We are soulmates."

Daphne flutters a timid breath. Takes another step. Reaches her hand forward to caress his cheek.

But then she pulls back, and a tear drops from Blaise's eye.

"I'm scared," she whimpers, biting down on her lower lip to keep it from shaking. "I see... I see
what's in that... light, but I don't... I don't remember anything—"

"We don't have to rush this," Blaise says quietly. "You can take your time coming back to us."

Considering her circumstances, Daphne finds the courage to nod, and it's as if the pressure in the
room subsides with that response. Hope seeps back into the minds of the Slytherins, offering the
daydream of a life lived normally again.

"I think," she whispers, looking around at everyone before finally reaching Blaise's eyes, "I think
I'd like to go home now. With you all. Please."

Immediately, Pansy steps forward, and she slowly places her arm around Daphne's shoulder.
Daphne tentatively settles her head in the crest between Pansy's neck and shoulder, another step in
the right direction.

"We'll take care of you." Pansy's voice is soft as silk, caressing Daphne's worries away. "We'll
always take care of you, okay?"

"Okay," Daphne answers.

"You can have our bedroom to yourself," Blaise offers with a nervous gulp. "If that would make
you more comfortable."

That one hurts Hermione, because she knows that Daphne and Blaise love one another
unconditionally. She knows that Blaise would never hurt Daphne. She knows that their shared bed
is like a haven, a safe place, something more beautiful than heaven itself. So to now see it as
something that bears the utmost cautiousness feels like a sting in her chest, a twist in her heart. It's
a pain more excruciating than death itself.

Daphne nods. "Thank you," she whispers to Blaise. Subsequently, she cranes her head to look at
Pansy. "Can we go now... I'm sorry, I don't remember your name—"

"It's Pansy," she responds, desperate to keep her emotions intact. "And yes—we can leave. We just
need to—"

She turns around and inspects the scene. Harry is now sitting upright, resting against Adrian's
broad chest in recovery. Hermione is still in Draco's arms, not wanting to leave. But time calls their
names and begs them to leave this terrible place, and so they do. They all rise and begin to their
departure, but before they are able to exit, Kingsley steps inside his office and meets Hermione's
eyes.

"Hermione," he starts, his voice as low as the depths of the ocean, "we need to talk. Please."

Hermione glares at Kingsley, unwilling to listen as of now. What could she say to him that
wouldn't morph into something volatile? If she told him everything that she is feeling right now,
then she would unquestionably lose her job, because the words inside of her burn hotter than the
sun.
"Tomorrow," she responds brusquely, shaking her head as she rises to her feet and helps Draco up.
"I need to be home with them right now."

"Hermione—"

"Clean up this mess, reprioritize your agenda, and then send for me tomorrow. That's when we can
talk about the madness that has happened here."

Kingsley eventually nods in concurrence, glancing down in abject shame. "I understand. Take care
of Ms. Greengrass."

"We will," Draco snaps, flaring his nostrils.

The shame on Kingsley's face manifests on every feature, and it's the last thing Hermione sees
before squeezing Draco's hand and apparating back to their apartment.

The rest of the day is dedicated to keeping Daphne's confusion and fear at bay.

As soon as they land in their apartment, the Slytherins are greeted by Crookshanks. He leaps from
his spot on the couch, purrs as he trickles through everyone's legs, and then paws at Daphne's
calves.

Daphne recoils into Pansy's arms, staring at the kneazle in trepidation and confusion. Alarmed by
her apprehension, Crookshanks darts back a few steps, sheltering himself behind Adrian's legs.

Releasing Hermione's hand, Draco approaches Adrian slowly. He cranes his head to look at
Daphne, shaking in Pansy's embrace.

"Daphne, it's okay," he says quietly, shrouded bits of pain present in every word. "It's just... a
kneazle." And with a brave inhale, Draco crouches, hooks his hands around Crookshanks' body and
lifts him into his arms.

Initially, he has the kneazle held in front of him, but after confirming his safety, Draco brings
Crookshanks into his chest and starts to stroke his fingers against his little chin. "See? He's... very
sweet. He won't hurt you."

The kneazle confirms that promise of safety when he nuzzles his head against Draco's ribs and
twists into his body with comfort and pleasure. His arms stretch up and out as if he could burrow in
this position forever, and a small smile crosses Draco's face.

"Don't be afraid," Draco says, looking up at Daphne. "Trust me—" he laughs once to break the
tension— "if I can trust this little shit, then I promise you can too. He always liked you better than
me."

She's cautious as ever, but Daphne does eventually leave Pansy's arms and approach Draco. And
when she arrives at his side, she carefully extends her hand and pets Crookshanks against the
crown of his head. Showers him with the first bit of her new love.

Hermione beams, given the grave and terrible circumstances, because there's something touching
about watching Daphne open up to a world she doesn't know—a world she's forgotten. It's a new
life. It's a promise of growth and peace and absorbing wisdom through one's flesh—the touch of
Daphne's hand to Crookshanks' fur. Love oscillates through her fingers into him, and in the
opposite direction too, and it's simple, but it's a step forward.
Perhaps, when she returns to his office tomorrow, Hermione could give the same benefit of the
doubt to Kingsley—

No. No, she can't. Not when significant, irreversible damage has already been done.

No. Hermione would resemble a wildfire raging through a forest—a fiendfyre setting a building
ablaze. She'd be relentless—potentially even untamed. The pads of her fingers grow hot with that
vision even now, and she has to take a deep breath and focus on the touching scene in front of her
to calm herself.

But the next day, when she receives Kingsley's Patronus and prepares to depart for his office, that
heat blazes wildly within her. It's the spirit of an advocate, the pulse of an insistent sponsor. It's the
ardent desire to stand up for not only her disenfranchised friends, but also for everyone else who's
ever felt like they were not heard or seen.

"I don't know how you're not too tired to speak to him now," Draco had said to her before she
departed, tugging her waist in a plea to return to their bed, spend the morning with him, keep him
distracted by the unfortunate circumstances they find themselves in now.

"I'll never be too tired to fight for you all," she had whispered, bending over the bed and meeting
his lips sweetly before parting, the sight of a sleep-kissed Draco bright in her mind, guiding her on
her conquest for justice.

She sits in the chair across from Kingsley and his desk, crossing her legs with her hands placed
firmly in her lap. Her posture screams business, but her glare screams war. Watching indignantly as
Kingsley fumbles over some papers and his words, Hermione can see the wheels in his brain turn
and strain over what sorts of excuses he is going to produce.

"Hermione," Kingsley finally sighs, shaking his head and gathering his bearings, "I am so sorry."

Immediately, her rage spills forth.

"It is not me who you should be extending his apology to," she snaps, gently tilting her head to the
right to curb a larger outburst. "It's them."

"I know," he concurs, looking down in abject shame.

Hermione exhales out of her splayed nostrils—a habit of hers when she finds herself in a state of
agitation. "What happened over these last few months was—"

"Unacceptable," Kingsley finishes. "I understand. I am ashamed of the role which I played in
allowing all of this to happen."

"How could you not have any idea that Aberfield was complicit in these crimes?"

He sighs. "I regretfully did not pay as much attention to this program as I should've." His hand
finds his forehead, stroking between his eyebrows, and his elbow leans upon his desk. "Taking on
the position of Minister after the war was more difficult than anything I have ever done. Having to
navigate putting the world back together forced me to prioritize certain things over others. I could
not please everyone. I had to decide what was most important to rebuilding what was lost during
those terrible years."

Hermione huffs—partially because she's angry, but also because she knows in a sense that he is
right—that politics are not black and white, not simple, not a sunny and bright walk in the park. It's
full of difficult and impossible choices, but that does not excuse what happened. It does not mean
that one group of people can have it all while another suffers.

She won't accept that reality—not now, not ever again.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Kingsley sighs with a contemplative expression.

"I just don't understand how Aberfield was able to get away with everything that he did," Hermione
continues. "The trackers, the potions, even his connection with Voldemort. I cannot wrap my mind
around how he was able to even work here."

"Seeing as he was never technically a part of Voldemort's army..."

Kingsley trails off, regarding the irate expression on Hermione's face, and then he clears his throat
and adds, "He was a talented actor, I'm afraid."

"And you were not careful enough," Hermione hisses under her breath.

"You're right," he agrees. "I was not. And I regret it profoundly. It is quite possibly my largest
regret to date."

"And where are they now? Aberfield? The remaining Death Eaters?"

"In Azkaban, awaiting their trials," Kingsley explains. "Though, between you and me, I don't see
much need for trials at this point. Being complicit in two insurrections is enough to have them all
expedited to a permanent cell. Perhaps even receive a Dementor's Kiss."

Hermione wants to scream from the highest rooftops and solidify that destiny for all of them. She
wouldn't mind watching Aberfield's tiny, murky, grey soul leave his lips in the final moments of
his sorry life. But she keeps that sentiment locked within her. It's dark, and she's trying to look for
light in this opaque set of circumstances.

"What about Mrs. Zabini? And the Malfoys? They were not a part of this." Any more damage to
Blaise would be catastrophic, and Draco—she'd do anything to protect him.

"We've sent Aurors to their homes to inform them of what's happened and see if they can offer
testimony about the situation," Kingsley explains, and Hermione feels a wave of relief rush over
her tense body. "As of now, they will not be charged. However, there will be a small investigation
into whether they were ever complicit or not. I will not make the same mistakes twice and engage
in any oversight on these crimes."

"And what sorts of reparations—" she leans forward— "do you plan to offer to my friends?"

"Perhaps I can make it up to you and them with another initiative—"

"No—" she grunts, shaking her head— "No, Kingsley. They don't need initiative after initiative
from the Ministry of Magic, which has little to no understanding of the gravity of their situation.
They need actual rehab and then extensive therapy for what they've been through. They need
competent muggle doctors—not Healers—and they need trained counselors. And Daphne—she
needs her memories back."

Kingsley sighs, and it sounds hopeless. "I don't know if that last part is possible—"

"It has to be," Hermione insists, tightening her folded hands so hard that they turn a chilling white
hue. "Someway, somehow, Daphne will get her memories back."
Gnawing at his lower lip in contemplation, Kingsley slowly nods and gulps. "I will speak with
Healers at St. Mungo's and see what they know of the process of undoing a memory loss charm,
though I would advise you not to hold your breath. It is practically impossible to regain lost
memories, and Daphne's already weak state does not help with that process."

"I can have some hope."

"Of course. But I do not want you to be disappointed."

"I already am."

With that last strike of words, Hermione pushes her chair back and rises to leave.

But Kingsley stands as she turns to walk away, and he calls out, "Hermione!"

Halting her departure, Hermione pivots and meets Kingsley's eyes.

He clears his throat. "This might not be much, but perhaps you'd like to be promoted to my second
in command for the time being. I have an inkling that people will want me out of this position, but
until that time, perhaps it would be valuable and beneficial to have you by my side, steering me in
the right and noble direction."

Hermione stares back at Kingsley, astounded that he's asked her this question. His motivations are
murky, and that's what troubles her the most. She could do some good for the Slytherins and for
others if she were in a position of power, but this has never been about being in command. It's
never been about showering in glory and honor. It's always been about helping people who needed
someone to believe in them, and so standing next to Kingsley in these circumstances feels...
performative. Disingenuous.

Though, perhaps, while the system is in the long, arduous process of being uprooted—while the
catalysts for bringing the Slytherins to this moment in time are destroyed under the fiery hammer of
justice—Hermione could do some good for people. She could use whatever command she is given
to bring about something newer, something better, something more gold. She could, perhaps, bring
about peace.

So, she nods. "Okay," she says, considering that old dream of hers—the one she had of being
Minister of Magic—and how it is so close at this point. "I would like that opportunity. I would like
to help."

Kingsley smiles and nods. "Take the next few days off to be with your friends. I'll deal with the
damage control on this end."

With one final nod, Hermione departs, twisting herself into the air and then, moments later,
arriving back in hers and Draco's room just before the break of morning into the afternoon.

It's cold. Not the air, but the aura. It bites the bedroom in half—tears it apart with its bitter and
merciless chill—with Hermione on one side, and Draco—crouched behind his bed, shaking
furiously against the wooden bedframes—on the other.

Her eyes immediately reach him on the floor facing the window beside his bed. The bright pigment
of his hair is all that she can see from across the room, but she does hear him shake against the
wood and exhale in several consecutive and alarming exhales, like he's hurting. Like there's pain
plaguing every inch of his skin and being.

When her eyes dip to her right and behold their nightstand, Hermione sees an unrolled banknote, a
card, and several broken and scattered lines of cocaine.

She parts her lips in a terrible realization and attempts to consider how—when just an hour or two
ago he was just fine—Draco has reached this hopeless position.

Draco lets out a groan soaked in abject pain, lolling his head backwards and onto his mattress, and
that's when Hermione breaks into a sprint—a ten-foot dash to the most important person in her life.
Her mind runs wild with questions and concerns as she turns the corner of the bed and comes into
contact with his frail and colorless body.

His nose is bleeding, specks of blood dripping from his nostrils onto his shirt, and there's a trace of
white powder outlining the curve of his left nostril. Once glowing, silver eyes are now reduced to
oblivion, rolled back into his head and whiter than marble. His lips are parted with unsteady
breaths serving as the only source of life between them. Every few seconds, Draco's eyelashes
flutter, and he knocks his head forward to remain conscious, but that battle becomes sparser as time
continues to tread on. His chest pumps in an irregular speed, and his torso lurches forward over and
over again, the promise of spilling his guts out too close for comfort. Sweat profusely drips down
his forehead and seeps through his shirt, coloring his pale skin in an ominous glimmer. It's not
beautiful—he looks nothing like a marble statue yet everything like a piece of despondent art.

Gasping in horror at the sight, Hermione drops to her knees and locks his limp face between her
steady hands. She tugs on his skin with her thumbs, pulling his cheeks back and coaxing him to
stay conscious for her, keep breathing, keep moving, stay alive, tell her his name, relay one fact
about himself. Something—anything—to keep him from falling under the sinister spell of the
cocaine.

He mumbles something incoherent in response to one of her questions, and then he coughs and
sputters some pooling drool.

Hermione presses forward, desperate to hear what he has to say. "What did... what did you say,
Draco?"

"Granger," he groans, and it's quiet, but it's music to her ears, because at least Draco is alive. The
bare minimum becomes a saving grace, but what kind of life is that to live? Where a simple
confirmation of life is something to celebrate? That cannot be her reality, nor his. They have to
strive for better, and perhaps that starts here, with this moment.

For now, Hermione allows herself to sigh in relief. "You need to stay with me, Draco, okay?" Her
hands are shaking now, fear coursing through her body as Draco's head dips to the right. Her
worried eyes lift and find the door, and she begins to call out Blaise's name, because surely, he
knows what to do. He has an antidote—the one he used on Adrian. He—

Hermione hesitates, thinking about how much Blaise already has on his plate. She can't—she
won't—put this responsibility on him, too. Not when he's expressed that it has become too difficult
to handle recently. Not when the love of his life doesn't even know who he is anymore.

But perhaps Adrian—

No. The sight of this could be traumatic for him.

So, Hermione calls out her next best option—someone who was there to catch her the last time she
witnessed an overdose.

"Theo!"
Moments later, her guardian angel rushes through the door, and without even fully comprehending
the situation, but solely using her eyes as a window to the severity of it all, Theo sprints to her side
and crouches at her level. His fingers streak through Draco's hair in an effort to revitalize him as he
stammers over words.

"Shit, Malfoy," he whispers, holding Draco's shoulder up and against the bed.

"He needs to go to the hospital," Hermione says, rotating her head to meet Theo's wide and watery
eyes.

"St. Mungo's?" Theo clarifies, furrowing his eyebrows in doubt, fear, and everything in between,
like the memories from that place are too palpable in his nightmares. "I don't know if I trust that
place after what happened, Hermione."

And there it is: the confession. The lack of trust. The fear in systems that are supposed to work for
them, not against them, and Hermione doesn't blame Theo for feeling that way. They've been let
down too many times—searching for a trustworthy place is all that matters in this moment.
Reaching out to someone—anyone—that can offer their help in an unbiased, untainted manner.
Somewhere where patience is given without question, where a kind and understanding person can
administer something as sweet as their words and sentiments, something—

Hermione gasps, a miniscule yet significant part of Graham's memories flooding back into her
mind like a saving grace.

St. Michael's. The hospital where Olivia works. Not too far from here.

"St. Michael's," Hermione whispers as Draco emits a dry cough.

"The muggle hospital?" Theo asks, snaking his hand up Draco's shoulder and behind his neck to
keep him leveraged and upright.

"It's the closest place," Hermione insists. She leaps into action, spiraling over to sit adjacent to
Draco and then subsequently wrapping his arm over her shoulder and steadying him. From her
knees, she lifts herself up, and Theo assists in hoisting Draco's light yet limp body to a standing
position. "And perhaps muggle doctors will have a better idea of how to treat him."

For a moment, Draco slopes his heavy head against Hermione's, his nose disappearing into her hair,
and she has to nudge him back to life and whisper sweet things against his cheek to persuade him to
open his eyes again, breathe deeply, stay awake for her, please, please, please, just stay awake a
little while longer, Draco. It's all she can think about, all she can say.

For the love of the gods, stay alive.

"Do you need us to come?" Theo asks, panic stricken across his face.

Hermione gulps and purses her lips, stumbling briefly over the weight of Draco against her, but
she'd hold him up for the rest of his life if she needed to. She'd bear that weight like a thousand
tons of armor on her back if it means that Draco can have some peace in his life.

"No," she responds, shaking her head and adjusting his stance. "No, that's okay. Just take care of
everyone else, okay? Let them know that I'm taking him now. Thank you, Theo."

Theo nods and slowly pulls away as Hermione locates her bearings, amending the swing of Draco's
arm around her to be even tighter. She looks up at his pale face—kisses his jaw quickly—and then
says, "Hold onto me tightly, okay? Draco? Can you hear me?"
He moans in response, and for a moment, she thinks that he won't be able to make it. That this will
tear him down. That she can't save him because he's not even fucking moving—

His hand suddenly squeezes around hers, and that grip bears a surge of strength from him to her—
his final push.

Hermione doesn't wait one more second. She twists into the air with Draco latched firmly against
her, and while they soar through the atmosphere in a burst of silver smoke, she hears Draco rip a
terrible scream into the air.

Hermione twisted her ankle the summer before entering her fifth year at Hogwarts. It was nothing
serious, nothing too painful, and it did not require any substantial healing methods. But it did
require a trip to the muggle hospital, and so she does thank the gods that she's been in this situation
before. That she knows the inner workings of a muggle hospital enough to check Draco into the
emergency wing.

When she watches them cart him off through those floppy double doors, her heart snaps in half,
and she collapses into a chair in the waiting room.

Hours later, after spiraling between tapping her foot against the floor, her fingers against the
wooden curve of the arm of the chair, and her head against the pale, pastel pink wall, Hermione
receives news of Draco's state.

"He's recovering," a lovely nurse explains to Hermione as she holds her shaking hand. "We gave
him some medication to control his anxiety, and we've reduced his body temperature significantly.
He's going to be alright and will likely be able to leave by tonight." The nurse strokes Hermione's
hand, offering a hopeful smile—one that Hermione hasn't seen in years. "You can see him now if
you'd like."

Hermione nods and rises, following the nurse through those main doors and then through several
corridors. Her eyes voraciously search for Draco through every window into every room until
finally, a minute later, she spots that patch of blonde hair on that beautiful man through some large
glass doors, lying on a hospital bed with his eyes closed and his arms hooked up to several
machines and an I.V. bag—no purple flecks of Nulliwinkle present in the liquid. She breathes a
sigh of relief as the nurse opens the door, but before she runs in, Hermione turns and asks a
question:

"Is... erm... is there a nurse named Olivia who works here?" she asks.

The nurse tilts her head in contemplation but ultimately shakes her head in defeat. "No, not to my
knowledge. Sorry about that, love."

The hope that she'd find Olivia here dissipates, but Hermione finds the strength to shrug in
understanding and then turn and rush to the seat beside Draco. The door closes behind her, leaving
them in a pocket of silence, light beeps from a machine serving as the only sounds.

Hermione takes Draco's cold hand in hers, and it feels like he has no life yet all forms of life within
him. She can't place the sensation properly—doesn't know whether or not he's faring well beneath
the stress of the overdose and the treatment.

So, she calls out to him. Gingerly. So that he and only he can hear her, because he's who her heart
beats for, and if her heart can't reach him, then there's absolutely no point in speaking anymore.

"Draco?" Her thumb slides over the back of his palm as she awaits a response, a slight movement,
something, anything.

She almost doesn't think he's going to answer, but when his fingers wrap around hers and squeeze
ever so slightly, hope gushes through her system like an avalanche.

His eyes open, and the moment they connect with hers, she exhales in respite.

He says one word— "Granger—" and that sound is more comforting and beautiful than anything
she's ever heard in her life.

"Thank gods," she whispers, batting her eyelashes to avoid the inevitable tears. "I was so worried."

"I didn't mean to—"

He stops himself in a moment of shame. Closes his eyes and shakes his head to avoid watching
Hermione break down.

"I didn't mean to worry you like this."

"It's okay," she whispers, caressing his hand and slinking her fingers through his. "I'm just so glad
you're okay."

Draco gulps, bringing his free hand to drag the skin of his face down. His fingers stop at his chin,
and they rest upon his lips as his mind conjures an explanation, a justification, a reason.

"I just... I couldn't handle what happened to Daphne." He looks back at Hermione, water pooling
around the brims of his eyes. "I spiraled."

They sit in silence for a full minute, though it feels like hours. Time creeps around them, moving
the pieces of the world slower than tectonic plates.

And then, Hermione breaks time's vicious cycle—she cries.

"No," Draco pleads, shaking his head and using every remaining bit of strength he has left to
squeeze her hand. "Granger—"

"I'm sorry," she whimpers, her cheeks red-hot beneath her tears. "I just... the thought of losing you
now is... too much. Not when we're so close to being happy. Not when the idea of peace isn't
actually that far away anymore. Not when... not when I can't live without you, Draco."

Draco doesn't say anything in response, until—

"Maybe it's time."

He says it gingerly, like speaking it into existence is the scariest part of whatever it is he's
preparing for.

"Time?" Hermione asks, brushing several tears from her cheeks and eyes.

Draco nods, and then his chest heaves up in a long inhale. He releases, dragging his tongue over
his lip to mask his fear.

"The doctor left a pamphlet with... rehabilitation options. And I... I think I ought to take a look at
it."

Hermione gasps, but it's more of a staggered exhale. It's lodged in her throat, and she has to push
that breath out with her chest—force it with sheer determination—so that she can process what
Draco has just suggested: rehab. Actual rehab. A medically supervised detox for days—weeks.
Being clean. Finding peace.

"Are you sure?"

Draco nods, clenching his jaw. "I will not be the reason you cry anymore."

Hermione lowers her head, setting her forehead against his hand.

"I will not be the reason you lose hope in this world."

She whimpers, barely finding the strength to breathe under the weight of Draco's words.

"I will protect you the way you have always protected me."

There's no point in trying to fight it—the love she has for him. It bursts forth when she leans
forward and kisses Draco sweetly. She can taste redemption on his lips—physically feels the
bravery he bears in his words and in his imminent actions—and it's like honey, sweet and smooth
and compatible with the hint of her vanilla lip balm.

As she pulls away, Draco finds the back of her head with his hand, and he tows her back to him,
deepening their kiss; suddenly, the flavors explode against her tongue as it breaks the barrier of his
lips, but instead of honey and vanilla, it's like fire and... more fire. There's an incomparable energy
surging between the two of them, and Hermione has to lift herself off of the chair in order to keep
up with Draco's passionate kiss. It's heavier than lead yet softer than a feather, their lips breeding
life against one another with every pulse, every subtle movement, every nip and every damn beat.
They unquestionably revitalize one another.

Draco suddenly pulls away, but with his lips still ghosting across hers, he whispers, "For them, and
for you."

"You should do it for yourself too," she responds, leaning her forehead against his.

He nods. "Yeah. For myself, too."

They hold one another tight, Hermione seating herself on the edge of the side of Draco's hospital
bed, until he eventually lifts his finger and summons the pamphlet through the air and into his
hand. And then they read through the information together, plotting a life beyond what almost tore
them apart.

"A Place for Growth." That's what the sign above the glass doors reads. It sits right with Hermione
—perhaps it'd be even better if it read "A Place for Peace," but she won't linger on that miniscule
detail. It's the sentiment of the sign that counts.

She's holding Draco's hand, but they're both shaking. Trembling. Because it's all foreign to them—
rehab, that is. Hermione never knew whether this moment would actually come—where she'd be
standing outside of a rehabilitation center, Draco's fingers wound through hers, about to check
himself in and begin his journey to recovery. It was always a distant possibility—a shot in the dark
—but now, it's real, raw, and happening, and she can't find it in her heart to just breathe, relax, and
calm herself down.

She asks him first, because it's only fair. "Are you alright?"
Draco cranes his neck down and sighs, gazing into her eyes. "No... maybe... I don't know. This is...
not something I ever thought I'd actually end up doing."

"Plans change," Hermione sighs, considering the trajectory of her own life and how she also never
considered this to be her reality.

Draco squeezes her hand. "Yes. They do."

"Often for the better."

He nods in agreement. "Yes. You have been for the better."

She gets butterflies.

She turns to face him, cupping his face with her hands and stroking her thumbs over his
cheekbones, and Draco's hands drop to secure around her waist. He pulls her close and presses his
forehead against hers. They breathe the same air.

"I'm... scared." He clears his throat. "It feels like I won't be able to do this unless I have someone
else."

Hermione sighs, knowing that walking into a situation like this without anyone else must be so
fucking hard, so fucking scary. Because to trek through the valley of death alone is like walking
with a target on one's back, but to do it with a friend, a family member—even a lover—makes all
the difference.

But it also leaves room for relapse, for worsening behaviors, for returning to the same painful
routine which they have found themselves in for far too long.

It's why the other Slytherins all found separate rehabilitation centers. It's why Adrian is in one
location, Blaise in another, Theo in another, and then Pansy and Daphne in one together.

That was the only exception—Daphne had no idea why she was being asked to relocate all of a
sudden when her bed in their apartment was just becoming something that brought her comfort.
She couldn't comprehend her urges for drugs and similarly could not understand why she was
being dragged away from everyone just as she was beginning to trust them. It all felt cruel—to her
and to the others.

Hermione sighs. "I know, but this is your journey. No one else's but yours."

"Sixty days," he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't... that's a long time, Granger."

"It'll be worth it," Hermione says reassuringly. "While you're there, just..." She takes the collar of
his shirt in her hands and tugs him a little closer. "Just remember this. Remember everything that
we have. When things feel impossible—when you want to give up—remember what you told me
about wanting to find peace. About wanting that Golden Age. About wanting to be happy.
Remember all the good that we have. Remember—"

She pauses, then leaps onto her toes and settles her lips against his. Kisses him softer than a light
snowfall but more passionate than a raging fire.

Draco's hands curl around her waist, molding into her curves and pressing her against him one last
time.

Finally, she pulls away. Whispers, "Remember this feeling."

"I will," he says back, the trace of his words trailing over her lips. And then he tugs her into his
chest for a hug, setting his chin on top of her head, and he whispers the same response: "I will."

His arms always feel so safe to her, and so Hermione once again wishes that she could rest forever
within the confines of his embrace. But she knows in her heart—damn her heart—that he should be
heading inside soon. That his journey should start. That she can't hold him back any longer from
departing and embarking on this expedition of self-discovery and healing.

But as she begins to pull away, Hermione feels Draco's grip tighten around her.

"Granger—"

"It's time," she whispers into his neck, followed by a brief kiss against his pulse. "Draco—"

"I know, I know," he relents, taking one last squeeze to imprint Hermione's body on his and then
pulling away, gingerly groaning at the loss of her touch.

"Just remember this when things seem impossible," she repeats, stroking his arm.

Draco nods, meeting her eyes and leaning down one last time to kiss her. Their hands interlock, and
when he disconnects the kiss, he lifts her hands up and kisses her knuckles.

And then the moment comes when he begins to walk away, but their hands hold one another for as
long as they can, tightly, until finally their fingers slip from one another, and he turns his back to
her and walks towards the entrance.

Hermione wants to run after him, stop him, call out to him and say that she is proud of the man he
has become. From that first day of meetings to this moment, Draco Malfoy has blossomed into
someone to admire. She wants to tell him that he's everything in the world to her—that she loves
him. Unconditionally. Without fault and without question.

But perhaps that'd be too hard for him to hear, and it'd be harder for her to say. Because to spill
those powerful sentiments and then not see him for two months would be a torture beyond the
Cruciatus. It would tear her heart in two. She can't say those words and then not be with him—she
just can't.

So, she lets him go.

Eventually, Draco disappears through those doors, but Hermione can still feel him—can still feel
that invisible string tug between their parted bodies.

He's there—in the rehabilitation center now—but he's also here—right beside her heart.

And she'll wait for him, because this string between them is dipped in immortality.

As soon as Draco enters the facility, he notices that there is someone waiting for him.

She's beautiful. She has raven hair that falls onto her navy scrubs in the most perfect fashion, and
she has a smile that could end wars. Her delicate face is consoling to say the least—Draco
considers the possibility that he's seen her in a past life. It's like he knows her.

He halts in his tracks when he meets her eyes—they're undeniable, belonging to the one and only
person on this earth that could bring him a sense of concord.

"Hi," she says, her smile glowing in the warm lights of the facility. "You must be Draco."
 Slowly, and in shock, he nods. And then his eyes wander to the nametag secured on her scrubs, and
his breath hitches in his throat as he confirms her identity.

Olivia, it reads, and suddenly everything clicks.

He looks back up at her, dumbfounded but careful not to show it too openly.

Olivia smiles, and Draco automatically knows why Graham felt so strongly about her. Her lips are
infectious, her smile like a bright and effervescent meadow. She harbors such serenity in those eyes
and in that smile of hers.

"Are you ready?" she asks, raising her eyebrows in contentment.

It takes a moment for Draco to center himself, but eventually, he nods.

"Yes," he says, and he thanks the gods that his voice does not come out all shaky and tense, but
rather with a newfound sense of purpose and strength. "I'm ready."

He steps into his future, side by side with the girl who shaped and defined the catalyst to this all—
one of the reasons he's even made it to this point today.

And with Hermione's words fresh in his mind and Olivia's kind smile guiding him to amity, Draco
finally sees the promise of peace glowing across his horizon.

Chapter End Notes

oh my god. I cannot believe that was the last chapter. I feel very sad but very happy but
very empty but very full. buckle up for the epilogues and stay tuned on my twitter for
the update schedule--might not be able to get the next epilogue out by saturday but I
will do my best. thank you for everything. <3
 Epilogue 1
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

2 months later.

On the outskirts of Hogsmeade, a few properties down from a bar and secret club named
Amortentia, there is a dilapidated, homey, apartment building. It has several floors, visible and
countable by the rows of windows from outside the structure, barred with wooden frames and
metal scaffolding. All the floors look identical, with only minor differences distinguishing it from
other levels, such as scattered patches of chipped paint and differently numbered doors. The
patrons who live there mostly keep to themselves, producing a soundless oasis in the shabby
building.

But on the third floor, on the east end of the building, which faces into Hogsmeade and catches the
rising sun at dawn without fail, there is now an empty residence. Ghosts occupy that world now,
coupled with rolls of thistles like those in Old Western movies, lollying across desserts to the tune
of an ominous whistle and breeze.

The apartment was once vivacious, filled to its brim with a group of boisterous yet lovable
Slytherins, often frequented by the building owner himself, though that was before his tragic
passing. Now, that apartment is vacant. It's tacit. It's chilling—like there was never even a trace of
those spirited Slytherins.

Hermione found it too difficult to continue to live there without them. Every corner she turned,
every cabinet she opened, and every step she took reminded her of them.

It had become her home—that little apartment. From her first visit to the present, Hermione has
valued that quaint loft with every emotion in her. Memories of Blaise and Adrian dancing to their
radio, Theo and Pansy cuddling on one couch or the other (solely depending on the configuration,
though they never complained so long as they were bound in the warmth of one another's arms),
Daphne rolling on the floor in a fit of giggles, and Draco cracking a smile while watching his
friends relish life's most simple joys all crowd her mind, each one a book that slides seamlessly into
its spot on a compact shelf.

But the second she realized that the apartment was not only physically but emotionally empty,
Hermione couldn't bear to stay there. It was like a fresh wound, too raw and too painful for even
the air. Exposed, vulnerable, susceptible to infection, the apartment lulled away into an almost
forbidden, unspeakable abode. The challenges posed with reserving its original spirit were simply
too much to bear for one lonely person, so, once all of them had departed for rehab, Hermione
packed her bags, lifted Crookshanks into her arms, and returned to her own apartment near
London.

Her own apartment felt different—unfamiliar—when she returned. It was merely a conglomeration
of her belongings, but they meant naught without him to brighten the air and kiss her soul the way
the moon kisses a body of water—with reflective, prosperous, and gentle caresses.

Time moved slowly, each day arriving and falling like an eternal storm, no end in sight, but it was
not a tempestuous outbreak. Rather, it blurred the skies and clouds into one shadowy, grey streak
of shade. The sun would try to pierce through that endless veil, but its efforts were lost in the
murkiness of it all. It was reflective of her insides, repressed by the loneliness within.
Harry would visit her often, though he was just as hopeless, just as tired. Things with Ginny
remained tense, their arguments of her spending too much time away reaching levels his docile
heart could not handle. Ginny's pride—so beautiful yet so dangerous—tore Harry's heart wide open
and propelled him over a metaphorical edge. Her strength should not have been so frightening to
him—he should have embraced that glow—but there was a part of Harry—a large part, truly—that
yearned for the warmth and security which Adrian Pucey brought him while cocooned in his arms
late at night.

It was too difficult to keep his illicit affair with Adrian a secret from Ginny, and so Harry, brave as
ever, ended things with her just a week before Adrian's scheduled release date. It was a termination
that required aggregate strength and an introspective reflection, but Harry sealed his fate and
prayed that things would fall into place when Adrian returned from rehab.

And now, he sits beside Hermione in her apartment, his head in his hands and his elbows on his
knees, and he cries softly into his palms, because this last week has been one of the hardest of his
entire life. Because although Harry has survived war, death itself, and all things dark and terrifying,
it is this raw human emotion—love, or the absence of it—that bears such pain and agony against
his heart.

In truth, life was dull without his Adrian.

"I never thought I'd do it," Harry whispers. "Break up with Ginny." He pauses briefly, then cranes
his neck to meet Hermione's consoling gaze. "I thought I knew who I was all this time, but now I
feel... confused. And unsure of myself."

Hermione sighs, followed by her scattered but veritable response, drenched in nothing but the truth
of the life she and Harry both lived: "Harry, we're always growing, always changing, always
learning new things about ourselves. We grew up fighting in a war, for Godric's sake. We didn't
have time to figure these things out for ourselves." She finds one of his shaking hands with hers
and closes her fingers around it, gifting her love to him. "It's okay that it's happening for you now.
You were never really given a chance to have this moment of reflection. You were just cruelly
thrust into the world and expected to know everything and be certain of who you are. But that's a
lot to ask of a young boy—to know himself before he's even had the time to consider the
possibilities."

Harry's fingers twiddle beneath her touch as he fights back tears. "A part of me still loves her. But
when I'm with him... I feel seen. I feel like I am first, but he's also first. We are perfect equals." A
light sniffle, and then he continues. "He kisses me, and I'm whole."

"That's special," Hermione responds, her voice lighter than air. "That's... exceptional."

"Is that how you feel with Draco?"

Hesitation strikes her mind—not because the answer is no, but because it is an overwhelming yes,
so overwhelming that Hermione can physically feel her heart twist into itself and then burst into
this ocean of complete and utter affection. Love tickles her veins and spreads all the way down to
her toes, rendering her speechless.

Draco makes her feel alive. He's pinpointed the part of her that's always wanted to emerge—
pinpointed and nurtured it. Protected it. Caressed it.

Even now, miles away, Hermione can feel his heart on hers.

"That and more," she answers, her eyes swelling with tears. "With him I feel... I feel like I'm on
fire. I've always felt alive around him, but now more than ever, I feel like Draco has awoken
something inside of me. Educated me. Inspired me. Made me want to be... the best I can be."

"That's something, too," Harry acknowledges, flipping her hand into his and placing his free hand
on top of it like a shelter. "I can't say I ever expected it, but if ever there was someone with true
forgiveness in her heart, it's you, Hermione."

Hermione nods, but its weak. She thinks her melancholy might be too obvious, because Harry
squeezes her hands a little tighter.

"Soon now," he whispers. "You'll see him soon."

Hermione glances out her window at the dreamy, London street. She dreams of traipsing down that
road with Draco, hand in hand, happy, healthy, alive, rebirthed, free. It could be tomorrow, it could
be a week from now, or perhaps a month, six months, a bloody year. So long as she can feel her
hand wound in his again, Hermione will be complete.

Just his touch would set her on fire.

It secretly always has.

Her hands won't stop shaking.

Weaving her fingers together does nothing to curb the flashes of anxiety running hot beneath her
skin, wrapping around bone and squeezing, crushing, almost snapping them into a million little
pieces.

Hermione needs to see him. She's ready to see him. It's been two arduous, almost impossible
months—two months of constant concern, of a mint deficiency, of a longing that only Draco's
particular warmth can curb, can heal. She's anticipated this moment since she last felt his touch
outside this exact building, and now that the time has arrived, Hermione is convinced that she'll
faint right here on this patch of concrete under her feet.

The cerulean bench that she sits on feels like it'll concave into the earth from the weight of her
worries, the burden of the unpredictable. Her chest feels all kinds of tense as she exhales a shaky
breath.

Gods, she just... she needs to see him.

Hermione thinks that around fifteen minutes pass before the front door swings open, a light creak
announcing the movement. She almost sprains her neck as she looks over at the door, yet it's all for
nothing. It's not him—not Draco. Just two employees leaving for the day, identification cards
clipped to the breast pocket of their scrubs and bags slung over their shoulders, and at the sight of
them, Hermione lightly moans. She runs her fingers into her hair, realizes that she's likely making
it more of a fucking mess, and then quickly begins to pat it down, brush through her curls, tame it
so that when Draco finally sees her, he'll still find her beautiful.

It's moments later that the door opens again, the same creak filling the otherwise silent patch of her
world. Not wanting to get her hopes up again, Hermione takes her time turning her head to face the
entrance, but when her eyes land on that patch of blonde hair, that glimmering pale skin, that
mosaic of tattoos, and that warm, beautiful body, she rushes to her feet. Turns to face him. Feels
tears pool in her eyes at the sight of her treasure.

Draco looks just as beautiful as he did two months ago, but there's something more enchanting
about the way he holds himself.

His shoulders used to slump when he walked, bore down by the weight of the world. But today, he
stands tall and proud—shoulders back, neck held high, chest out and broader than before.

The eternal bags under his eyes seem to be lighter—present still, but not in a ghostly way. In a
simple, understandable sense of the word tired.

But the eyes themselves have not changed—still as piercing and precious as the finest diamond.

She opens her mouth to greet him: "Draco—"

But he's already flying across the courtyard with generous steps, and it only takes a second or two
for him to reach her and hurl himself against her in an embrace. His arms snake around her waist,
and he tows her into him like they've been parted for an eternity—like they're reuniting in an
afterlife built for them and them alone. His head molds brilliantly against the crest of her neck, and
when he lets out a placated sigh and it flutters against her sensitive skin, Hermione tosses her arms
around his neck and drags him down against her.

Her tears settle against several strands of his hair, and his nails dig into her back in desperation, but
there is no care in the world for such actions. There is only them—Draco Malfoy and Hermione
Granger—former Death Eater and Golden Girl—proving to the world that there is such a thing as
forgiveness, redemption, and second chances. There has to be—for what else would someone call
this moment?

Suddenly, Draco breaks the silence with simple yet considerable words. They change Hermione's
life.

"I didn't say it," he rasps, and Hermione can tell that he's trying to cover up the sobs fastened to his
throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't tell you when I left two months ago. I didn't tell you that I—that—gods,
Hermione—I didn't tell you that I love you."

Hermione's heart suddenly feels very warm and cold at the same time, like the sun hitting the
aftermath of a raging blizzard. She melts and softens under Draco's words and the way that he
continues to embrace her.

He lets out this authentic whimper—a joyful but still painful weep. It breaks her heart and then
pieces it back together when she remembers what he's just admitted to her—what she herself has
felt for quite some time now: I love you.

"Shhh, Draco," she hushes his cries, running one of her hand's over the back of his head in an act of
comfort.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Draco repeats, tears streaming down his face and onto
Hermione's sleeve. She feels the fabric of her top run wet, but she can't find it anywhere in her
being to care. Not when this moment is so pure, untainted—so everything that she's wanted of
recent.

Hermione’s feelings seem to rush to her mouth all at once. Holding those words in for so long has
been torturous, to say the least, but now that she can feel the release surfacing—now that he's
confirmed his strong feelings for her—Hermione has no fear. No qualms. No hesitations. She
allows the fire he stirs in her to burst forth in a streak of sparks and crackles and pops, until the holy
sentiment comes streaming out of her mouth in a desperate, oxygen-releasing "I love you, Draco,"
an I love you that feels like heaven to verbally acknowledge, finally.
Draco sighs and doesn't stop saying that he loves her back, even as he drops to his knees before
her, settles his wobbly hands on the slopes of her waist, and presses his forehead to her belly. Space
becomes nonexistent as he attached himself to her in every way he can. Like an utterly devoted and
pious man bowed down before a marble statue of a bountiful, fruit-bearing goddess, Draco
worships Hermione—supplicates her forgiveness in a desperate, frantic plea.

"You saved me—I love you—how can I ever express how much I love you—"

Hermione falls to her knees in front of him and takes his cheeks in her shaking hands. She rests her
forehead upon his, swiping her thumb below his eyes to wipe the tears off of his soft, supple skin.
"You saved yourself," she whispers, repeatedly nodding her head against his. "You made this
choice. This was you, Draco. You saved yourself—"

His lips are suddenly upon hers, and they're just as smooth as she remembers. Coated with honey
and magic and a hunger only the world's most devoted ascetic knows, Draco's lips slide across hers
with passion and fervor, and Hermione feels indebted to him and this kiss; she presses her lips
against his with a craving that is ages past wild—it's raw, it's bountiful, it's the manifestation of
everything she's felt and everything she hasn't over these last two months.

It's love.

"I wouldn't have made it here without you," Draco says when he pulls away for air, but then he's
already jerking right back to meet her lips and feed her his holy breath. "I'd be—" his lips press
against hers again— "dead without you—" more kissing, more hunger, more fire. "You saved my
life."

"I'm sorry it took this long," she croaks, thinking about that ghost of a boy her sixth year—Draco,
tired, alone, depressed, walking the corridors of Hogwarts like an apparition—and how she
could've helped him then, reached out, done something to ease the festering pain.

Draco shakes his head. "You are perfect, now and then." They're both quaking, but his hands find
Hermione's, and they hold hers in the space between their chests. "I'm... Hermione... I'm sorry.
For... everything—everything—leading up to this moment."

"It's all in the past," Hermione asserts as Draco peppers a kiss on the tip of her nose. "All in the
past, Draco."

"I'm supposed to make amends where I can—"

Hermione squeezes his hand. "You have already amended yourself time and time again—"

"—my cruelty was because of my fear—"

"—I know, I understand—"

"—and I'm sorry—"

"—shhh, shhh, Draco—"

"—I should've never said the things I said to you."

Hermione pauses. She takes in those words, that sentiment. Inhales another one of Draco's attempts
at reconciliation and exhales utter forgiveness. Spills it into his mouth in another kiss; she feels his
tongue on fire against hers.
"I forgive you," she whispers. "I forgave you a long time ago."

"Because it's in your nature," he says, smoothing away a piece of Hermione's hair and tucking it
behind her ear. "Because you're predisposed to kindness."

"And because you are a good man," Hermione adds. "Because you deserve to feel at peace."

"I feel like I'm bathing in peace when I'm with you," Draco says, and there it is again: his poetry.
The string of his words that electrocute her heart—cause it to short-circuit. She knows so many
truths—this and that and this and that and everything in between—because of Draco's poetry. She
knows how soft gold feels, how brilliant the sun shines, how coveted a Golden Age is. She knows
the rush of dopamine and the calm of his kiss. She knows the warmth of his arms and the fire in his
heart. The meaning of a mince pie, the cool touch of a mug upon her lips, and the ardor of his body
when it is consuming her whole. She knows Draco Malfoy—loves him without fault. Wishes she
could wring him dry of his pain and bask in the sweet, picturesque lumen of his eyes. She loves
him, and she doesn't care how this love came to be. She's just certain that it's there.

"Let's go home," she whispers. "I think everyone should be back by now. I haven't been—"

Hermione pauses, gnawing at her lip and casting her eyes away in remorse.

"Have you not been staying there?" Draco asks, finding her eyes and gazing into them with a
puzzled yet hopeful look—a look Hermione cannot resist monopolizing and seizing for herself and
only herself.

She shakes her head slowly. "It was too hard without you."

Planting his hand on her cheek, Draco undergoes a period of silent reflection before expressing his
thoughts. "I've learned that breaking old habits and trying to start fresh is a good way to avoid
falling back into destructive patterns." He gulps, and as Hermione tilts her head, she can tell that
he's preparing to ask her something else. It's in the cadence of his voice and the bend of his
eyebrows—he's nervous about something. "I've missed you, Hermione." Gods, she loves how he
says that. "And I can't spend another second without you. Maybe... for a little while... I could—"

"Stay with me," she concludes, both finishing his sentence and ordering it herself.

Draco nods. "I hate leaving them, but I... Hermione, I don't want to do this all over again."

"I'll do anything it takes to keep you safe," she whispers, bringing his face closer to hers so that
they're only a slip of breath away. "Of course, you can stay with me."

He sighs—fluttery, saccharine in nature. "I have so much to tell you."

Hermione smiles, pressing her lips once more to his damp cheek and resting there for a moment
before pulling back and saying, "We have all the time in the world, Draco. All the time and all the
gold imaginable."

With a laugh as smooth as syrup from the depths of his throat, Draco whispers, "You're made of
gold, Hermione Granger. And I love you."

The reunion between the Slytherins is priceless, authentic. It's filled with laughter and tears. It's the
most joy Hermione and any of them have felt in a long time. It's Christmas morning. It's sweet
licorice. It's honey-infused incense that burns and purifies like its embers depend on it.
It's Theo embracing Pansy with a mammoth hug and slamming his lips into hers, and then with a
more delicate touch he peppers kisses on the side of her face. And it's Pansy's hands finding his
hair, and her mouth running wild with one sweet word: "Theo, Theo, Theo." She says it until her
throat grows sore.

It's Daphne smiling at Blaise, still building her trust but ultimately finding comfort in his
innocuous, heavenly face. It's a careful pat-turn-caress on her shoulder and a sweet greeting back to
their home.

It's Adrian embracing Draco with the most genuine smile Hermione has ever seen cross his face—a
smile she's only ever seen when he is with Harry, who arrives mere moments after receiving
Hermione's Patronus.

”Potter—“

Harry and Adrian barely have time to breathe before they tumble into one another in a powerful
collision. Immediately they're whispering lovely things into one another's ears; Adrian is smiling,
Harry is laughing like it's the birth of his joy, and after a few moments of spinning in an elated
embrace, Adrian pulls away, reaches for Harry's face, and pulls him up to kiss him. Splay his lips
across his and drink the wine on Harry's lips, the infused peace and love and acceptance that they
gave one another only few months ago.

When things settle—when they're all convened in that quintessential arrangement on the couches
yet again—Draco rises to say a few words.

"There's a few things I need to say," he starts, swallowing in anxiety. "This has been the greatest
home, and you all have been the greatest family that anyone could ask for. But, if we really want to
get better—and I really want to get better—then we need to reevaluate our dependence on one
another."

He waits for an uproar, disagreement, something to thwart his newfound ideas.

But the Slytherins listen quite intently, and Hermione can tell by the looks in their eyes that they
are well on already on the path of concurrence.

"I think that I need to say goodbye to this place."

They all appear taken aback—shocked and saddened by what Draco has suggested. But
concurrently, and in a more tangible way, there's hints of admiration and veneration in their gazes.
Doused in nothing short of respect, the Slytherins all take their time in agreeing with Draco; even
Daphne, who has spent the last two months with Pansy, attempting to rebuild the life she once
knew, exhibits total wonder and awe for the new man in front of her.

Adrian is the first to speak, and he curls his fingers through Harry's as he does so. "You do what's
best for you, mate. This is your life. Don't let anybody hold you back from keeping yourself clean,
you hear me?"

Beaming in relief, Draco nods, and then his eyes glaze over to regard Hermione at his side.

"I hear you," he whispers, directed at Adrian, though his eyes are glued to her. And then he turns
back to face his friends and breathes another kind of sigh—one that feels full of dread, and
suddenly Hermione grows nervous. "There's something else I need to tell you all."

"Go on," Pansy tenderly encourages as Draco falls quiet.

Draco clears his throat—glances down at his feet before summoning the courage he needs to
present this information. "You all should know who I met while in rehab." A beat as he takes in the
curious looks on everyone's faces. "It the girl from Graham's memories. Olivia."

Hermione didn't know this until now, and she's nothing short of shocked in the best way possible.
There's something entirely inspirational about Olivia being there, in the right place at the right
time, caring for Draco. It's been painful to think of what became of Olivia after Graham's death—
somehow, this is a seamless fate for her. Perhaps she was always meant to be there, waiting for
Draco, helping him when she couldn't help Graham.

There's a trust like no other that Hermione feels for Olivia now, and perhaps that's solely due to the
way she perceived her in Graham's memories as someone with nothing less than total compassion
in her heart. If anyone who is trained in such care should guide Draco out of his addiction, it seems
perfectly sublime and fitting that it be Olivia, with her gentle spirit, kind eyes, and toiled hands.

Almost immediately, Adrian's shoulders tense, and his lips part. A tense subject for him, Adrian
deeply inhales to curb the traumatic connection he has to the situation, to Graham. "She... she was
there?"

Draco nods. "Training as a substance misuse nurse. She worked with me quite often."

Blaise bravely addresses the elephant in the room. "Did... did you tell her about Graham?"

To his right, Daphne quietly asks, "Who... who is Graham again?" Her question harbors a hint of
shame, like she knows that she should know the answer. But she doesn't—Graham is nothing but a
name to Daphne now. The memories have faded, and without Graham here, there's no rebuilding
what is lost.

Blaise rotates his neck to look at her, and then very slowly, he places his hand over hers; she
doesn't pull away. Doesn't even flinch. It's natural consent—it's the tug of the world resting on
Blaise's fingertips, and it appears that Daphne enjoys the pull. Wonders where it might take her in
the future.

"He was once a friend of ours," Blaise explains as delicately as possible, "but he... didn't make it."

Daphne gulps, her eyes widening in fear and remorse. She looks away from Blaise and purses her
lips, regret strewn through her expression.

But then her palm slowly flips up beneath Blaise's hand, and her fingers curl into his, and that's
plenty for Blaise. It's one large, beautiful step forward.

"I couldn't tell her," Draco says, shaking his head. "There was never a right moment to do it."

"She has to know," Theo says, looking at Pansy for confirmation. "I mean, what if she has no idea
what happened to him? What if she thinks he's still out there? That... that's just cruel."

"I will tell her," Draco says, rubbing his temple with his fingers. "I will reach out under the guise
of my recovery, and I'll tell her then. But if you could see the look in her eyes—" He pauses,
pursing his lips to hold back his emotions. "She always looked so hopeful. So optimistic. And you
could just tell that she was at peace with the work she was doing—like she knew she was supposed
to be there. How could I tell her about him? I couldn't do it."

Hermione reaches for Draco's unsteady hand, laces her fingers through his, and kisses the back of
his palm. It's warm to the touch. "We'll find a time to tell her. Don't worry, Draco."
"Can I be there?" Adrian asks, lifting his eyes in desperation. "Please. Let me meet her. Let me be
there when you tell her about Graham. I have... so many things to tell her about him."

Draco hesitates, but eventually nods. To give Adrian this closure would be like another step
towards recovery, towards mending the broken pieces of his soul. Perhaps meeting Olivia and
telling her everything would bring him the peace he has been craving in that aspect of his life.

"We'll tell her together. In time." Draco pauses, closing his eyes. "I just need a little more time."

There's a consensus between the group—nods and murmurs that agree with Draco. He sighs in
relief, the world lifted off of his shoulders in that moment of release.

And then, an influx of emotions. Another glide across the horizon of peace. Another moment of
proving that Draco Malfoy is stronger than anyone Hermione has ever known.

"I don't tell you all this often," he continues, glancing at his feet and then back at his friends, "and
for that, I'm sorry. But... thank you. For keeping me alive long enough to experience this moment.
I'm sorry it came with such challenging moments. If I could take it all back—"

"We are stronger because of it," Pansy says, lifting her eyes to meet Draco's. "All of us, in our own
ways. I don't regret any of this, and neither should you, Draco."

"We're here because of what we had to go through," Blaise adds. "That's a reward in itself. Even
though we went through hell to get to this moment, I also don't regret any of it."

Draco nods, trying to find it in his heart to agree, though he might not be there yet, and that's
acceptable. The process shouldn't be rushed. It should age like an eternal olive tree, giving just a
little bit of energy with each day that passes but never fully conceding to the needs and demands of
others—not unless it is ready.

"You all still saved me," he continues, "and for that, I will always be grateful for you."

And then Draco looks at Harry, and the room seems to freeze as the ice in Draco's eyes meets the
honey in Harry's.

"Even you, Potter, in your own way, have helped me get to where I am today."

Harry's lips part, but he nods in reconciliation and in treaty.

"You deserve to be happy, Malfoy. Truly."

To lighten the mood, Adrian chuckles and leans back against the couch cushion, crossing his arms
over his chest. "You trying to steal your husband back from me, Malfoy?" The room erupts in
solemn laughter; heads fall into hands at the pleasant memory. Even Daphne, who knows nothing
of the joke, smiles alongside her friends—their joy is enough to stir that curve of her lips. "It seems
that our dragon has developed a predilection for kindness."

Draco cracks a smile more beautiful than heaven itself. "There is nothing insincere about the way I
regard you all," he explains. "Believe me. You saved me."

"This isn't goodbye, is it?" Daphne whispers, bending her eyebrows and creating anxious creases
on her forehead. "I feel as though I've just gotten you all back."

Draco approaches Daphne slowly, kneeling when he reaches her. "No, Daph. This is not a
goodbye." He takes her hand in his. "I will never say goodbye."
 She nods, her eyes beaming as if she can see her memories again, but Hermione knows that it's just
her loving, receptive nature. That the sincerity in Draco's eyes and voice is enough to make her feel
as though she really is home.

"Go be happy," she whispers, squeezing his hand.

Draco bows his head up and down. "Promise me you'll do the same?"

Daphne smiles. "Apparently, I was always rather gleeful around you all. I'm sure that I will find
that feeling again."

That night, as they lie in Hermione's bed with their arms curled protectively around one another,
Draco exhales a sigh of relief into Hermione's curls, and at that tepid action, Hermione leans
deeper against his bare chest. Her fingers slowly outline the tattoo of Saturn on his ribs, chasing its
rings in an eternal marathon. His body is warm with love and new beginnings. She sinks into it
with an exhale.

"This feels like home," Draco whispers, and it's so quiet that Hermione can barely hear it. She
thinks, perhaps, that Draco meant to just whisper that to himself. But she's heard it know—knows
his feelings about this new situation—and she can't help but respond with a question.

"Already?" she asks, turning her lips into a serene smile.

Draco chuckles, his chest lifting her up and down as he does so. "Anywhere is home if you're there,
Hermione."

They sleep. Dream. Fall deeper in love as the moon treks across the night sky.

And the next morning, when the both of them wake, they'll undoubtedly feel the same way.

Chapter End Notes

one down, two to go...

check my twitter for the update schedule -- I have a crazy week and am (genuinely)
not sure if I can get the update out by saturday (I keep saying this lmao but fr this
time... I'm not confident lol). Just continue to check there for updates!

thank you again from the bottom of my heart <3

 Epilogue 2
Chapter Notes

whew. it's been a minute! thanks for your patience.

quick heads up - there's a brief mention of a relapse and attempted suicide in this
chapter.

and also, happy birthday to my adrian pucey <3 seems fitting that happy pills is
updated on his birthday, no?

See the end of the chapter for more notes

2 months later.

Draco Malfoy has a newfound proclivity for tapping his fingers.

Recently, the simple act of tapping his fingers replaced the incination—the oppressive desire—to
get high.

When moments felt unbearable, and when time moved like the grueling, twirling cycle of the
planets, and when Draco could literally feel his demons crawl their way up his body to the soft
plain of his throat, and they’d sensually whisper Draco, Draco, find us again, he’d muster up every
ounce of strength left in his tired body and tap, tap, tap—let the soft sound guide his mind
somewhere else. Somewhere sweeter.

That was, of course, always coupled with silky fingers sliding their way through his hand—fingers
that are soft and electric and golden at the same time—and that would be when Draco would find
peace.

All he’s ever wanted is peace.

He finds that every time with Hermione by his side, her fingers tangling themselves through his to
deter the nervous tapping.

The pub they’re in is not loud, but rather full of sounds. It does not pierce his eardrums, it does not
send him into vexation, it simply exists in the occasional clatter of glasses, the gush of alcohol from
a tap, the murmur of orders being given, and orders being received, and the faint but all-consuming
sound of the music playing from an array of speakers.

“Breathe,” Hermione sweetly instructs. “You’re doing the right thing. It will be all right.”

Overtime, with repetition, it has become easier for Draco to believe that statement.

But something about what he must do today fogs that sentiment—makes believing Hermione’s
words just a little more challenging.

Because in the next minute or two, Draco Malfoy will come face to face with Olivia once again,
and he will have to admit not only that he knew Graham, but also that he lied to her. For months he
has been lying to her—holding onto this mammoth secret that could ruin everything. And that
possibility of ruining what he has built with Olivia is worse than any overdose, withdrawal, or
fucking low he has ever experienced or will experience.

“She’ll understand, Draco.” That assertion comes from Adrian, sat across the mahogany table on
the other side of the booth. He had begged to be here for this meeting—said he needed to meet
Olivia, talk about Graham, and let the feelings he always kept bottled up run free.

Seeing her was going to be like therapy for Adrian but Hell for Draco.

Draco exhales out of his nostrils, squeezing Hermione’s fingers a little tighter. Warmth spreads
through his palm.

“And when she looks at me with disappointment?” Draco starts, tilting his head to glance at
Hermione and then back at Adrian. “When she realizes I’m not who I said I was and storms off and
leaves me like everyone else? What will I do then?”

“You have us,” Adrian says. “Your support system is not going anywhere.”

“It’s just hard because—”

Mid-sentence, there’s a shriek near the entrance of the pub, and their heads spin to lay eyes on the
source of the light sound.

Olivia’s raven-kissed hair is the most distinct thing about her. It somehow glows in the
underwhelming light of the pub. And her smile, stretching from one end of her face to the other, is
as bright as the sun. It’s like anyone who looks that way has discovered the most glittery, sparkly
stone in a dark, hollow cave.

She flies through the pub to greet Draco, and when she reaches him, she throws her arms over his
shoulders and yanks him towards her, practically pulling him off the bench of the booth.

“You little arsehole!” she gleefully exclaims, twisting him left and right as she deepens the hug.
“Several months later and you finally reach out? It’s been too long!”

Before Draco can offer an explanation, Olivia locks eye contact with Hermione over Draco’s
shoulder and pulls away.

“Oh my god,” Olivia whispers, her eyes brightening. “You must be the infamous Hermione
Granger. God, I love that name. It’s so unique.” She extends her hand for a simple handshake,
though it’s clear Olivia would hug her if she has the chance of space, and then she says, “You are
so bloody beautiful I could cry!”

“Says you,” Hermione sweetly replies with a smile.

Olivia huffs contently, letting Hermione’s hand go and looking back at Draco. “Shut up, I love her
already.”

Clearing his throat, Adrian chimes in. “Try to pry her from Draco’s arms and you’ve got another
thing coming.” He rises from his seat, adjusting his shirt and parading his height with a cheeky
look down. He then extends his arms for a hug and smugly says, “Hello, I’m Adrian Pucey. I’m
sure Draco couldn’t shut up about me and my charming personality while in rehab.”

Olivia lifts one of her eyebrows, appearing confused. “Adrian…” She turns back to face Draco,
tapping her index finger against her chin. “Not sure Draco has ever mentioned you, actually.”
Shocked is an understatement for Adrian’s new demeanor. Offended fits better, the curve of his
frown elongated and the tension in his eyebrows wholly representative of the effect of the blunt
insult.

But before he can protest and defend himself, Olivia smiles and bursts into laughter.

“Joking!” she squeals, taking his arms and dragging him towards her for a hug. “I’ve heard
everything and more about you! It’s such a pleasure to finally put a face to the name!”

It’s been months—feels like forever—since Draco has seen Adrian smile so naturally, so
organically, so without compulsion or obligation. His lips rip into a crescent moon, teeth beaming
from below as he effortlessly embraces Olivia.

But when Adrian slides back into the booth, and Olivia starts to glide onto the bench next to him,
Draco lowers his heads and exhales a deep, strenuous sigh. He awkwardly clears his throat. Holds
his hand to his heart and shakes his head in an attempt to find the strength to continue this
gathering.

Because he knows that he is about to ruin this happiness, just like he ruins everything else that is
even slightly good—

No. Stop thinking like that.

You’ve learned how to stop thinking like that.

But—gods—it’s so hard to not.

No one knows how hard this really is.

The unlearning of hurtful habits.

A hand falls upon his. It’s Hermione’s.

Draco says a silent grace that he has her.

“So,” Olivia starts, and Draco looks up to see that she’s already made herself comfortable nestled
next to Adrian in the booth, “tell me, how is everything going? I wish you’d reach out more. I want
to hear about your progress and celebrate all of your milestones.”

Draco nods and offers a trying smile. “Things are fine.”

“It’s normal to feel overwhelmed after a long period of rehab,” Olivia intuitively responds.

“He’s been wonderful,” Hermione adds, squeezing Draco’s hand.

His fingers suddenly start to tap again below her hand.

Tap, tap, tap.

“You’d be very proud.”

Olivia slowly places her hand over her heart. “I am very proud.” Tears pool in the corner of her
deeply hazel eyes. “Truly, Draco. To have come this far is more than a lot of people can say they
accomplished. You really should be so proud of yourself.”

And now it’s Draco who feels tears swell in his eyes, and a tight pressure surrounding his heart,
and bile rising in his throat. Because what he has to say to Olivia could change the way that she
looks at and regards him, and that—that is going to break him down again. Reduce him to ashes
for his demons to claim and dance upon.

Noticing the tension in Draco’s sunken cheeks, Adrian interjects and asks, “So, Olivia, how long
have you been working as a rehabilitation nurse?”

“Just under a year,” she replies, and as she does so Hermione links her arm through Draco’s,
clutching lightly. Her hand rests on the bend of his elbow, and she strokes her thumb over his
sweater to calm his pounding veins and throttled nerves. “It was actually something I’d always
wanted to do, but I finally got my push to really pursue it last year around the end of summertime.”

Oh gods.

Draco can feel his heart pound in his head. He can feel his fingers twitch. He can see the outline of
his stomach against his sweater lift and fall in a quicker pace than usual.

Because that… that’s when Graham…

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t do this.

Draco swallows with anticipation.

Adrian catches the cue.

“And was there something in particular that drew you to this kind of work?” Adrian nervously
asks, glancing at Draco occasionally.

Draco knows that Adrian is trying to help—trying to find a natural transition—but it’s torture.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Lots of things,” Olivia explains, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear and flashing a sad smile.
“My dad was an alcoholic. It was really difficult to constantly see him in that depressed state. But
then it was so wonderful to watch him grow and get better. He had his ups and down through the
process. Everyone does, really. But he was marvelous.”

Then Olivia lowers her head and plays with her fingers in her lap, and Draco can just sense it. Can
decipher from the despondent look in her eyes that she’s thinking about Graham.

“And then, there was another person I met who inspired me.”

Everyone’s breath leaves their bodies in a collective intake of oxygen.

“Another person?” Adrian presses as if he doesn’t know who Olivia could be talking about.

Olivia nods. “Just a very kind soul. I only knew him for a couple of weeks, but I instantly felt close
to him. Like he was… supposed to come into my life to really push me into this line of work. I’d
been so focused on building a career that I forgot what really motivated me.” She pauses and takes
a heavy breath, lost in her story. “But one day he was just… gone.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

Draco’s fingers tense. “Adrian, please—”

“I don’t know,” Olivia response, shaking her head. “I still don’t know.”

Adrian’s eyes find Draco’s as Olivia briskly wipes away a stray tear.

“Sorry,” she whispers, smiling again. “Still a fresh subject, even a year later. I just… never got any
closure. But I know that the work I’m doing honors him, and so I suppose it’s enough for now—”

“Olivia,” Draco blurts, but he instantly regrets it.

Time catches up with him.

He takes a deep breath. “There’s something you should know.”

She leans forward slightly, balancing her elbows on her knees below the table, as Adrian drags his
hands down the front of his face and clears his throat, preparing for the unknown, the worst.

“I…”

Draco’s words fail.

Tap, tap, tap.

He tries again.

“I… know… I know who he is.”

First, Olivia does nothing. Her expression is as blank as an untouched canvas.

But suddenly, it’s as if Draco’s words have torn through the sheet—right down the middle—
fashioning a long, unsalvageable split. Olivia’s lips part in gradual shock, and then her eyebrows
slant, and she blinks rapidly to hold back the daunting shimmer in her eyes—tears, ready to pour
like torrential rainfall.

Her head tilts slightly to the left, and she faintly whispers, “What?”

Now it’s Draco who does not have the words. Who can’t explain himself. Because all he sees on
Olivia’s face is complete and utter devastation. Confusion. Even a hint of anger. He looks away.

“You…” Olivia starts, her voice shaking in a way that Draco has never heard before, “you knew
Gra—”

“Graham,” Draco somehow finishes, his eyes plastered to Hermione’s hand on his arm.

Safeguard, peace, home.

“We all knew him,” Draco admits.

Something shifts in Olivia’s eyes as she looks between Hermione and Adrian. There’s hurt painted
in her irises, confusion in the curve of her lips, and pain—pure pain—in her posture.

“You… all of you? You all knew Graham?”

Adrian’s eyes glaze over and down. “Quite well, actually.”

Olivia’s mouth drops in shock. She lets out a puff of indignation—a sound that stabs Draco right in
the heart.

“I… I’m confused—”

“We knew Graham,” Draco continues, forcing himself to speak, defend the situation, salvage the
relationship he has with Olivia, “and it’s complicated as to how we knew of you too—”

“Wait, what?” Olivia jumps from the booth and steps away from the group, gathering the attention
of a few pubgoers around them. “What do you mean you knew of me?”

Adrian reaches his arm out to calm her down. “It’s very complicated—”

“I don’t understand,” Olivia shivers, turning to address Draco. “Why wouldn’t you… why… you
didn’t say anything to me. How could you…not…” Her voice begins to crack, and she lifts the
back of her hand to her eyes to wipe away the tears. “How could you not say anything?”

Draco stutters in response. “I didn’t know what to say—”

“I’ve been dying inside not knowing what happened to Graham,” Olivia starts, leaning closer to the
table and pointing to her heart as she holds back tears, “and you knew about him all along? You
knew and you let me tell you about him?” She shudders and drops her lower lip in agony, emitting
a light but treacherous cry. “You let me tell you how much he meant to me in starting my journey
of being in this line of work? And you still didn’t say anything?”

“Please don’t leave,” Draco pleads, squeezing Hermione’s hand. “How could I—”

“I need a minute,” Olivia says, turning around and excusing herself. She pushes through the people
in the pub and throws open the entry door, disappearing outside in the next moment.

“Shit,” Adrian mumbles, leaping from his seat and running out to meet her.

In a moment of realization, as he watches Adrian leave the pub, Draco feels close to empty. The
void he knows so well opens within him, threatening to swallow everything he holds dear to
himself.

And then, he devolves into his old patterns, but he can’t help it. He’s still learning. And it’s so
hard.

“Why did you make me tell her?” Draco seethes, turning slowly to face Hermione.

Hermione shakes her head. “Please don’t lash out,” she begs, gripping his arm with both her hands.
She applies pressure. “You know it was the right thing to do.”

“Fuck doing the right thing,” he whispers, knocking his head back onto the booth. “The right thing
is so fucking hard and stupid. Everything is ruined.” His breath picks up speed as words tumble out
of his mouth, unfiltered. “She’s gone. She’s not going to come back. I’ve lost her like I’ve lost so
many other people. Like I’ll eventually lose everyone who I love. Because everyone ends up
leaving. It always happens—”

“Stop, please,” Hermione says, shaking her head and kissing Draco’s temple. “We’re not going
anywhere. Don’t spiral—breathe.”

“Hermione—”

“We’re going to figure this out,” she says, placing her forehead against his. “Please just hold on.
She just needs a minute to process this all. And then she’ll come back.” Hermione meets Draco’s
eyes, just a few inches away. “Because you’re worth coming back for, Draco. Do you hear me? I’d
come back to you over and over, until the end of time, to remind you that you are worthy of life and
happiness and peace.”

Draco nods, as hard as it is to agree. But hearing those words from Hermione—that reassurance—
is everything and more.

It keeps him grounded when he turns his head to see Adrian and Olivia returning to the booth.

Her eyes are puffy, evidence of tears in the smudge of mascara on her eyeline. She looks at Draco,
and the expression in her eyes is something softer than the one from a minute ago. She looks hurt
beyond belief, but calm. Ready to listen. The same forgiving, kind look she’d give Draco at the
rehabilitation center.

Draco turns out of Hermione’s arms and faces Olivia. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Olivia purses her lips and nods. “I know,” she whispers, pushing her hair out of her face and wiping
her cheeks once more in the process.

“I didn’t want to risk my own rehabilitation by sharing this,” Draco explains.

Olivia nods. “You’re… yes, you’re right. I’m just a little hurt that you knew.”

“I’m so sorry,” Draco sputters, taking on Hermione’s mannerism as the words pour from his mouth
in a stream of thoughts. “I should’ve told you. I just… didn’t know how. And then time kept going
and you… I didn’t want to lose your friendship and support by revealing this thing I was keeping
from you. You must understand that I’m wired to self-preserve. I’ve always been this way, and I
wish I could’ve been strong enough to tell you, but I… this is hard. This is so hard for me, and I
wish it wasn’t, but it is. But I’m… I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

It takes Olivia a moment. Eventually, she says, “I think he mentioned you all once or twice. Not by
name. But I know he didn’t have many friends, so…” She wipes the bottom of her nose with her
finger. “He spoke so highly of you all.”

Adrian sighs. Smiles. “Graham was like my brother.”

Olivia turns and finds his eyes as they twinkle with tears.

“Yeah, he was just… so warm.” Adrian clears his throat. “Misunderstood, in a lot of ways. He had
his demons. He made lots of mistakes. Was cruel to people to hide what was happening beneath
the surface. We all were. But he… he was my fucking brother.” Adrian looks at Olivia and takes
her hand in his. She squeezes his hand as he lets out a hurt gasp. “I wish I could’ve protected him
from what happened that day. I wish I responded to his letter in time. I wish I’d take better care of
him. I wish I could’ve saved him.”

Pursing her lips, Olivia asks, “Did he… how did he…” She stops herself mid-question, shaking her
head. “Never mind.”

“Can you trust me when I tell you that he really liked you? Perhaps even loved you?”

“In such short a time span?” Olivia almost giggles, but it comes out totally genuine. Like a happy
disbelief. It makes Draco’s heart feel lighter—like there’s hope.
Adrian nods. “Yes. Believe me, his heart had so much to give. I know he could’ve given you
everything if he had more time.”

Olivia squeezes Adrian’s hand again. “Thank you,” she whispers, and then she turns to Draco,
gazes calmly at him, and reaches her hand across the table, palm facing up. Draco slowly places
his hand in hers.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says again. “I was selfish.”

“No,” Olivia protests. “You weren’t selfish.” She closes her eyes. “This is just a lot to process. But
you are not selfish for putting yourself first in this situation.” She looks back at Adrian. “Tell me
more about him, please. I want to hear everything about who he was. What he loved. Tell me
everything.”

Draco listens contently as Adrian, who smiles brightly, recounts his fondest memories of Graham.
He notices how Olivia’s face transforms from sorrowful to hopeful. How she beams when he tells
her Graham’s favorite things, or laughs when he cracks a joke, or sighs when he mentions how
poetic Graham was. All these things and more make Olivia content—gives her the closure she
always needed.

Draco is sure that Hermione was right about Olivia and how she’d respond. Because Olivia is far
too kind, far too caring, and far too selfless to let this impede her relationship with Draco. In fact,
he sees that it’s only strengthened it. Made them closer. And though they had to go through a
version of Hell to get there, Draco knows the fire and the burns and the panic and torture was
wholly worth it.

Hope stems from suffering and pain—without such feelings, one couldn’t dream to want better.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Hermione whispers, placing a kiss on Draco’s cheek.

Earlier today, he had the urge to relapse.

Suddenly, things seem a little clearer, a little brighter, a little more hopeful.

Closure is what Olivia needed.

Perhaps he needs it too.

When Draco knocks on the colossal front door of Malfoy Manor, he is alone.

And it is one of the most terrifying things he’s ever done.

It’s terrifying because nothing is certain, and this house has painful memories, and he doesn’t know
where he stands with his father, or his mother. It’s terrifying because he didn’t think he’d ever
come back to the home he grew up in. It’s terrifying because he’s different from the boy he was
years ago when he still called this place home, and so how would he be received? Would the elves
recognize him? Would he knows his way around the intricate halls? Would he pass by his old
bedroom to take in the memories? Who knows what lies behind these doors now. Who knows what
is the same and what has changed.

It’s terrifying until the lock of the door clicks, and the door slowly opens, and Draco looks down at
the small, old house elf who barely passes the height of his knees.

The elf’s eyes widen so that they bulge out of her grey sockets. And then she whispers in shock,
“Master Draco. You’ve come home.” Her voice is soft yet raspy, oddly comforting.

Draco curls his lips in a soft, practically hidden smile. “Is my father here?”

“Oh yes,” the elf responds, dragging the door open more to reveal the inside of the manor. “Master
Draco should come inside. Would Master Draco like a cup of tea?”

As Draco steps inside, he surveys the manor. Minimalist is an understatement—everything is so

bare, barer than he remembers. The walls are mostly unadorned, save a golden mirror at the end of
the room, and the circular table that marks the foyer has but one empty vase in it. Off to his right he
sees the gleam of a warm light that leads to a main hallway, but otherwise, the house is void of
comfort. It’s as if no one lives here anymore.

“No, Poppy. That’s alright. Is he in his study?”

“Yes,” she responds, guiding him through the manor halls. Draco follows along, inspecting the
interior as they go.

“And my mother?”

Draco watches as Poppy’s shoulders tense, and he suspects her face is wrinkling in fear. He
remembers that look on her face—he’s seen it many times before. Whether that was his
wrongdoing or his father’s, the house elves at Malfoy Manor always had a proclivity for showing
fear. It was unfortunate—he wishes he could’ve been better back then.

“Master Draco should ask his father about this,” she responds. “Poppy should not be the one to tell
Master Draco about her dear Lady Malfoy.”

He doesn’t push the elf further with his questions. He’s afraid to know the answer.

When they finally arrive at the door to Lucius’ study, Draco’s breath hitches. He’s reminded of the
terrible memories formed here—of everything that happened a few years ago. With his mother. His
father. Voldemort. Bellatrix. Hermione.

It’s traumatizing. Even the smell from outside the door haunts him. Sends his brain into panic
mode, where he craves something to help relieve the edge that he feels in his guts—

But he’s stronger than the temptations. He’s learned how to cope.

He can do this. Regardless of what’s ahead.

Poppy slowly pushes the door open. The creak of the hinges is heavy and shrill, just as Draco
remembers.

“Master Malfoy?” Poppy’s voice is cautious yet strong, reverberating through the room like a
perfect acoustic. Draco also remembers that about this room—how the sound travels so beautifully.

And then he catches a glimpse of his father, reclining on a black, velvet chaise and reading. It
looks like the Daily Prophet, or perhaps another newspaper, as Draco cannot tell whether the
images on the paper are moving or not.

Lucius looks the same. Broken, but the same. His hair is wiry than before, the color a shiny silver
as opposed to platinum blonde. He retains that stoic aura that made Draco used to run in fear to his
mother, though he can tell by the tremor in his fingers and deep, heavy breathing that Lucius is
perhaps not as threatening as he once was.
“Not now, Poppy.” Lucius’ voice is composed. Less threatening and malicious. Almost beautiful.

Not wanting to push further, Poppy looks up at Draco with doe-eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry—”

He stops her by calling out to him. “Father?”

The voice is recognizable to Lucius immediately, like a ghost from his past. He drops the
newspaper, cranes his head to face the door, and meets Draco’s gaze.

Draco gulps. His jaw tightens. He can’t breathe. And he instinctively pulls his sleeves down to
hide the tattoos. Fear floods his system at the possibility of rejection.

Until his father sits up and says, “Come in.”

Draco steps inside the room, and Poppy closes the door behind them. It shuts with a low clang, and
then Draco looks back at his father, and Lucius looks at his son, and it’s been years—years, years,
years—but it’s like it was yesterday. Draco still feels the same tension between them, like he was
never good enough. Particularly after taking the mark. Getting on Voldemort’s bad side. Getting
addicted to drugs. Getting tattoos. Moving away. Cursing and destroying the Malfoy name.

Draco doesn’t know what to say. He feels like the tension in the room will swallow him whole.

Until—

“You look well.”

Draco sighs in relief. Dispels the tension.

“I am,” he responds. “Clean for almost half a year.”

Lucius nods once. Doesn’t say anything else.

Draco takes a cautious step forward. “I wanted to talk.”

“About?” Lucius’ response is curt, straight to the point.

Draco shakes his head and shrugs. “Everything. Life. Our addiction.” He pauses. “My mother.”

With a sigh, Lucius stands and raises his chin. “In Scotland. Recovering.”

Draco’s heart nearly drops of out his stomach.

“So, she’s not here?”

Lucius shakes his head. “No. Intensive care for several months now. With a private doctor in a
private ward.” He looks away, almost ashamed. “When she almost committed suicide, it became
the obvious option. She needed help beyond the will and influence of magic. And that is what she
is receiving.” He looks back at Draco. “And that is all that matters now.”

What Lucius says doesn’t surprise Draco in the slightest. His father has always venerated his wife
in the highest regard—he’d do or say anything to protect her.

But the mention of her attempted suicide—it’s almost too much for Draco to handle. He wishes he
could hold Hermione’s hand. He wishes someone was here.

But he’s strong enough to do this alone. He can do this.

“And, how are you?” Draco asks, desperately wanting to change the subject. He realizes that he’s
never asked his father how he was doing. It was never something that seemed organic enough to
do. It felt right to do it now, though. After all these years of bottled emotions.

Lucius clears his throat. “Surviving.”

There’s a long moment of silence between them before Lucius speaks again.

“I know who has helped you.”

Draco dreaded this part of the conversation. Any chance he has to celebrate and praise Hermione
for helping him, he does it in an instant. He’d worship her name every moment of the day if he
could—defend her to every single person he’d come across, friend or stranger.

But there’s still something so raw and intimidating about his father and their relationship, and it
causes him anxiety in this moment about coming clean of his bond with Hermione.

He does it regardless, because she deserves to be honored.

“She didn't just help me. She saved me.”

Lucius’s face twitches, but then he nods. “Very well.”

Another period of silence.

Draco breaks the stillness.

“I don’t know if the life you once planned for me is what I have in mind for myself. I don’t think it
ever was. I’m very different from the boy I once was.” Cautiously, Draco folds up his sleeves to
display his tattoos. He sees Lucius inhale a deep, disgusted breath at the sight of the ink on Draco’s
porcelain skin, and then his nostrils flare, and that’s how Draco knows that Lucius doesn’t like the
art—doesn’t understand it. “I think I needed to see and experience what happens on the other side
of the world to appreciate humanity for what it is. Messy. Complicated. Full of trials.” Draco rolls
his sleeves back down. “I am glad that you taught me all the things you did. I am glad you instilled
those principles in me. Because it made it so damn easy to realize just how wrong we were about
them once I was in the thick of it.”

“Muggles, you mean,” Lucius whispers, with a hint of distaste.

“Yes. There are very good ones. They helped me get better. I don’t think any witch or wizard
could’ve done what they did.”

Lucius purses his lips and nods. “They are helping your mother as well.”

Draco quietly gasps. “So, you trust them?”

“Unconditionally.”

Draco slowly approaches his father and extends his hand. Lucius peers down at the open palm,
then slowly grabs Draco’s hand. Shakes it slowly, and thrice. While studying his eyes.

“When she returns…”

“I will inform you,” Lucius replies, recoiling his hand and setting it back at his side.

Draco nods. “Thank you.”

 With his business at the manor feeling complete—complete enough for today, that is—Draco
offers one final, parting nod before turning and walking back to the door.

But before he exits, Lucius speaks one more time.

“Draco.”

He turns around and faces his father.

“This is the Malfoy home, and so you are… you are welcome here.”

Draco offers a small smile, knowing that his emotionless father must have struggled to say
something like that. It was a warmer statement that he was used to hearing from his father, and so it
does shock him to hear that he is welcome here. Perhaps the loneliness is eating his father from the
inside. Perhaps his son is the second-best thing to his wife. Perhaps this manor is far too empty
without another Malfoy.

Still, despite all those possibilities, Draco knows that this is not his home anymore. He knows
where home is, and it’s not in these cold, stale walls, but somewhere a little brighter. Somewhere
overwhelmingly golden.

“Thank you, father,” he responds, “but my home is somewhere else now.”

The last thing Draco sees in the drawing room is Lucius nodding once.

And then he closes the door behind him, breathing in the stale air of the manor, recognizing that
this is nothing like the smell of Hermione, home, and where he truly belongs.

Home is far more golden than this.

Chapter End Notes

thank you all again for your patience. one more chapter to go <3

"when will you update when will it be posted when's the next update" my answer is I
have no idea but I'll be DAMNED if I don't finish this fanfiction. trust me, it's coming.
 Epilogue 3
Chapter Notes

thank you for this incredible ride. enjoy the last moments with your favorite group of
slytherins and gryffindor's golden girl:

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Christmas Eve.

This—this feels like home.

Here, sitting on a snowy patch of some blessed land across from a run-down, ragged shack,
surrounded by people she never thought she would love as much as she does, Hermione confirms
what a ‘home’ truly is.

It’s not always a physical structure with walls and furniture and a number on the door to mark its
place in the world. Instead, it’s comfort mixed with strife—a perpetual journey of wanting to be
better and learning from mistakes and reconciling and forgiving and every single thing in between.

Finding her home was difficult but so worth it to reach this moment in time. All the toiling, the
denying, the fighting, the yearning, the complications and the simplicity of it all—it was all worth
it to spend a second Christmas Eve with the Slytherins in one of their favorite places.

Hermione is also positive that this is her home because of the wonder before her in the form of six
resilient, determined Slytherins. Her friends survived it all—persevered through the worst
situations, the harshest reality, things they never should have been exposed to—and came out on
the other side stronger, all in their own unique ways.

This is what she knows for sure:

Pansy is the most honest, driven person she has ever met. She has a harsh exterior, defined by
sharp cheekbones and a glare that could cut steel, but when you pierce that exterior and earn her
trust, you have a partner for life. You have a person who simply wants to give and feel the love she
was never granted—the love she never believed existed because she never saw it in her own life.

Daphne is the most loyal woman she has ever seen. She lost her memories, yet she stood by her
friends and simply accepted them as her eminent, unquestionable family. She has a heart made of
the purest cut of crystal. She is positively effervescent, with energy so warm and inviting that you
melt the second you hear her voice and know her intentions.

Theo is the bravest man she knows. Turn a corner and he is there to protect you, wand in hand and
loyalty burning fiercely in his bronze eyes. His dedication to defending his friends and maintaining
harmony is unmatched, carried out with a grace she has never seen before. And he is the most
impressive wizard she has seen in a very long time, using his gifts only for the greater good.

Blaise is the most resilient man in the entire world. He would do anything to save his friends—save
the people he loves. He’s incredibly smart and level-headed but simultaneously passionate, willing
to work himself to death to make a difference in his friends’ lives. Hermione looks into his wear
eyes and at his calloused hands and knows that it is all in the name of love.

Adrian is the kindest soul with the strongest heart. With every embrace, every conversation, and
every glance, Adrian knows how to make you feel like everything will be okay, and the most
incredible and fucked up part about it is that he could be suffering under a thousand different
burdens, and he would still find a way to make you feel safe and loved before himself. Hidden
behind those beautiful sage eyes could lie such deep torture—such painful memories—and yet he
would still love you as much as you would consider loving him. And that takes a special kind of
person—a person constructed by an unexplored, overflowed, special type of grace.

And Draco…

Hermione can’t decide if there are no words or too many words for Draco Malfoy.

Because Draco is both nothing and everything that Hermione once thought he could be, and that is
a million marvelous things.

Before she can begin to list those beautiful things in her mind like an infinite poem, Hermione feels
Draco’s hand reach over and envelop hers. They’re seated together on a blanket atop the light layer
of snow, shoulder to shoulder, a heating charm keeping them warm in the crisp winter wind. She
loses her train of thought almost instantly because it feels like planets are aligning when he takes
her hand—when she feels his pulse pump against her palm.

She turns her head up and looks at Draco—connects her eyes with his like she has done so many
times before—yet it’s like she’s looking at him for the first time every time; butterflies release
throughout her stomach when she sees him lift the corners of his lips into that damn beautiful
smile.

“Deep in thought?” he asks, and it’s such a simple question, but she melts.

“Just trying to take this all in. Remember how perfect it is.”

His smile persists and his grip on her hand faintly tightens. “Yeah, me too.”

To Hermione’s left, on a blanket like hers, Pansy sits with her legs crossed and Theo’s head dipped
in her lap, his moppy brown hair sprawled across the denim covering her legs. She slowly strokes
those brown curls of his, giggles with admiration and gratitude, and occasionally (she’s become
much more comfortable expressing silly versions of love) tapping his nose with the tip of her index
finger.

It’s that quaint but public display of love that confirms how much work Pansy has done to
experience love in its purest form.

And to Hermione’s right, Daphne, Blaise, and Adrian sit on another blanket, and they’re chatting
away like the steadfast group of friends they are and have always been. Hermione particularly
notices Daphne’s mannerisms—the breadth and slope of her smile, the twist of her hair around her
fingers, and the jovial rose tainting her cheeks—as being far more comfortable than what they
were only several months before; with all the time that has passed and all the work she has done to
remember—all the late nights with Blaise as he described every single moment of their lives
together—Daphne evidently appears content and calm.

Home—undeniably. All of it. The sights, the sounds, the feelings associated.

Hermione leans her head in towards Draco. “Any update from Blaise about work?” she whispers to
him as he cranes his neck down to let her lips trace against his ear.

“Nothing so far.” His eyes fall to his lap. “Reversing memory loss is practically impossible.”

“Blaise will be the one to do it,” Hermione asserts, nodding her head as she glances in his direction
—watches as he smiles at Daphne with such love and hope in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Draco agrees, delicately taking Hermione’s chin between his fingers and turning her head
to face his so that they are only inches away. She can feel his breath upon her lips, smell the
crispness of his recently melted breath mint. “You’re right.”

She takes this moment to stare into Draco’s eyes—yes, something she loves to do more than
anything else in the world—when time and time again she can confirm how beautiful they are.
How much the world would lose were he to not be here today.

They’re two diamonds in a sea of pebbles; two bright moons that span the entire galaxy; two silver
stones that stand against every other color and always win. She wants to dive into them and swim
in their glow, but instead settles for his lips, pressing hers slowly to his.

She simply ascends when she kisses him—discovers a new planet every time their lips meet. She’d
explore space and time forever if she could, latched onto him as both a cannon and an anchor.

“Bonjour, lovebirds. Mind if I squeeze in?”

Hermione reluctantly pulls away and glares at Adrian, who has stealthily jumped from his blanket
to theirs and now sits in front of them. His cheeky smile is all Hermione needs to see to forgive him
for interrupting.

Draco is less forgiving. He flares his nostrils and rolls his eyes at his friend, but Hermione detects
that it is an expression dipped in amity. “Sure, that’s just fine.” His tone is sarcastic.

Adrian smiles like a little boy and tuts. “Oh tush, Dracy-poo. You see her every day at home. I, on
the other hand, haven’t seen this sweet bird—” he taps Hermione’s nose— “in over three weeks.
Won’t you let me borrow her for just a moment?”

Draco steals one more kiss on the cheek for good measure, and with a subsequent adverse roll of
his eyes, he rises and leaves them. Trudges towards Blaise and gives him a hug over the shoulder,
followed by a gentle squeeze of Daphne’s arm.

Quick to take Draco’s places, Adrian quickly wraps his left arm over Hermione’s shoulder, leans
backwards, and tugs her down onto her back so that they lie next to each other, both looking up at
the overcast but bright sky in a fit of giggles.

“Oh, I’ve missed you, Granger.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she says back, glancing at him quickly and admiring how at peace he looks
gazing up at the sky. “How have you been holding up?”

Adrian takes in a deep breath and purses his lips—a clear sign of uncomfortableness. “I’d be lying
straight to your face—and you know I don’t like lying to you—if I said life was any easier off the
drugs.”

It’s not what Hermione wanted to hear, but she knows the complicated realities of not just
addiction but also recovery. She’s seen the same sentiments in Draco every day as he undergoes
the same climb. She’s heard Draco’s pleas when he breaks down in pain from the intense
withdrawal and the desire to use again— “this is too hard… it’s too fucking hard… I can’t do it…
please, Hermione, put me out of my misery… it’s too fucking hard…” – with each cry she feels his
pain like a thousand stabs to the heart, and yet she has to remain strong and practical through it all.

She can see how hard it is for Draco and how much of a toll it has taken on his body and his health.
And now she hears those same struggles from Adrian—that it isn’t easy, that every day is a battle
with his own inner demons—and she wants to break for him.

She is also resolute to be strong because at the very least he deserves that.

Hermione reaches for Adrian’s hand—grasps it and holds on tight. “I know it’s hard. But you are
the strongest person I know.”

Adrian smiles. “You’ve really got a way of making a man feel special,” he teases, and that garners
a little chuckle from Hermione.

“Have you been keeping in touch with Olivia?”

“Tea every Saturday, unless her schedule impedes.” Adrian tilts his head to look at Hermione with
those big brown eyes, and she can sense there’s a joke, a comment, a funny remark coming soon.
“Don’t worry—she’ll never take your place as my favorite person to talk to, though.”

“We have had some memorable conversations, haven’t we?”

“Some of my favorites of all time.”

“And Harry?”

Adrian sighs melodiously. Hermione knows that they decided to take their relationship—if one
could even call it that—as slow as possible, for Harry was still trying to work through the feelings
he knew were in his heart. There was no denying it: Harry loved Adrian and Adrian loved Harry—
practically worshipped him for that matter—but there were so many things to be worked out that
they had decided to take it as slow as possible.

“D’you know,” he starts, a genuine smile crossing his lips, “I think about relapsing a lot. All the
time. But all I have to do is think about Harry, and suddenly that terrible feeling… it doesn’t fully
go away, but it’s suppressed.” His eyes meet Hermione’s. “Have his eyes ever done that to you?
Just made you feel so… safe?”

Hermione smiles, thinking about her effortless relationship with Harry. “All the time,” she
whispers back. “He’s a very special person.”

Then, it happens. A wall shatters, and Adrian lets those repressed emotions through.

And it’s beautiful.

“I don’t regret any of it, you know,” he says to Hermione. “And I know that might sound fucked
up, and I get it. The choices I made at Hogwarts and even after were despicable. The things I
thought and said were horrific. I’d never make those choices now in my life, you know. But if I
didn’t make them then, I wouldn’t know now how to ask for forgiveness. Or ask for help. And
worst of all, I would never have met you in this special way. I would’ve gone through life without
knowing what real love and friendship is, and that… that is fucked to even consider.” He turns his
head to meet her eyes. “Hermione, I don’t regret any of it because it never would’ve led us to this
moment right here.”
“Adrian,” she whispers, feeling a tear roll down her cheek.

He smiles delicately. “This is why I hate deep conversations,” he says, taking his finger and wiping
that tear away. “I hate seeing my golden girl cry, unless it’s from laughing too hard.”

Finally, Adrian rises in a seated position, and Hermione follows his motion.

“I’ve kept you long enough,” Adrian says. Before departing, he leans over and embraces Hermione
tightly. “Stop being a bloody stranger and visit me when you can, yeah?”

She lets her head fall into the space atop his shoulder and takes in his scent. “I will. I promise.”

Adrian smiles and pulls away. “I know you never break your promises. I’m holding you to it.”

He finally departs, and as Hermione watches him walk away, her mind drifts into a series of
thoughts surrounding what Adrian told her about not regretting anything.

It was worth it, wasn’t it?

Hermione has trouble considering that question.

Starting at Hogwarts, was it worth it? The teasing, the bullying, the harassing? The terrible way
they made her feel about herself? The disgusted glances and the closed hearts? Was it worth it to
be where they are today?

And the drugs, the high, the constant euphoria. Was it worth feeling all those things?

Was it worth the withdrawals, the relapses, the loss of a friend, and the dreadful recoveries?

Yes, it all led them here to this moment, but gods the journey was dangerous. Treacherous. Life-
threatening and traumatizing and educational but it was fate, fate, yes, it was fate more than
anything else. All the things that led to this moment were all a part of fate—

Suddenly, Hermione smells this luxurious perfume, and she can only assume one thing. Her
suspicions are confirmed when she looks over and sees Daphne seated next to her in the spot
Adrian was just residing. Daphne smiles at Hermione, not with her teeth but instead in the subtle
curve of her rosy lips upwards.

There’s something different about Daphne after her accident. Not bad—never bad, for Daphne was
as close to a pure soul as Hermione had ever known. But something more mature and stoic.
Impersonal, at times, which wasn’t her fault. A memory wiped could do that to anyone who was
unlucky enough to experience it—fall victim to its wickedness. Daphne is no different. Even
through her smile she looks so damn unlike her old self.

Daphne doesn’t speak at first, just looks out towards the Shrieking Shack and despondently sighs,
her chest rising and falling slowly. Hermione contemplates her mood—tries to interpret the solemn
smile on her face—and without breaking boundaries asks if she is alright.

“‘Alright’,” Daphne repeats, shifting her gaze from the shack to her friends. She exhales a breath
that Hermione detects has a hidden meaning and continues to stare in wonder at her friends, almost
like she is looking for something. “Honestly, Hermione, I don’t know how I feel.”

Hermione’s heart skips a beat. She doesn’t know what to ask, or where to go from here. Just waits
for Daphne to finally return her gaze back to Hermione, but when she does, Hermione notices a
single tear forming in the corner of Daphne’s eye.
“Daph…” she says, delicately reaching out her hand to wipe the tear away.

“I just wish I could remember…” She pauses, dropping her head for a moment and then, with all
the strength in the world (because god knows she is resilient), lifting it again to look at Hermione.
“They’ve been talking about all the times we’ve been here before but I just… I don’t remember. I
wish I could replay those moments in my head rather than hear Blaise tell me about them because
it’s just not the same.”

Hermione nods understandingly. “I can’t imagine how frustrating that is.”

“Blaise told me he was the one who should’ve been Obliviated—that I jumped in front of the curse
and took it for him.” She glances quickly at Blaise, who is laughing with his friends—shining
those perfect teeth and squinting those beautiful eyes in merry pursuit. “He says that he used to tell
me to remember all the good times we had when we were having them. That they would bring me
strength in the future. I feel like I’m failing him because… I can’t remember anything.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“I know,” Daphne sighs. “I know. I can’t believe how good he is. How patient he’s been with me
as I’ve worked through everything.” She looks at Hermione with a glint of hope in her eyes. “He
comes home from St. Mungo’s every day with news about his research. ‘The research is going
well.’ ‘We made some progress today.’ ‘We’ve hired more Healers and interns and researchers to
help find a cure.’ But, Hermione, can I be honest with you for a moment?”

“Always.”

For the first time since their conversation began, Daphne smiles. “Of course, I’d love those
memories back. And I appreciate everything he’s done and is still doing for me. But I’m conflicted.
I want nothing more than to see how we used to be, but I also…” Her smile widens, like that of a
schoolgirl with a crush. “Hermione, I reallylove falling in love with him all over again.”

A massive smile appears on Hermione’s face at the sound of those words—Daphne is falling in
love with Blaise again.

And how couldn’t she?

Blaise was her everything, and through the test of time memories, he remains her everything.

“I’m so happy to hear you say that,” Hermione says, taking her hand and squeezing it. Daphne’s
fingers are cold but immediately warmed through her touch.

Daphne squeezes back—it’s so comforting. “Thank you for not giving up on us.”

“No. Thank you. You may not remember it, but from the start of our journey together you were so
welcoming, so nice, so warm, and I just… I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through all of it
were it not for your kindness and acceptance.”

“I wish I could remember those moments,” Daphne says. “But then again, I like being your friend
all over again, too.”

Hermione smiles. “I like that too.”

With one final smile and a hug that could make even the evilest person melt, Daphne rises and
walks back to Blaise, leaving Hermione’s heart a puddle of gratefulness. When he sees her sit
beside him, he smiles as if he’s in the presence of a goddess, and when she rests her head on his
shoulder and holds his hand in hers, he drops his head onto hers and inhales deeply—Hermione
watches his back rise and fall in content.

Her heart overflowing with love in this moment, Hermione rises and takes a moment to compose
herself as she walks to the wooden fence that separates them and the Shrieking Shack. She leans
against the wood and inhales deeply, grateful for the memories she has of this place. Snow floats
from the sky and lands all around her—on her hair, her hands, her coat, everywhere.

Suddenly, without warning, he’s next to her. It’s like she intuitively beckoned him to join her in
this perfect moment.

“What’s on your mind this time?” Draco asks, his arm snaking around her back and his hand
gripping the wood so that she is pulled close to his side.

“I was thinking about the last time we were here.” She looks up at him, a cheeky grin on her face.
“You made me some delicious mince pies for Christmas.”

“I remember,” Draco says, leaning in closer and kissing the side of her head. “More of those to
come soon.”

“Did you ever think you’d be here with me? Under these circumstances?”

Draco contemplates her question for a moment. “Never. But you’re made of surprises, Granger.”

“So are you.”

“You’re made of a lot of wonderful things, really.”

“Like?”

Draco snickers. “I don’t know if it’s your golden heart or your predisposition to goodness, but you
have something inside of you so warm it was almost impossible to not fall in love with you. I never
realized I was capable of such emotions until I saw you that day at the ministry.” He turns to face
her, his chest so close to hers that she can feel his heartbeat. “Because when you came into my life
again, and you wiped the blood from my nose and held my head up and gave me that antidote, I
just knew you were going to be the one to push me to be better. But damnit, that was a fucking
terrifying thought. I was terrified of you because you were going to be the one to help me see that
life could be better than what it was. I was terrified of you because you believed in me, and no one
has ever done that before. And now everything around me feels… golden.” He smiles. “I’ve made
it to my Golden Age, and it feels amazing.”

“Your Golden Age,” Hermione repeats, remembering when he first mentioned what that meant to
him and gleaming at the thought. “You really think you’ve made it?”

Draco nods, pulling Hermione in so that her lips connect with his. He kisses her with the light she
always knew was inside of him, feeding her everything he has with that connection. His fingers
trail up her neck and lose themselves in her hair. When he releases her, Draco dips his forehead to
hers. It’s all slow and momentous and incredibly warm.

“Yes, Granger. Time has slowed down just enough to give me this golden moment.”

Time in all its complexity. It’s haunted Hermione in the past—how it moves too fast or too slow.
How she could never seem to grip it tight enough to name what the moment in time truly felt like.

With Draco able to do so, Hermione settles in the comfort of his words.
 Those sweet, perfect words.

Hermione could drown in his poetry, and Draco could drown in her grace.

If time so let them.

Chapter End Notes

for information on binding happy pills, please be on the lookout for my official
statement on my twitter and tumblr.

there are so many people I have to thank for making it here that I simply do not know
where to begin. bear with me.

first, to all of my old writing teachers. y'all did your job and it SHOWS
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ILY !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

second, to my closest friends in the dhr fandom, walmart and waitrose. Carmen, Ellie,
Beth -- I would be nowhere if it weren't for your constant support of my writing. I love
you three more than life itself and am so lucky to have you as my best friends. you've
been there for me since the beginning, and I cannot believe you have stuck around
with me for this long. I will cherish our facetimes, jokes, and friendship forever. I love
you all so much.

to kelly, you are one of the strongest people I know. thank you for your support
throughout this whole journey. I am so grateful you were brought into my life to teach
me how to love myself and be strong. I love you.

to nic, who loved adrian the hardest. the way you loved this story was so special and
heartwarming. I am so thankful for you and love you very very much.

on that vein, to my brother who inspired the direction I took with Adrian's character!
he is the strongest person I know. I've seen him laugh and bring others laughter
through so much pain, and I would do anything to take that pain away from him. he
deserves the whole world.

to everyone who made happy pills art or edits or playlists or anything creative -- I am
so grateful that you poured yourself into something so beautiful and inspired by my
story. I want to give you a million kisses and all of my money. I love love love you.

to everyone on twitter and tiktok who has reached out with stories of how this story
has impacted them. your vulnerability inspired me every time I thought about how
difficult and painful it was to write this story. I would not have finished this fanfiction
without your support, honesty, bravery, and life in general.

and to my readers -- each and every single one of you -- you are my rocks. my
everything. I couldn't have done this without you.

I wish I could thank everyone I've ever interacted with and list out your names and say
the many things I love about you, but that would take as long as it took for me to finish
this story. and you know who you are. from the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU. I
 never expected this to happen to me, but here I am, finishing this story, and it feels like
I am entering my own golden age too.

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