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.