Warning: Recreational drug use

Chapter 2

"It goes back, as a matter of fact, to extremely fundamental things. That there is always a curious tie, at some point – between the fall and the creation."

Knowing Kreacher and Dobby are trailing Malfoy becomes a double-edged sword.

Hermione takes exceptional care with each interaction. She speaks with him only in the library and looks over her shoulder constantly while together.

But on the other hand …

Now she has an excuse. If Harry and Ron do find out, she'll say she's taking the place of Dobby and Kreacher – doing a better job than what house elf-slavery can accomplish. Trying to prove a point.

Harry started this mess anyway.

It's believable enough.

She waits for the right time to ask him about the Room of Requirement. No moment ever seems it.

Draco's in the library again that Friday night; tucked away in the back corner. It's peaceful – one of Hermione's favourite spots.

She sits beside him, pulling out her textbooks.

"Do Potter and Weasley know you're doing this?"

"They don't need to know every detail of my life."

Ron's too preoccupied sneaking into the nearest unsuspecting broom cupboard with Lavender. All Harry notices is how Ginny's quidditch robes fit. It's all so painfully obvious … She's downright sick of it.

Hermione misses something Draco says.

"I'm sorry – what?"

"You look furious," he teases her. "Get a ninety-nine on an exam or something?"

It goes both ways in any friendship. For him to open up, she needs to also.

"It's nothing. Just … Lavender's trying to figure out what to get Ron for his birthday … I had to leave the dorms tonight; listening to it was making me ill."

Draco looks bored by this information, his commentary distracted and predictable.

"Weasley's an idiot."

He's not, though. He's charming and funny and cleverer than he knows.

"Sometimes," she mutters half-heartedly.

"Just because Brown stooped low enough to shag him –"

"They – I mean, what?" She tries sounding casual, but her heels are digging into the ground. "What makes you say that?"

He hesitates, shrugging.

"Pansy and Daphne were whispering about her ... Called her a disgrace – I don't know, I didn't care enough to listen."

"Oh."

She nods, let's the subject drop. What do Pansy and Daphne know anyway?

It's late Monday night when she brings the subject up. Not to Draco, but Harry and Ron.

They're sitting around the fire in the Gryffindor common room, Lavender retreating for bed after a particularly nauseating kiss to Ron's temple.

Hermione has the discrepancy of a mountain troll when she asks.

"Are you and Lavander sleeping together?"

If Ron were drinking something, it would have sprayed Harry in the face.

"I don't care," Hermione blatantly lies, revelling in his open-mouthed gawking. "I just overheard a rumour."

"A r-rumour?"

Ron looks at Harry as if just ratted out to Wizengamot.

"Don't look at me! I haven't told," hisses Harry, woefully uncomfortable as he shoots Hermione an apologetic look.

It's all she needs: the confirmation they've been keeping something from her. She feels less guilty about meeting with Malfoy.

"Who told you?" asks Ron.

"Pansy Parkinson is going around telling the entire school."

Because well … it's true enough.

"Lavender's gonna kill me. If her parents find out – I'm dead."

"Bit of an overreaction, mate," says Harry.

"You don't understand … Her parents are traditional. It's not like how Muggles are."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she demands. Ron ignores her outrage.

"You don't think Ginny knows, do you? If mum and dad find out –"

"I don't think she'll tell them, even if she does," says Harry, tugging at his hair nervously.

Hermione hasn't ever been more done with a conversation.

Hell, if she could go back in time, maybe she'd throw her virginity at Krum – bring it up now and annoy Ron with unsolicited advice on technique.

She scolds herself for the thought. She's acting childish.

Harry and Ron continue talking; Hermione tunes them out.

"I need to talk to Lavender … Hermione – will you go up to the dorms and tell her to come down?"

Harry's shaking his head, shooting Ron looks to shut up.

"I have a better idea," says Hermione sarcastically. "I'll go learn a healing spell for when Lavender's father castrates you using that utterly ghastly necklace she wasted her money on."

She stands, spins on her heels, and heads to bed without another word.

Her misery continues throughout the following day.

"What's got your wand in a knot?" asks Draco during prefect patrol the following evening.

"You were right … about Ron and Lavender."

He doesn't say anything for a long time. She doesn't explain further.

"Sorry."

The word sounds foreign from his mouth.

"Don't be," she says, faking indifference. "Maybe just toss an infamous Malfoy-quip his way one of these days."

The thought escapes without a veto. Draco smirks.

"I'll do my best, Granger."

Unsurprisingly, he's good on his word.

She's walking in the Great Hall, heading to breakfast with Harry and Ron the following morning, when it happens.

Ron trips – seemingly over his own two feet – toppling headfirst toward a gaggle of first years. People from surrounding tables snicker as he apologises profusely to a wide-eyed boy he almost took down.

"What in the bloody hell –"

"Might wanna tie your shoelaces there, Weasley," boasts Draco, appearing too quickly for it to be an accident. "Better yet … have your girlfriend do it. I hear she spends most of her time on her knees anyway."

Hermione feels guilty, relishing how Lavender's cheeks glow bright red. It takes a surmisable effort to keep from grinning.

"Fucking git," says Harry, helping Ron to his feet before they all sit down. "Looks like Malfoy's cheerful today – "

"Just ignore him," says Hermione, sighing before she locks eyes with Draco over Harry's shoulder, shaking her head. Too far.

He lifts his eyebrows in her direction. You wanted it.

The wordless conversation leaves her unnerved. Her feelings shift from worse to dreadful, soon losing interest in food.

"I'm going to the library for a bit. I'll see you both in Potions."

Ron's already speaking with Lavender. Harry's engrossed in conversation with Ginny and Demelza Robins. Hermione stands to leave.

Once more, they hardly notice.

xXx

"You called off Kreacher and Dobby?"

Hermione ignores the excitement seeping through her question.

"Yeah," says Harry. "Dobby still wasn't sleeping. And I'm pretty sure Kreacher might not be able to resist the temptation to lick Malfoy's shoes much longer."

He's staring intently at the Marauder's Map, the three of them sitting around a table in the common room.

"Well … good," says Hermione. "There are better ways."

This is your chance! Tell them now.

"Like what?"

"I just meant … Malfoy will probably notice after a while," she says instead. "Besides, you need to focus on getting that memory. Regardless of whatever Malfoy's doing"

Harry mumbles agreement, staring at the map. "He's up in the Astronomy Tower … he's been up there a lot lately."

"Seriously?" asks Ron. "The only people up there on a Saturday night are either snogging or shagging."

Hermione silently blunders at the implication. She tells herself it's because she pictures Ron and Lavender. But another image flashes through her mind … an image of Malfoy with someone.

"No one else is there," says Harry, studying the parchment. "So, unless he's snogging his hand …"

"Oi, bout the only relationship Malfoy could manage – Rosey Palm and her five sisters." Ron holds up his own palm before making a vulgar gesture.

Harry laughs; Hermione rolls her eyes.

"Honestly, Ronald – must you be so crude?"

Ron's face falls.

"Blimey, Hermione. For someone raised by Muggles, you're more of a prig than my mum sometim – ouch."

Harry kicks Ron beneath the table, green eyes wide like he's tip-toeing away from impending dynamite.

"I – what? Excuse me?" Hermione seethes.

"No … Well, I didn't mean –"

"I know what you meant, Ronald."

She stands, overhearing Ron asks Harry, "Bloody hell, what did I do wrong this time?" before she storms off towards her dormitory.

It's late, and she's emotionally exhausted, but she doesn't sleep.

Prat.

She thinks of nothing but Ron, tossing and turning for another hour before getting out of bed with defeat. An impulse takes hold, both unlikely and unwise.

He's probably not even there anymore.

After the long walk, climbing the steps to the Astronomy Tower as cool air whips her hair, she spots him immediately.

Draco's lying on the floor as if star-gazing. He jumps, startled.

"Oh … it's just you."

Just you.

Just Granger. Forgettable and dull and useful for nothing besides homework help and shrewdness.

Self-pity has never been her best look.

Malfoy goes back to looking at the sky and she presses forward.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like, Granger? Come look – you can see Orion perfectly tonight."

Something's off, she notices immediately.

"Are you drunk?"

"Why do I have to be drunk?"

"To invite me to star-gaze?" she asks, sitting on the floor. "Hm. Let's think …"

"I thought you wanted to be friends?" He feigns hurt. "Isn't that what you're after? Some sickening friendship to replace Weasley?"

"No."

Maybe.

Absolutely not.

The goal – remember the finish line.

In fact, extracting answers might be easier if he's piss-drunk.

"You're acting very …" She trails off, strange didn't begin describing it. "Cheerful."

He ignores her, sitting up before peering down onto the grounds.

"Have you ever been swimming in the Black Lake this time of year?"

"Absolutely not!" she narrows her gaze. "Have you?"

"Once … last year. It's thrilling: the pressure of having to cast the perfect warming charm, the complete and utter silence of the grounds at night."

"Seriously, Malfoy?" She can't help but laugh. "Okay, really – what have you been smoking?"

"Smoking?" He makes a face. "What a vile Muggle habit. Do you do that, Granger? Smoke?"

"No."

"Hm, shocking. You seem rather immersed in all of their customs."

His eyes drift over her clothing. Hermione remembers the pyjamas she's wearing – the thin jumper with only a t-shirt beneath, leaving little room for questions on whether or not she's cold. Hermione pulls her overcoat tighter.

It feels borderline indecent, the way he stares, but something catches her attention.

"Look at me," she demands.

He does, his gaze more intense than expected. 'Lumos,' and her wand pointed in his direction, tells her all she needs to know.

"What did you take?" Hermione demands.

"I'm drunk, remember? Like you said."

His breath doesn't have the faintest hint of liquor.

"Alcohol dilates pupils; yours are pinpoint and sluggish."

"Well, well – the walking encyclopaedia strikes again. Figure it out if you're Miss Auror-in-training."

She guesses the worst thing first.

"Brewed Euphoria?"

He bursts out laughing.

"Do I look like those people lining Knockturn Alley – tongues out and covered in piss?"

She holds out her hand.

"Let me see the potion you took."

"No – hey!"

Her summoning charm causes a glass vial to fly from his front pocket, the small object landing in Hermione's hand.

The vial contains blue liquid, its top a glass dropper.

"It's a calming potion," she says, although somehow unconvinced.

"Brilliant work. And brilliant thievery. Slughorn would be proud," he says, shooting her a glare. "And … what else?"

She lifts an eyebrow before opening the tiny container, wafting its scent. It's woodsy, like damp leaves and moss-covered earth.

"Malfoy!" She holds out the potion, appalled. "Is this –"

"An Alihotsy draught cut with a calming potion, yes," he says, apparently more honest because of it. "The calming potion hides it, you see – turns it blue. But, if you look close enough, there's still the tiniest pink flecks swirling around."

Hermione's eyes widen.

"Alihotsy is forbidden on school grounds. Malfoy, you're a prefect –"

"And a Death Eater. Wouldn't you say one is a far less qualifying feature?"

Touché.

She's silent, studying the substance.

"Are you going to run and tell McGonagall?" he asks.

She sighs, considers the lunacy of it all. As if she's going to squeal about this and not the mark on his arm.

"No," Hermione promises.

They go silent for a minute, and Draco provides an explanation she doesn't ask for.

"I only take a couple of drops at a time … It helps."

She's read about it, of course. Confiscated a few bottles from some Ravenclaw seventh years at the beginning of term, turning them straight into Professor Flitwick. The side effect profile is limited, save for lowered inhibitions and a ruthless come-down. Some witches and wizards brew it as an alternative to alcohol, but it's considered relatively taboo within most social circles. Especially the ones Draco runs in.

"Did you brew it yourself?"

"Yes," he nods. "The calming potion heightens the effects – while also taking away some of the uncontrollable laughter a straight Alihotsy draught induces."

"What does it feel like?" she asks a question far more suited for the library.

"You can find out."

"I …"

Absolutely not. She doesn't break rules like this. It's a line she won't cross, only being tipsy a handful of times. She would never –

"How?"

He grins. And she's done for.

She might as well have agreed to jump off the astronomy tower with him; both bad decisions looked identical right then.

But where melancholy lived, now houses chemical-induced happiness and a smile Draco hasn't worn in months ... She wants to understand it. Wants to feel it, too.

It's an experiment. Like dissecting flobber worms or trying different cuts and stirring sequences for a potion. Maybe it'll work like pliers, prying information from him about the Room of Requirement.

Maybe then he'll finally trust her.

"Here –,"

He brushes her hand, taking the potion.

Draco tips his head back and squeezes the droppers' content onto his tongue. He looks over, catches her staring a little too long. Her skin still burns from his touch, and she flusters, palms sweaty and heart pounding.

"Here," he says again, this time softer. "Open your mouth."

Hermione follows the order like an 'Imperio' proceeds it. He leans in. Close – so ridiculously close – and there's that smell again. Cologne, but her brain just interprets it as him now.

She tilts her head back. He lifts the dropper, bitter liquid landing on her tongue.

A rogue drop accidentally spills down the corner of her lip; Draco uses his thumb to wipe it away. It's intimate, foreign.

She bites her lip where his touch was.

"It takes a couple of minutes," he explains, moving back.

But she can feel a shift within seconds.

Her heart races for a moment, up until she can feel the large muscle behind her chest dilate and relax. Her mind goes numb along with her fingertips. It's serenity – cloudiness and hazy mist acting like fresh rain clearing smoke. The world seems easy, and they're just two people, and oh, no – she's staring again.

Hermione begins giggling uncontrollably.

It feels like the opposite of a breakup. Instead of two people becoming enemies, two enemies become this … The potion tastes like friendship – like happiness, and laughter, and a world without War.

He laughs with her.

"You're completely bludgered already, Granger."

"Am not," she says, but it's true.

There's a second shift. Suddenly, the Astronomy Tower in March feels like the south of France. It's heaven, almost like she can close her eyes and imagine the sun on her skin and sandy beaches beneath her feet.

However, before long, she's on fire.

"My God – are you hot?"

Hermione fans herself, ripping off the suffocatingly warm overcoat and resembling her Aunt while discussing 'the change.' The heat is stifling.

"It goes away after a minute," says Draco. "It's why I started coming up here – good luck, cooling charms don't do shit."

She sets her wand down, unsure if she could cast the spell successfully anyway.

Instead, she rips off her baggy jumper, revealing the t-shirt beneath. It's not perfect, but she's not pooling sweat on her forehead like she just ran every staircase at Hogwarts. Fire fades into a comfortable warmth, but she still wonders – perhaps swimming in the Black Lake is a good idea after all.

She follows Draco's eyes, looking down at her shirt.

In hindsight … she'd change a lot of things about tonight. Putting on a bra before wandering the castle is top on her list.

"It's a band," explains Hermione, calling out the glance she knows isn't at the shirt's bolded, black text. The comment earns her another.

"Tell me – are all Muggle bands named after insects?"

"Every single one," she teases, laughing when he looks aghast. "I'm kidding, Malfoy." She straightens the top, inspecting its lettering. "I found this at a second-hand shop last summer – "

"Second hand?" he repeats. "As in, that's someone else's shirt?"

"I mean, it was. I love charity shops. It's like finding buried treasures: books, records, vintage clothing –"

"How very … Muggle."

She knows he isn't just talking about The Beatles t-shirt or her love of thrifting.

His eyes travel down again, to the pebbled outline peeking through her shirt. She imagines for a second, hooking the fabric and lifting, letting his eyes rake her bare flesh just to bask in the shock. But the image runs away, and soon she imagines his thumb, brushing her hardened nipple like it did her lip; his tongue swiping the sensitive flesh. The fantasy sends a twinge between her thighs.

No.

The potion masks her embarrassment, but she clings to a shred of sense, changing the subject.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this, Malfoy – we could be expelled."

She giggles like expulsion is the punchline to her favourite joke.

"Good … maybe then I can finally leave this place and never come back."

She stops laughing, remembering the Room of Requirement, how she needs to ask about it. That's the point of this, isn't it?

"You can tell me, you know …"

"I'm fine," he says, sounding the furthest thing from it.

She studies the dark circles beneath his eyes. She remembers her third year: all those classes she took, all that sleep she missed. The anxiety still paralyses her sometimes.

"How much sleep are you getting?"

He shrugs, not answering.

"Have you tried potions?" she asks, realising it's a silly question.

"They only work for an hour or so."

"It helps, you know … just talking."

It's easier to talk about Astronomy, so they do.

They go back to star-gazing, sharing light conversation about exams coming up and the weather that's been exceptionally volatile. Sometimes they just sit, wordless, silently basking in the zen of intoxication.

She's not a prig.

At least, not in the ways Harry and Ron think. Her parents raised her differently, with open mindsets and frequent discussions. She wonders what they'd say, proponents of the 1960s counterculture, seeing their only daughter – caned out of her mind – and staring at a boy with the most traditional, hateful values. Maybe they'd be proud, forging a task so futile.

Better to make love, not war – and my god – he's beautiful in moonlight.

"What?"

"I, er – you were right ..." she stammers, unable to control her thoughts running utterly wild. "You can see Orion perfectly."

No clouds or rain blocking their view.

The full moon does something – to either his face or her sanity. It's not the first time she's noticed his appearance, but it's the first time her stomach lurches while looking, maddening thoughts of …

Oh, hell.

Of nothing. Not the gunmetal-grey swirling his iris. Or the way he brushes his hair back. How nice it feels that he can keep up conversations about what they've learned over the years. Certainly not the fluttering sensation, low in her belly.

Don't think that.

But resisting induces worse.

She peers into an imaginary telescope pointing his way, magnifying the unseen. He's insecure and indignant. Creative, expressive, filled with potential … but also with venom. A by-product of his environment, cruelty as customary as Christmas tradition.

But it's waning; it's draining on him.

She breathes in nonsensical notions – I can help fix him.

It's twisted.

And toxic, her desire to examine and mend broken things. As if she saves something, makes the world a bit better, it'll distract from her own cracks and creators.

"It doesn't have to be me, you know," Hermione whispers suddenly. She corrects herself, blushing at how it sounded. "I mean, to talk to … I'm sure Crabbe and Goyle aren't the greatest listeners, but Theo Nott seems rather intuitive. Of course, there's always Pansy –"

"Absolutely not."

"Are you two not together anymore?"

The question sounds casual; it feels anything but.

"No," he shakes his head. "We never were. It's … different."

"How so?"

"Why do you care?"

"I'm just curious."

"Well, maybe one day I'll tell you about the intricate, inner workings of Pureblood society. Preferably on a day you annoy the living shit out of me and deserve to endure such anguish."

"Don't I do that every day, though?"

He just smirks.

Her eyes dance between Draco's and the moon. She imagines loving him would feel like falling in love with the stars, unattainable and absurd, but beautiful behind clear skies.

She's lost it.

"How long does it last?" Hermione asks, blaming the chill down her spine on the potion.

"Not long. An hour, at most."

She can feel it waning, telling him so. "Give it here," she hears herself demand. He teases her, calls her an addict. Rich, coming from him.

"I think you've had enough, Granger."

"Give it here, Malfoy."

"What – you mean this?"

She forgets all about prudence and summoning charms.

She giggles hysterically, lurches for the small vial he's waggling in her direction. They wrestle on the floor like children for a moment before she tackles him, trying to reach forward as he plays keep away.

The position radiates intimacy, somehow innocent in the moment. She's crawling up his body, pressing her chest to his, trying to reach what he's holding above his head.

"Yes!" she exclaims, swiping it from his grasp.

She's celebrating victory when he flips their position. Her own body is pulled to the ground, stronger arms pin hers to the floor. She's laughing, joyful.

Crack –

The tell-tale noise of glass breaking shatters their reverie.

It's his face she notices first, dropping as he releases her wrists. She follows his gaze, the vial in her hand now broken, a shard of glass digging into her palm.

"Fuck," he says.

It doesn't hurt.

All she can think of is stopping the bleeding, praying the cut isn't deep enough to warrant an extremely awkward trip to the hospital wing. She looks for her wand, spotting it a good fifteen feet from where they'd tumbled.

He's quicker.

Draco grabs her hand and mutters a healing charm. The wound stings as glass dislodges, un-approximated tissue stitching itself back together. A tiny, flesh-colored scar replaces the laceration.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"It wasn't your fault."

But she's unsure if he's talking about the cut.

Draco's eyes survey the mess, drops of blood mixed with broken glass and a small pool of blue liquid.

"Did you cut yourself, too?" she asks, noticing his fingers are streaked red.

"No."

It's all hers, and he's staring at the blood on his hands like it's something incredulous.

"Were you expecting dirt-coloured sludge or something?"

"No."

The word feels bigger than it is. Like it's an admission.

"Here, give me your wand." She reaches across him. "I'll clean the –"

His head lifts, his lips meet hers with a force she isn't expecting.

It's a head-on collision between oncoming trains. Crashing. Wrecking.

Powerful and demanding and hateful and magic, she's too lost in the high to question its reason. There's a distinct scent of metallic as his hand comes up, cups her face, demands her mouth open.

They buckle to the ground, away from the pile of broken glass she's certain contains shattered judgment.

Like a switch turning, he pulls away.

Reality bitterly stares back as Draco stands, wipes his lips. They pant as if recovering from a run across ten quidditch fields.

Godric give her strength, what has she done?

"I ... never speak of this. Whatever it is you're after, Granger – stop."

Two ticks of a clock's hand and he's gone.