Never Enough

Chapter Four: Meds

Draco had no idea what to expect. Dear God, is it going to hurt? Why would it hurt if someone could easily get addicting pleasure from it? Draco's eyes widened to the size of reasonably large tea saucers.Bloody hell, I fell for a masochist. He sighed and cursed silently to himself. It took two deep breaths for Draco to panic less. He didn't know why he was so paranoid; maybe it was the thought of doing something illegal. Just the very thought of it started him on a new round of hyperventilation.

"You know, Harry, I'm n-not liking the idea of this anymore," Draco said shakily.

Harry laughed. "Not to worry, my dear. It's not an idea anymore; it is reality."

Draco stared at Harry for a few seconds, hoping Harry would understand what an imbecile he was being and snap out of the phase. Absolutely nothing changed. Draco rubbed his eyes in frustration. He blinked a few times and then realized something about the atmosphere was different. The hues of the bathroom boosted, making the colors seem more brilliant. Draco shielded his eyes from the brightness.

Harry looked over at Draco, finally noting his inexperience. He smiled wickedly and pinched Draco's cheek. "You'll get used to it, darling."

As Draco listened to Harry's words of comfort, they echoed off of the walls. The words made his head spin and he fell back onto the wall behind him. With his eyes still covered, Draco listened as Harry sniffed, which Draco figured supplied Harry's body with more heroin. Amidst the drug-induced high, Draco still felt dizzy and his ears continuously rung. The worried part of his brain still lingered, with thoughts of regret hanging above him like looming rain clouds. Draco looked through the creases between his fingers and quickly shut his eyes.

This is going to last forever, the bad thoughts loomed, this will never be just a 'one-time deal'.

Draco peeked through his hands once more and noticed his eyes had adjusted to the luminosity of the room very well. Draco's pupils shrank and his pulse quickened. As the drug dramatically kicked in, all worries and rational thought were pushed to the back of his mind. Euphoria had finally struck him and he smiled at the floor, which—he could have sworn—grinned back. Draco sat up and hastily grabbed and held Harry's hand, afraid that he wouldn't be able to grasp this feeling ever again.


It wasn't long before Harry's eyes squinted shut. His hand tightened around Draco's. Draco didn't understand what was happening; the only pain Draco felt was in his hand. The drug hadn't lost its effect for Draco, but for Harry it was lessening. Harry started breathing heavily.

Draco was confused, although a sly grin hid it. "What's the trouble?"

Harry quickly pulled his hand away and massaged his temples, hoping it was just one of those quick aches that would go away within a matter of minutes. When the feeling didn't pass, he began to fiddle with his bag of golden brown.

Maybe it was the drug or just a dream—as of now he couldn't remember which--but everything that Draco saw looked as if it came out of theAlice in Wonderland book. He had read the novel several times in his youth and had to admit, it was pretty trippy. Looking left and right, the inanimate objects that once took place in his bathroom had started to grow and shrink like in an imperfect mirror. As mad as this was, Draco remained calm, because something that was still accessible in his mind told him that everything was going to be alright as long as he would just let everything be as it may.

He focused back at Harry, who finally was able to pour out a line of the powder. Draco studied Harry's swift motions. It was like (as if) watching a ballet on television; pressing the fast forward and slow button (on the remote) as the graceful dancer sped up and slowed down. With the straw in his nostril, Harry drew up a perfect line of heroin.

Harry sat back next to Draco, obviously enjoying the beatific relief.

Draco looked at Harry, then at the floor, then at Harry again. Uncertainty washed over him like waves on a shoreline. He wasn't sure if Harry was the one he wanted to spend his life with, but he wanted to tell him how he felt, nonetheless.

"Harry, I—uh," Draco muttered. He brushed his hand along Harry's chin, guiding Harry's face so their eyes locked. "I love you."

After seeing Harry look pleased, he felt relieved and smirked. But the smirk quickly faded. Something was wrong with Draco. He felt dizzy and tired at the exact same time.

"I love you, too," were the last words Draco heard before he blacked out.


The doorbell rang persistently as Draco woke up from losing consciousness the previous night. He raised himself off of the hard tile and wiped the saliva off of his cheek. Draco glanced at his silver wristwatch.11:13 P.M., it read. He looked around the bathroom. Empty. Damn, he thought.He sighed deeply as the doorbell sounded again. Surprisingly enough, he didn't falter while getting up, although staying upright was tricky. It felt as if he had been whacked in the back of the head with a shovel. When the doorbell pealed for a third time, the sound dragged on and rang in Draco's ears for longer than it should have. He staggered into the hallway, experiencing the worst vertigo. Draco finally crashed into the wall, taking a few beloved portraits with him. One in particular crashed squarely on the top of Draco's head and glass shattered everywhere. It was a picture of his father, mother and himself.

He stood once more, brushing bits of glass from his hair and shoulders. He left the mess, figuring he'd clean it up, or not. It all depended if he was up to the task. Upon reaching his front door, he wished the visitor had decided to leave upon Draco's failure to answer his door. The eyehole suggested other plans for today; the guest stayed persistently at the door, smoking a cigarette. Draco ran his fingers through his hair and opened the door. The guest was Harry, which Draco just noticed Harry must have left while he was unconscious.

A cheery Harry Potter spoke instantly. "Come to work with me!" He blew a puff of smoke in Draco's face.

"What?" Draco coughed and tried waving the smoke away from his face. Funny, he wondered, it doesn't smell like tobacco smoke.

"Come...to my employment facility...with me," he reiterated slowly, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

"What, is it 'Bring Your Gay, Heroin-Addicted Lover to Work' Day already?" Draco commented in an irritable yet sarcastic manner, checking his wristwatch again.

"Yeah," Harry replied with a huge grin, bemused with a smoke ring he created, "Didn't you get the letter?"

"Hmm, no I don't recall. I must have been working that day," Draco smiled back, calmer now that he was mostly awake.

"You? Work? Last time, I remember you telling me that your father did all the work!" Harry retorted back.

Draco's smile dropped immediately averted his eyes. For the few days that he had spent with Harry was the longest time Draco had gone without thinking about his father. Draco had never been able to feel so free from his dejection until now.

Harry looked confused. "What's wrong?"

Everything, you git, he wanted to say.

"Nothing. Let's go," was the smug replacement.


Imprints of shoes were left in the light snow under the grey morning. Hands warming in his jacket pockets, Draco struggled to keep up with Harry, who was skipping. Draco grinned slightly at the sight of him. The brunette skipped made him look quite feminine, with the way his hips were swaying and his arms swinging wildly. Maybe if he wore a short gingham dress with a petticoat...wait, what? Draco chuckled, imagining Harry in such attire.

"Oi, Harry! Slow down a bit, will you?" Draco yelled. Harry stopped, turned, and pouted with his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Draco jogged to where Harry had thrown a silent fit and they continued on together.

Harry started shivering, which Draco automatically put his arm around him. "We could have taken my car; it would have been loads faster than legging it."

"I need fresh air for smoking," was the quick reply.

"I do have windows in my car that roll up and down," Draco reminded.

Harry blushed. "Oh, right."

The two were silent as the turned a corner. The Café Charmant was in sight, which meant they were close to the bookshop. Draco let his arm fall to his side so he could stick his freezing hand in his jacket pockets.

"You are smoking tobacco, right?" Draco asked.

"Oh, fuck no. It's that shit we sniffed the day before." Harry said rather loudly, taking another drag.

Draco stopped in his tracks. "You must be messing with me," Harry looked back with pure honesty readable on his face. Draco walked up to Harry and whispered in his ear. "You do realize that we are in public, and people can easily tell if a person is acting the least bit strange. It is called suspicion."

"Well, I believe in a little thing called 'not caring'. God, Draco, do you ever stop worrying? You need to take a breather," Harry said. "Here," he handed Draco the heroin disguised as a tobacco cigarette, "breathe this."

Draco took the cigarette abruptly and Harry turned away, continuing to skip along the frosted pavement. The blonde's nostrils flared in anger at the way Harry treated him. He wanted to scream at the sky, but he just stood there, eyes focusing on the bleeding imbecile. A strong urge to run up to Harry and kill him on spot phased over him. His brow furrowed. He had never felt like this about someone so much, that little prat must have been brought up like that and would always be that way. Draco honestly didn't know why he would not bring up the courage to dump Harry. Maybe it was because he actually wanted to stay in a relationship longer than a month, or perhaps when he said "I love you" to him, he actually meant it. Plus, he might be acting this way because of the heroin, like a side effect.

Draco looked at the cigarette for a long while; a long trail of smoke beckoned him to inhale it just once. Draco raised his head, staring at Harry in the distance. He sighed, and then drew an immense puff into his lungs. Knowing the mind-blowing effect wouldn't happen for another fifteen minutes or so, Draco decided it was safe to catch up to Harry by running. He perched the cigarette between his lips and ran. A few older women sipping their morning tea caught his eye; he noticed them nattering about him up the road. They were probably mainly gossiping about his father and recognized his son. Draco sprinted past the old ladies and the café. He put his hand on Harry's shoulder to stop him. Draco bent over to catch his breath, his hands placed firmly on his knees.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth and handed it to Harry. "Take it!" he gasped, "I'm feeling...much better now."

Harry grabbed the cigarette with his index and middle fingers. "Draco, I'm not feeling to well. Can we just rest a bit?"

"We can see the bookshop from here. You shouldn't be late for work, either."

"It's fine, Draco. The old bat doesn't even know where she is half the time." Harry snorted.

Draco straightened up and started to walk again. "Who?"

"Clara, the shopkeeper of London's Literature. That has to be the barmiest name for a bookshop. London's Literature?" Harry laughed. "She might as well have called it 'See if you can find anything in this hellhole and pay me profusely for it'! Because that's exactly what she's doing with the rubbish she calls 'important literature'."

Draco continued to walk. "And you are still working there, why?" The blonde waited for the response. "Harry?" Draco heard a thud behind him. He turned and saw Harry collapsed on the ground. The old ladies who were drinking their tea had gathered around Harry, wondering aloud what they should do. Draco hurried to the limp body on the snowy ground, pushing his way through the worried women.

Draco held Harry's face in his hands and tapped his cheeks. "Harry? Harry, wake up!" Wonderful. I killed him already.

He looked through the snow, not knowing what to do. He looked behind him to see if the women had fluttered off. All but one had shrunk back. An older woman in a long, loud purple and pea green coat with a matching hat stepped up to Draco. "Good morning. My name is Angela Crasbrey. Excuse me for bothering, but my friends," she pointed behind her to a pack of women wearing the same outfits as Angela, "and I were all wondering if are you Lucius Malfoy's son?"

Draco stopped tending to Harry. He brushed the hair from his face in one swift move and put on his best fake smile. Still kneeling on the ground next to Harry, Draco turned up to the old woman. He tried his hardest to soften his face through the inferior hatred towards the person that stood before him for bringing up his father for the second time today. "Why, yes I am."

The woman turned back to her friends and cried, "I was right! It is that designers' son!"

One of Angela's friends screeched back. "Wasn't he the one that committed suicide?"

Angela, her back still turned to Draco, spoke back. "No, no! That was his wife. She killed herself a few days after he died of heart—oh! What was it...heart—"

"Failure." Draco whispered.

Angela turned to Draco and smiled. She turned back to her friends once again. "Yes, he died of heart failure."

Stab, stab, stab went Angela's words through his heart. It had been now three months since Lucius' heart stopped; couldn't people be the least bit considerate? Draco turned back to Harry to see if he had woken up. Nothing. He shook Harry's face and called his name a few more times. Still nothing. His fingers traced his neck to find a pulse. Good. I—or it—didn't kill him.

"I'm so terribly sorry to hear about your father," Angela continued (Oh fantastic. She's still blabbering.) "He was my absolute favorite designer. My entire wardrobe is filled with everything by Lucius Designs. I'm not pulling your leg or anything; you can even come by my home and take a peek at all of your father's wonderful creations! Oh, but you should know them all by heart. I'm sure he let you look at the designs before they went to retail..."

Draco shook his head. Funny, I don't remember my father making clothes for ugly old cows as you are, Draco wish he had said. Instead, he didn't say anything and got a sharp pain in the back of his head. The blow wasn't from Angela; she was serenely soaking up Draco's company. The hit had come from Harry, who had woken up. He did anything to let Draco know he was awake. First he had softly called Draco's name, which didn't work so well because Draco was busy loathing Angela. After not being able to think of what else to do, Harry gathered strength in his arm to whack Draco in the head, which worked surprisingly well.

"Harry! You're awake!" Draco was relieved.

"Yeah, how did you guess that?" Harry said, sitting up and rubbing his head wound from the fall. "What happened?"

"The fall was caused by the inability of you—" Draco was interrupted.

"My friends and I saw you fall, so we rushed over and learned that your friend here is the son of Lucius Malfoy! He is quite the charmer, you know." Angela chirped, grinning playfully at Draco.

Harry stared at Draco. "Your father was—" He stopped before things could get worse. Draco looked away.

"You didn't know? If I was friends with Draco, I would surely know everything about him. Isn't he a fair resemblance of his father?" Angela continued on. Harry nodded, studying Draco's face. Harry's mother always idolized Lucius Malfoy as a designer, owning many pieces of his collection. He never really noticed until know how much he looked like Lucius, mainly because every time he was with Draco, he was either high or flat pissed.

As Angela continued to drone on about Lucius, Harry occasionally nodded and turned back to Draco, who was silently mocking the old woman. Harry got the message that Draco strongly disliked Angela Crasbrey.

"...and when I saw on the telly that he had died, and so young too, I was a wreck. I didn't eat for at least three—"

"Excuse me, err..." Harry said.

"Angela Crasbrey, very pleased to meet you..." Angela said, holding out her hand in greeting.

Harry lightly held her hand then let go. Draco turned to see what Harry was going to do next. "Alan Squire. Angela, would you mind if you could adjust your—your knickers. They are showing and they are just distracting me from paying the slightest bit attention to your fascinating story." Harry held in a snicker, composing himself to be the "Alan" character.

Angela's eyes grew so wide that both Harry and Draco thought her eyes were going to pop right out of her skull. She was completely speechless. Before she could utter a single vowel, she straightened her prized outfit.

"I—you—" She turned and spoke to Draco, as if Harry were vetoed from the conversation. "I think it is best that you get immediate help for your friend, Alan. I've never met anyone as rude as he." With a "humph", she turned her heel and returned to her friends, ready as ever to tell them about "Alan".

Draco and Harry sat on the pavement sniggering at what had just happened. Draco rose himself from the frozen ground. He helped Harry get up, slinging Harry's arm around his shoulder and placing his hand in Harry's waist. They hadn't walked one meter before Harry said he had forgotten something. Harry limped back to where he lay and picked up a soggy, half-burnt cigarette that was in a pile of mush. He perched the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and hobbled back to Draco, finding his place in Draco's arms once more.


Upon reaching the front door of the bookshop, Harry stopped and faced Draco directly.

"Look, Draco. I'm sorry," Harry sighed, "I'm sorry for being a git. I was agitated because I was evicted from my flat for not paying the rent in three months. My mate on another floor offered for me to live with him as long as I paid half the rent, and everyone knows it's more than my job's worth. So you could dub me 'homeless'."

Draco took the cigarette from Harry's mouth and took a puff. "Then come live with me. Obviously everyone knows I'm loaded, so why not?" Harry smiled. He snatched the cigarette back and took a long drag. He took Draco's arm and led him to the shop.

The outside of London's Literature looked exactly the same on the inside, minus the weather. The sign on the face of the shop spelled the name in cream-colored cursive letters with the rest of the sign in a dark forest green. Below the cursive letters showed the shop owner, painted over from family to kin. The new owner, Clara Kenstone, had her name spelled in bold, light blue letters. Next to her name was the established date, which was March 15th, 1922.

The inside of the shop looked as cracked and aged as the sign. The wooden floors would squeak in certain spots around the shop. The bookshelves and counter were worn with age. The walls that could be seen were painted with a faded scarlet; the rest of the wall was either covered in bookshelves or abstract art. The only light that was attainable through the shop were the two large front windows, except for the back of the store where there was a bare bulb with a stray pulley hanging from it.

There weren't many people who actually bought books from London's Literature. From what Harry guessed, there was an average of eight customers per week. And from what Harry also guessed, the frequent customers probably feel bad for the older-than-stone-age shopkeeper, so they supply her with profits. It was a possibility that one or two of them were newcomers, but the rest were always coming in for their fix of vintage books, whether for recreation or show. The latest book that Clara has in her shop was written in the mid-1980s, meaningFirestarter and A Perfect Spy were left on the shelves to revel in their youth amongst other hundred-year old books.

Clara Kenstone was a completely different story. She was a short, thin woman in her late 70s. She had wild gray hair that stuck out every which way. Her red-rimmed circular glasses magnified the crows feet peeking from the corner of her color-changing eyes. Clara always wore shawls and elaborate pieces of cloth. She wouldn't be able to be picked out of a crowd of gypsies if one was up to the challenge. Her personality did not at all fit her colorful wardrobe. She was the crankiest twit anyone could meet, but once she was met with a money offer, her normally cold, hard eyes warmed to honey golden circles. Her movements were always exaggerated; this could be explained by her obsession of romance novels.

The bell rang as the door opened. Clara took a double take at the door, first thinking that it was a customer, then gasping at Harry. She waddled over to Harry as fast as she could.

"Harry Potter! You know by heart that I don't allow smoking in my shop!" Clara picked the cigarette from his mouth and threw it out into the cold. She hurried the two in and slammed the door, surprising a customer browsing in the shelves. She smugly looked at Draco and asked "Who is he?"

"An old mate of mine. We haven't seen each other for—"

"How nice," Clara said in a monotone voice. She was pretending to straighten books, but anyone could tell she was itching to make a sale. "And how was your holiday?"

"It was just—"

"Uh-huh." She couldn't take it anymore. "Can I help you, sir?" She scurried over to the man standing in the romance novel section. Harry could tell she would be over there for a while.

Draco took off his jacket and folded it on his arm. "So, this is what you do every day?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Harry sighed. He also took off his jacket and tossed it behind the counter, where he soon trudged behind to sit. Draco took a seat across from Harry on the other side of the store. A clock was heard ticking and tocking for many minutes. Draco looked at one of the nearby shelves and picked up a book.

Harry rested his head between his hands as he slouched at the counter. He was right about to fall asleep when the telephone rang abruptly. Harry jumped and blinked quite a few times to adjust to the light the snow made through the front windows. In one corner of the shop sat Draco, snickering at Harry and turning the page of a book by E. E. Cummings. Harry made a face at the blonde as the telephone rang for a second time.

"All right, all right!" the emerald-eyed man told the telephone. Before answering, he leaned back to peek behind one of the bookshelves. Clara was overly intrigued with the customer who also fancied love stories; she did not seem to notice a thing. Harry smiled and answered the telephone.

"London's Literature, what can I help you with this morning?"

"Good morning," politely answered a woman, sounding worried, "Is Harry Potter available?"

"Hi, Mum," Harry recognized the voice.

"Harry! Why wasn't your mobile on? I've called you at least six times!" she said, becoming panic stricken.

"Look, I know I haven't spoken to you in a while, but I have to get back to—"

"It's your father, dear. He's in the hospital."

Harry's heart stopped. He broke the connection between his ear and the telephone. Lily Potter was heard weeping on the other end.

"Harry," she cried, "Harry I need you." She sniffled, and then her mien went ballistic. "HARRY JAMES POT—"

Click. He hung up.

Draco looked up from his reading, staring intently at Harry. Draco threw down his book at walked up to him. Harry skin went pale, his eyes now noticeably darkened from lack of sleep. "Harry, what's wrong?"

Harry's mouth was dry. He opened his mouth then closed it, not knowing exactly what to say. The raven-haired man took off his glasses. "Do you—" Harry rubbed his tired eyes and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, "do you know how to get to Dover?"