Malfoy and I have finished up our work for the evening, but we've still unfinished business to attend to.
He's giddy as a corpse can be, ruefully ignoring me while I tell him he will need to transfigure a new needle each time he opens the wards, which means plucking a fresh hair. I'll remind him again if we ever leave this room. Luckily for him, Malfoys don't seem to be predisposed to balding.
He leans under his desk to open a trapdoor.
Out of the trapdoor and into his arms rises a large assortment of glassware. For a moment I assume it to be a tea tray, but soon realize it isn't. Vials and vials of potions now sit on his desk. More than I've seen one person possess outside of a hospital or potion shop. I count 7 of them, along with a cauldron I take to be his mode of inhaling them. The glass on the vials is all black, so I can't tell what's in them.
"Lovegood, tell me, do you fancy potions?" he asks, his lifeless voice suddenly full of the swaggering arrogance I know him for.
"I don't care for them much." I tell him, because I don't.
Half of a smirk lines his blue lips. He's a gory caricature of the boy I went to school with, as if someone has drawn him in all the wrong colours and paid no attention to the details of his lines.
"I do." he returns, although I'd already gathered as much.
Alcohol, unlike potions, gives me the right amount of warm fuzziness to be pleasant. I tell him this so he won't be lonely in his inebriation. The easiness and consideration of it all is probably our minds trying to hang on to the shreds of our civility, but if I squint my eyes a bit, it almost looks like amicable; nearly like friendship.
He unstoppers the first vial and smells it before handing it to me. To be cautious, I wave my hand over it.
It's a thick purple goo with a beautiful smell of fresh lilacs and warmed lavender. Dreamless Sleep. Harry has quite a reliance on this one. I've offered to brew him a less harmful version, but it isn't quite as dreamless, so he has declined every time.
Malfoy takes the vial to put the stopper back in.
"This is for later." he says, looking down to reach for another.
"First, my favourite," he tells me with a bit more wind in his sails, through a ghost of his former handsome smile.
He opens another, allowing me to smell again. This one is opaque white inside the black container, with a strong herbal tinge to it. Pain potion.
Now it makes sense.
I let him continue uncorking all of them before I tell him what I've discovered. I want to know what is in each bottle, and he seems quite hospitable with sharing his vices.
As he talks, mostly to himself I presume, I learn he has a giant store of dittany "for the cuts"; an infusion of dragon fire ash for "patrols", whatever that means; pixie dust in gelatin - which he calls "candy" - "is for fun" he says; premium vodka "to relax"; a tiny bottle of Nymph's tears that he doesn't talk about, and I don't ask; and finally, out of his pocket, he fetches the last bottle of a clear, minty substance - Draught of Living Death.
xoXOXox
"This one is only for the worst nights, but can also be used in emergencies."
I've no idea why I'm telling her all of this. Perhaps I lament Theo's absence and want to replace his presence with hers. It's unfortunately been a lifetime since I've had a companion to partake with, and there is something transcendently settling to conversing with another human during the descent. So begins my ritual with a spring of vibrancy I haven't felt in gods know when. If questioned for any reason, I can always frame our encounters as a way to test her, to gain her trust, to ascertain whether she will attempt something brash - whichever tactics sound plausible to meet the organization's goals at the time. Well played, Malfoy.
I recognize I may be enjoying this decline into insanity.
At any rate, she says she'll join me while I indulge in my desecrations. Brilliant. I pour her two fingers and offer her juice because even in the throes of debasement a Malfoy is an excellent host. She declines the add-ins, saying she prefers to feel the warmth of it. I wouldn't know the feeling, but suit yourself Lovegood, cheers to it going down smoothly.
I open another bottle and swallow a mouthful of pain elixir. All the tightness, the burning cold, the little aches and pains begin to melt until they almost disappear. Then comes the Dreamless. One drop on my tongue to chase away reptilian abominations and shredded corpses of people I used to love.
Until she manages to crush my spirits with a sobering interjection of her blatant brand of nonchalance.
"Malfoy," she asks more than says "mixing Dreamless Sleep with pain potions ruins the circulation."
Thank you, Lovegood, for impeding upon the modicum of joy I've managed to syphon. I have suspected as much, but never cared enough to look into the matter. What consequence is it if I die in stages or all at once? At least I have a say in my demise this way.
"Does it?" I ask flatly, careful to keep only boredom in my tone.
She refrains almost chipperly, with widened eyes and a nodding head
"Yes. As a matter of fact, it can kill you." as if I should find my imminent demise to be the most interesting development. I suppose it would be a celebration for the two of us.
At my silence, she continues, nonplussed -
"You've been inhaling the Draught of Living Death." she correctly ascertains.
It cools all the places where I'm burning alive, numbs everywhere I feel too much. Only a drop or two sets me into the blissful tranquillity where I feel nothing at all. A sweet little morsel of non-existence when the worst of life kills the remnants of my soul.
I started taking it after practising my Avadas. That's been some time ago. Now, I can fire them in my sleep. Recently I indulge when Aunt Bella gets involved with tutoring the lesser mongrels. The screaming and cackling… Dreamless isn't enough to take it away.
When I have to watch the girl I loved devoured by wolves and tossed onto my lawn like spoiled meat again and again in my conscious, that's when I breathe in a full vial. On those nights my veins are frozen rivers, my muscles turn to glaciers and the tears freeze solid before they can fall down my cheeks.
"Yes?" I reply, coaxing her forward.
"Does it ever feel like your airways are turning to ice; like it's freezing you from the inside out?"
I may never acclimate to her odd phrasing, but she is accurate nonetheless.
"Yes, exactly. What is your point?" I respond.
The girl stops smiling. She looks into my eyes, but I sense she is not seeing me. Not the person in front of her at least. What she is seeing I know in my soul I may never comprehend.
"That's said to be hard to reverse, Malfoy." she tells me, and I can hear the concern in her voice. "It's possible I believe, but I've never done it to be sure."
Despite my growing acceptance of my mortality, the unintended side effects of my methods for sleeping do have some rather inconvenient consequences. I can no longer feel my feet or my face, and my legs shimmer with pin-pricks when I stand. Not the worst of all maladies to be sure, but enough of a nuisance that I have on occasion considered threatening or bribing the healer on grounds to fix this predicament. The embarrassment is what keeps me from it. I've never been proficient at oblivation, and couldn't stomach the repercussions if word got around I've been inhaling DOLD to keep from screaming, to keep from devolving.
I can picture it now, whispers in the corridor from the mutts deigning to curry favour in my stead:
'Malfoy is weak like his father. No bollocks on that one.'
Once more disgraced and reviled, said father will raid my quarters to clean out my stores. Then I'd truly come unhinged.
No, I can't go to a healer.
"Could you do it?" I ask, because maybe the lunatic artist is far enough outside the scrutiny of reality she can imagine a solution.
"I can try." she says, and it's a beautiful sound. The song of a bird in a cage.
Although I can feel fatigue surround me, I know I should seize this opportunity while it presents itself. Like it or not, the girl may not be alive come morning. Neither of us hold much sway in the matter. As such, I grant her permission to experiment. As previously mentioned, I dabble in such games every night. This could hardly be worse than my usual, and I expect it to be predictably uneventful.
"Please do." I say, and she smiles back at me as if she's been waiting an eternity to hear those words. Whether it's due to her lust for my blood or desire to heal me, I can't quite bring myself to care, so I lie to myself and call it the latter.
In this moment, in the darkest recesses of my reckless occluding room, I could kiss her with ferocity, because the lies I tell myself serenade that she wishes to see me whole, more than I ever could for myself.
Upon recognition of this need, I lament that I must first be able to feel my lips.
xoXOXox
Narcissa comes to sit with me while he takes a hot bath. The fuzzy grey flannels and long white shirt he comes out in probably cost more than my life is worth, but they do no favours for his morbid complexion. As his robes and wares float away into the wardrobe it's as if the darkness follows them in, and he is once again just a boy. A schoolmate, an acquaintance.
In the past hour or so, I have learned he has nearly killed himself by mixing potions.
Malfoy has taken "pick your poison" to an entirely new level, not that I blame him.
At second thought, I do blame him a tiny bit for not recognizing his sickness sooner, but I can see why he wouldn't be able to pay attention to health problems in this situation. I'm aware enough of my tendency to overestimate others' ability to notice things I find obvious. I learned long ago not everyone sees the same way as me.
He has asked me to try to cure his issue, even though I tell him I'm not sure if I can. I remind myself this is good news as I put away all of the Slytherineries he might be trying on me to focus on doing this task well. He is dying, and I may be able to save him. If he has ulterior motivations, that's his problem, not mine.
At my request, he calls his elf to bring him two vials of blood replenisher and one of frostbite cure. I had an inkling they would have some basic supplies around here. Being nefarious does come with an injury every so often after all.
I have him drink the blood replinisher and inhale frostbite cure in his mother's presence, in case something goes wrong. It would be terribly unpleasant to accidentally kill him while I'm trying to save him, and not even have a wand for a rennervate.
I'm afraid she is going to hex me silly when he starts coughing, but she doesn't. She also doesn't faint when he starts retching chunks of ice.
She's fine. He's fine. I'm fine too, but also thoroughly confused.
I am missing how I could possibly be important enough to the Death Eaters to receive this kind of treatment. If I had a hostage, the last thing I would think of is letting them this close to me and a tray full of potions. There are a myriad of ways I could kill him with the pain potion alone. Supposedly they are the master strategists. Slytherins. Strange lot they are.
Curious that they perceive I need to be so observed when I am locked inside layers on layers of wards. I can't apparate. What am I going to do, tunnel out with a spoon? Perhaps they are afraid I will steal, or run, or find some way to communicate with Harry and the DA. Which I will.
It's a refreshing, if inconvenient, change of pace to not be underestimated.
xoXOXox
As I return from the lavatory and set away my wares for the day, I notice my adders have been silent since arriving in my quarters. As I am confident in my wandwork, I must infer the girl truly bodes me no ill wishes. This is a fascinating development, and one I must admit I don't fully understand. Nonetheless, I am reassured enough to continue this conquest.
Lovegood says I should vaporize the frostbite potion. I do, and the very first breath is sublime torture.
Although I think of the end while going through the middle, the pain is inescapable. The heat is worse than the dragon fire ash ever is. It's pouring petrol straight into my chest and setting it alight. My ribs are being ripped apart. I'm sure at present the hostage girl has orchestrated my death in a spectacularly vindictive fashion. This is not the demise I would request, but the one I surely deserve for both my complacency and my pandering idiocy.
Shards of ice peel through my throat. I'm making a grotesque display of expelling them. My eyes are stinging and watering and the sounds are simply repulsive. The hostage is still staring - at me or through me, I can't be sure.
Mother doesn't flinch as my agony slowly comes to an end.
When the worst of it is over, I dare to gaze down at my hands. The beds of my nails are blushed pink as the lifeblood fills them once more. They come to life and I feel every rip, every laceration I have impinged upon myself smart anew, a brand new gouge to remind me of the life I have nearly abandoned. I bite my lip, and sensation overtakes me. I make it bleed, only to see if it will. Mother shakes her head in exasperation and heals the cut. Briskly I take myself to my vanity. I still present as a street urchin with my thinning musculature and unkempt beard, but more so a street urchin who hasn't perished in the frost.
I'm still alive.
xoXOXox
Narcissa stands to follow Draco to his mirror. As her blazing aura surrounds him, I know I've done the best I could.
She eyes me, and I can see the fire inside her spark brand new. Hope, it must be.
"Your work is inscrutable, young witch." She tells me. "Your potential is stunning. The Dark Lord will be pleased to have such an adept healer amongst us."
What I hear her saying is "Thank you for saving my son." so I nod.
She turns to leave and I see her and Draco embrace once again. If I'm not mistaken, I hear muttered "I love yous" and wishes for a sound night of rest.
But again, I already knew as much.
xoXOXox
Being able to feel my tongue is rapturous. I hadn't taken time to care how the slippery appendage floated around in my mouth before, and suddenly I have the overwhelming urge to taste something. I procure a green apple from the fruit basket on my desk. As my teeth cut the skin and the sourness bursts forth, the saliva filling my mouth is glorious, almost painful in the pleasure of it.
The girl chuckles underneath her hand, and I realize with a touch of chagrin that I indeed may have moaned aloud during this euphorious endeavour.
This is what levels me.
I refuse to be ashamed at the indulgent splendour of it all, and so shoot her my most piss inducing glare. She laughs outright, gripping her ribs as she mocks me with her melody. I could ostensibly hex her for the impertinence, but I don't, because I know her to be useful. Incredibly so. I could never bear to weaken such a fine instrument of my deliverance.
xoXOXox
I laugh until tears stream down my face. The joy doubles me over as I recognize the lunacy and idiocy all surrounding this encounter with Draco, Heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy.
He says he indulges in a tray full of potions nightly, laid in his fine room and his shiny curtains and silk sheets, yet the simple taste of an apple is what makes him groan in pleasure.
His aura is revived a bit, the same sparkling shade of green as the apple.
What an interesting juxtaposition this boy is.
xoXOXox
I sit at my desk, penning a letter to my father about the uncouth and unnamed Snatcher who dared to affront me on my own property. I keep the missive short and to the point, as I'm positively frothing to get back to my ritual.
I'm sure the Dreamless has worn off by the sheer amount of vibrancy I'm feeling at present, and for the time being, I can't say I give a damn. The pain potion as well has gone with the shards of ice so savagely expelled from my lungs if the burning in my limbs is any protestation of the matter.
I still can't be bothered to care.
I'll take the pain over again if it means I can feel the quill as I grip it, the grain of my desk that was cut from the ancient orchards on these very grounds. Every sting is worth twice it's toil for the smell of sandalwood incense, bluebell and citrus emanating from my unbothered charge.
I suspect I will also be able to taste my candy.
I set my missive off towards my father's study and return to my den of desecration, taking a square of the sparkling pink gelatin to melt languidly in my newly warmed mouth. It tastes of new spring and sweet nothings as I fill the girl's glass full to the brim with Theo's father's imported vodka. He won't be needing it where he is.
"Cheers, Lovegood." I bid the girl as we part ways.
"Sleep sweetly." she replies, the infuriating grin back in place on her now rosy face.
Oh, I shall.
As I lay my head on the pillow, hallucinations of a wood nymph dancing through a sandalwood forest with golden curls bouncing and sparkling blue eyes staring through my soul lull me soundly into unconsciousness on a bed of citron and bluebells.
xoXOXox