A/N: Be sure that you've read Chapter 12 prior to diving in here. There were two posts made on the same day, so if you saw the first one, you may not have seen the full chapter that replaced it later in the day. There's important set-up for this chapter!
I thought that she would keep her promise to visit once a day, cast a spell or two with my wand, and hug it out (or whatever) for an hour or two. She'd seemed so relieved and hopeful when she'd left. Although I wished she'd told me more about how she'd been betrayed and why it had led to her banishment, I was grateful that she'd trusted me with as much as she had. It had made me feel that some trust in her wouldn't be entirely misplaced. Now, I wasn't so sure. I'd not heard from her in three days, and I was getting… concerned.
After our conversation, I took some time to think about our situations. I'd been screwing around and getting high to escape my psychological misery, and it had been marginally successful to the extent that I didn't think about my various issues while I was high, drunk, or in the midst of an orgasm. Her reasons for the same behavior were, to my mind, slightly more concrete in that she had a physical ailment she was trying to relieve. Unfortunately, it also seemed that she'd taken things further and was bordering on – if not over – the line from abuse to addiction. Looking at my own behavior in that context, I recognized that I had been behaving like the spoiled brat I'd often been accused of being.
As I considered the wisdom of cleaning up my act, I realized that I'd spent the last three days drug-free. One or two Scotches had been my drink limit, far, far less than usual. I'd been waiting around for Granger rather than venturing out to find my kicks. That's not to say that I didn't indulge in a bit of self-stimulation, but that's in a different category than substance abuse. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit shaky, but I wasn't suffering for cutting back on the booze or drugs. For all I thought that I was living an addictive hell, my physical state, at least, seemed to indicate that I was a heavy recreational user, but I hadn't quite fallen over that precipice. It meant I could decide to do something different. I could choose my own fate.
While all of that made me feel a bit less morose over my own circumstances, I began to fret rather heavily when eight o'clock on that third night passed without a word. I agonized over whether I should go out to look for her or stay put so that she wouldn't arrive at my door to find me gone. Although she'd apparently picked up some rather interesting skills in lock-picking, she wouldn't be able to dismantle my wards without a wand, and I still had far too much cash (not to mention potions paraphernalia) to risk entry by any other person. As I carried on my internal debate over how to handle that dilemma, I found myself pacing the room. Cabin fever was setting in.
I began to get angry with her for not keeping her promises. Then, I got angry with myself for putting myself in that position, to be at the mercy of her decisions rather than my own. Why should I sit around, bored out of my mind, worried about her when she clearly had no consideration for me? I decided that I'd not spend another night twiddling my thumbs and consumed with trepidation over her fate. I'd made my offer to help. It was up to her to follow through. I needed a little stress relief, and by Merlin, I was going to find it.
When nine o'clock on that night rolled around, but she still hadn't, I got dressed in something relatively appropriate for clubbing - don't ask me what, my memory of that night is not that sharp - and pocketed some cash, a handful of condoms, my last packet of blow, and my disguised wand. Glamours in place, I headed out for a diversion. I'm not sure what it says about me or my thinking, but I did leave a note tucked in to the jamb of my door, in the event that she came by while I was out.
I went to the neighborhood where we'd met, not specifically with the intention to look for her (at least that's what I told myself), but on the off chance that we'd bump into each other. If we didn't, I was still fully intent on having a good time.
This was one of those nights where many of the details are decidedly fuzzy. I do know that walking around that neighborhood for an hour before finally settling on a club yielded no sign of Granger. That had me even more pissed off and resentful. A resentful Draco Malfoy quickly becomes a vindictive Draco Malfoy. (Why I had any type of thought that my carousing would be hurtful to her is completely beyond me. The very idea was utterly ridiculous.) In this case, that meant finding as much hedonistic trouble as was possible to find. All I really remember about it is an empty packet of blow, all my condoms used, an empty liter of Scotch, and if I didn't dream it (and as utterly pornographic as my dreams can get, I don't think so), two women. That was a first (and as far as I know, a last). Either that, or I was seeing double. Don't really think so, though, as I have a vague picture of one being very dark-skinned and the other very pale.
Since a good portion of my high that night was alcohol-induced, I had a massive hangover the next morning. I honestly had no idea where I was when I woke up, but I was alone. It was, from all indications, a motel room or inn. I found the loo, pissed for a good minute or longer, then up-chucked into the toilet. Thank Merlin I'd flushed. I felt so miserable (not just physically) that I turned on the shower and stuck my head under the spray, not even waiting for the water to warm. Once it finally had come to a tolerable temperature, I stepped in fully, washing away gods knew what and groaning over what I was sure had been ridiculously excessive behavior when I had, mere hours earlier, actually given serious thought to keeping my nose clean.
Once cleansed of the remnants of the night, I used my wand to quickly dry my hair and freshen my clothes. I had no idea who had paid for the room; checking my pockets yielded a few quid (which, frankly, shocked me) and a handful of coins. There was no receipt to indicate that I'd settled up, but the amount of cash that I had left indicated it was probable that I'd prepaid. In any case, I had no intention of spending another single pound, so I Disillusioned myself before leaving the room. Let them try to find me.
I had no idea what time it was, other than that the sun had risen. I wasn't observant enough on that day to even notice its position in the sky. It could have been eight in the morning or four in the afternoon, and I wouldn't have known the difference. Why I didn't check my watch is beyond my ken. My brain clearly was not functioning on any measurable level. I remember looking around to get my bearings, discovering with a combination of relief and gratitude that the area was quite familiar. I was only four or five blocks from my semi-permanent home. It was only when I got back to my room that my fogginess began to clear and I finally took stock of the previous hours.
The first thing I noticed was that the slip of paper that I'd left in the event that Granger stopped by was gone. My stomach rolled and my heart made its way into my throat. I didn't see any obvious evidence that she'd left a message for me. I almost ran down to the desk to see if she'd left anything with the attendant, but decided to release my wards and check the room first.
Finding the wards undisturbed meant that she hadn't even slipped a note under the door; that would have registered as an object entering the room. Pulling the door closed behind me and casting a quick Colloportus, I dashed down the three flights of stairs to the desk, moving so quickly that I nearly skidded to a stop.
The desk attendant - portly brother - lifted his rheumy eyes to see what the fuss was about. "Help you?" he groused.
"Wondering if anyone left a message for me. Drew Blackman. Room 14C," I inquired.
Without checking any of the mailboxes behind the desk, he stared at me and said, "Nope."
"Are you certain?" I pressed, not willing to take his laissez faire denial as accurate.
"Been here all day. Nobody left nothin' for nobody," he professed, this time with greater confidence and vehemence.
I raked my fingers through my hair, then, in frustration. "Well, did you see a young woman come through? About so tall," I indicated my chin height, "slim, with curly brown hair."
He actually paused for a moment, apparently searching for a recollection. "Possible. There's been a coupla birds in and out today. Couldn't say for sure, though."
It seemed pretty clear that I wouldn't get any useful information from the surly proprietor, but I thanked him perfunctorily and turned to head back up the stairs. He stopped me short when he called out, "One freebie, son, but she doesn't stay overnight again without payin'."
I smirked at him and nodded my acquiescence. He hadn't noticed her coming or going today, but knew that she'd stayed the night. At least he'd missed one of the occasions. I shook my head at the inconsistency - or maybe selectiveness - of his observational skills. Regardless, I had no additional information than I'd had before I spoke to him; it had been a futile effort.
I'd finally managed to glance at my watch to check the time and I recall being surprised that it was only half nine. Since my head was still pounding, I dug into my potions stores to retrieve a hangover remedy. I popped the cork and swallowed the appropriate dosage, then decided to have something - a very light, very minimal something - for breakfast. I was hungry, having no idea what, if anything, I'd eaten the previous evening, but I also didn't want to upset my stomach any further. The hangover potion usually took care of that issue, but that wasn't always the case if drugs had been consumed in addition to alcohol. I knew for sure that I'd done the entire packet of coke, based on how high I'd been. It's even very probable that I'd taken something in addition to that. I recalled, vaguely, licking something off someone's abdomen. I wasn't sure whether that memory deserved a smirk or a groan.
Since I'd already showered, I didn't have much to do other than wait. For what, I wasn't sure. Was I waiting for her to come back? My note had simply said I was out for the night and urged her to return the next day. I suppose I could have been waiting to figure out how I really felt about the previous evening's debauchery. I knew it had felt great in the moment, lack of specific recollections notwithstanding. So why was I feeling such a pervasive sense of unease? I was jittery and restless, unable to quiet either my mind or my body. I must have paced the room a hundred times, but every time I considered leaving, the sensation of impending doom became crushing. I wanted to rip my hair out.
My agitation finally got so overwhelming that I resorted to chemical help. Although I didn't have any Muggle-style downers or tranquilizers, I had a perfectly adequate supply of both Dreamless Sleep potion and Calming Draught. The temptation to take both was powerful, but on some level of my consciousness, I knew that being completely out for the count wasn't a productive idea. I settled on the Calming Draught – a dose and a half – and stretched out on the bed. I figured that a good orgasm was as effective a sleep aid as any, so I stripped off and got to it. The Draught had relaxed me enough to allow me to get hard, and the orgasm gave me a brief respite that would have been hours of unconsciousness, had I combined the two potions instead. Thus, I was lightly napping, peaceful, warm and sated, two hours later when I heard the banging on my door.
It took me a moment or two to drag myself into awareness, and I called out, "Hang on!" to whomever was making all the racket. I assumed it was Granger, but one couldn't be certain. I dragged a pair of trousers over my hips and lurched toward the noise of the now incessant pounding.
I tugged the door open without asking, and I wasn't shocked to see her there. Seriously, who else could it have been? Before I even invited her in, I could tell that something was… off. Her energy level was so high that I could practically see it vibrating in waves from her skin. Her pupils were blown wide and when she finally spoke, it was with a speed and cadence that could only be described as manic. It was what she said, and what happened in the next few seconds, that had me reeling.
"Draco, I've done it now. I think I've finally gone over the cliff. They'll never hurt me again."
That's what I thought she said, anyway. Her words were slurred and indistinct, and it seemed as thought those three brief sentences took hours to speak. Soon, whatever I'd interpreted didn't matter as events unfolded rapidly.
She reached a hand toward me, obviously unsteady on her feet, and before I could grasp it, I watched as her eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled to the floor.
There must have been ten thousand things that ran through my head in that second as I watched her fall. The first was near-panic over whether she'd actually just dropped dead before my eyes or just passed out. I knew enough to feel for a pulse at her neck, and found one. It was fluttering like a hummingbird's wings. Knowing that she wasn't dead – yet – was small comfort as I knew next to nothing about healing, magical or Muggle. I debated whether I should call for help from the Muggle authorities, but my ignorance about how to do that stayed my hand. I suppose that I could have sought aid by getting whomever was attending the front desk to call, but I also didn't want to leave her there on the floor, quite probably to die alone in my brief absence.
It's funny how the brain works. One of the most powerful and insistent images that invaded my consciousness in those few seconds was a picture of the same woman, writhing in pain under my aunt's wand on the drawing room floor of my family home. Of all the moments I'd felt small, insignificant, helpless, and even worthless, that had been the very top of the heap, even above my failed assassination attempts against our former Headmaster. I'd been utterly incapable of helping her then without ensuring my own death in the process, and the guilt that I still felt over that was palpable.
The words she'd uttered just prior to her collapse rang in my ears. Had she done something deliberately to cause this result? What was very clear was that she was in the midst of an overdose of some kind. Had that been accidental, yet she retained enough awareness until that moment to understand the probably consequences of what she'd done? And why had she come to me? Why hadn't she sought help from someone who actually knew what to do? She was a Muggle-born; surely she understood how the emergency systems worked in this world. The only thought that circled my brain was the idea that she'd sought out someone familiar so that she wouldn't die completely alone. "Thanks a lot, Granger," I remember murmuring, angry on some level that she would give me one more horrifying memory to haunt my dreams.
That's when I decided that I would have none of it. I would not allow my conscience to suffer another blow from failing to help. I thought back again to the time I'd failed her so miserably, the regret a bitter pill on my tongue. There had to be a way to redeem myself from this karmic disaster and pull her back from the brink of death. Having no idea what she'd ingested (or injected, though I saw no evidence of needle marks when I pushed up the sleeves of her jumper) wasn't either a help or hindrance since I had no supplies (or training) to deal with such an emergency. I wracked my brain for a potential solution from the magical world, but I knew no spell, charm or incantation that would reverse a chemical overdose. Most poisons had specific antidotes, and I had only the most rudimentary versions available in my potions stores. I remembered something Professor Slughorn had said once about a universal antidote to nearly any poison – and if drugs weren't poison, I don't know what was – that he'd always listed on every potions ingredients checklist. One of those checklists had, in fact, been the basis for the vials, tins, and jars I'd collected prior to my voluntary exile.
I dashed to the closet to see if I'd had the brains to keep the slip of paper that I'd meticulously tick-marked as I'd added each herb, animal part, or natural chemical to my duffle. Since one had to be fairly tidy with potentially volatile elements, that was one portion of my little home that I'd consistently kept in good order. I found the list in seconds, thank Merlin, and scanned it quickly. About three-quarters of the way down, I saw the word "bezoar" that had been tickling at the edges of my memory. It had been ticked off. That meant that I had at least one, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I'd not used any. It took me another ten seconds to find a small tin labeled with the word in capital letters across the top. I pried off the lid and took one of the four stones between my shaking fingers, moving faster than a Snitch back to Hermione's side.
Nothing about her condition had obviously changed in those thirty seconds, but I'm smart enough to realize that appearances and actuality are not the same thing. I hoped that I wasn't too late. I tried to coax her mouth open and found that her jaws were clamped tight. I had to get that bezoar into her throat, but I knew of no spell that would accomplish that. I resorted to basic mechanics. Jaws were a form of hinge, I reasoned, so pressure at the juncture should pop them open. I used my thumbs, one on each side, to create leverage, not as concerned as I probably should have been to guard against bruising or hurting her. I rationalized that this was certainly a matter of life and death; a small ache was probably an acceptable price to pay. She could yell at me later, I thought.
Finally, her lips parted and I forced the bezoar into her throat with my forefinger, entreating the gods that the remedy would work, that I'd been in time.
I recall that each second felt like an hour as I waited for a reaction. I remember calling her name, begging her to respond to me. Her body was limp in my arms and I shook her shoulders and tapped her cheeks without results. I was as angry as I'd ever been, but at whom, I didn't really know. The list of suspects was extensive, and the two other members of what had once been dubbed "The Golden Trio" were at the top. I suppose that my own name belonged there, too. Anger mixed with frustration and fear for a nearly interminable stretch of uncounted seconds. I despaired that I'd been too late, and I dropped my head onto her chest, allowing a sob of unexpectedly deep grief to shake both of us.
I remember counting to ten before lifting my head. The tears swimming in my eyes obscured my vision, but I had one thing I needed to do. If she was going to die, I didn't want it to be on the floor. It was so important that I didn't even consider the myriad ramifications of her dying in my bed. I lifted her as gently as I could, struggling under the weight of my sadness more than that of her body. I set her down so that her head rested on my pillow, and I leaned in to kiss her goodbye.