tw / graphic scene of a drug overdose. viewer discretion is strongly advised.
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.
"Salazaar…"
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."