Okay, so this chapter is shorter, but it's a heavier chapter.

Also, hello to all the reviewers! Some of you guys came through!

Disclaimer: Scarborough Fair is a song in the public domain, and therefore not subject to copyright.

Draco had only managed a few hours buzz before he ran out. He looked at the bottle, eyes wide, hands shaking, searching for a drop of his liquid savior. Nothing. He dropped the bottle, listened to it thump loudly against the carpet with a musical ringing before he lay back. His head thudded painfully against the floor, but he couldn't care less, watching the ceiling. Shadows lay across it, dark shapes, the dementors coming for him with their rasping skeleton claws, memories of dead bodies staring at-

He jolted up, eyes flying open, he was still lying on the carpet in the living room but the day had passed. He was facing the wall of windows and sunset was creeping close, light warming his face. His ever-loyal and rarely seen house-elf (who no longer even attempted to clean up after Draco) had put a blanket over him and replaced a few empty bottles for full ones. He fumbled with the first one, desperate movements as he yanked it open, managing a few swallows of firewhiskey before it dropped from his hand, clattering on the floor. Firewhiskey splashed across the carpet. Draco watched the puddles, dark stains on a dark carpet as he stood on shaky feet. He couldn't even hold the bottle. He was weak, he hated being weak, it made him so vulnerable, the Dark Lord coul-

Draco shook his head wildly and then nearly fell over. Voldemort was gone, he wasn't his lord anymore, he wasn't waiting around a corner for a weak moment to kill him. Now his only problem would ever be vigilantes wanting revenge, and he was sure that they would feel sated enough on his humiliating drunken adventures. But still... He looked down at his wrist, staring at it. The black mark had long faded to a grey, but still visible, scars scratched down the snake and skull to damage the tattoo marring his skin.

Azkaban made you do things, often to yourself. A time of insanity unmeasured convinced him that the mark was the reason he was there, so eventually he tried to get rid of it, using a shard of the small, filthy glass he had to drink from.

He couldn't really remember what it had felt like when he'd cut into himself, but he remembered crystal-clear his blood. It had been warm, unlike everything else around, he'd turned his fingers and neck red trying to bring that warmth closer, rocking on his heels as he laughed and shrieked.

Another reason to drink. If he was sober, who was to say that sanity came with it?

He carefully sat in an armchair, legs thrown over an armrest, staring out the window-wall. Shaky hands clasped over a knee, he watched the horizon, willing the sun to sink beyond it. Draco had no love of light, he didn't want that illuminating monster to shove him in front of a mirror, he didn't want to see what he was. He knew he was irrational, but there was no one here to judge his thoughts.

Of course, Draco had no love of darkness either, but he could hide in it from others, face the mirror but see nothing but ink black.

That frail feeling persisted in every bone in his body, the silence sinking into him like weights on his skeleton. It was crushing his chest, it was like he couldn't breathe. He struggled a moment before closing his eyes, remembering-heartbeats. He listened to the sound of his heart, beating double-time between his ribs, blood rushing in his ears, and slowly began to calm. He was alive, the silence would go away, people below would create noise as they went around their meaningless muggle lives.

But the silence would still be there when he opened his eyes, sharpening his fears with loneliness and emptiness. The sound of a heartbeat didn't extend beyond the chest.

Maybe he could sing? Draco had been forced through the embarrassing ordeal of learning to sing at a young age by his mother, insisting it was good for his lungs, diaphragm, speech, spell-casting, and many other elements that he hadn't been listening to because he'd been mourning his oh-so-manly six-year-old pride.

He didn't remember most of the songs, but he did remember the one that had gotten the instructor fired. It had been a muggle song, and therefore too dirty for his tongue, so he'd forgotten about it. But it had a wonderful slow pace and rises and falls, and was a perfect song for filling corners with sound.

It wasn't like there was anyone here to listen, anyway.

"Are you going to Scarborough Fair... Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme..."

. . .

Hermione had spent all day analyzing Parkinson's words, the memory replaying constantly in a pensieve, while she worked herself to exhaustion and beyond searching for hidden meanings or double-edged words. She hated talking with Slytherins, couldn't they be straightforward for once in thei-

She had been up far too late, she decided, realizing that the end of her sentence counted as extremely racist. Looking around, she reached into the drawer in the cabinet besides the couch, looking at the little potions vials there. Sleep-Less, they were all labeled, with warnings and measurements for intake. Most of them were empty, which she vanished. Picking up one partially full, she looked at the dosage listed on the side (One small spoonful) and ignored it, swallowing a large mouthful.

She was not addicted, dammit! She had too much work to do right now, and a small spoonful wouldn't cut it! Once her workload dropped, she'd stop taking it, and she'd get her sleep schedule back.

Within moments, she felt awake, ready to face the night, without risk of dropping off and into some nightmare about Bellatrix. Why hadn't she remembered the vial this morning? It would have been so nice. She'd probably temporarily blocked the memory to prevent addiction. But she wasn't addicted, she would swear to Merlin.

She finished up looking over the interview with Parkinson, writing up quick notes and summarizing what she thought, then remembered she'd have to put in that appointment with Zabini if she wanted to talk with him any time in the next few months, so she quickly flooed the secretary of his office. A short, and oddly unembarrassing conversation ensued, and she found herself booked for next week in a small time-slot that would be otherwise filled with nothing for its shortness. She doubted she would need that much time anyway.

Now that the case had been brought to date, she continued her regular work. Those centaur herds wouldn't heal on their own, after all. Picking up the work where she had left off, she pulled her home potion kit down from its storage, beginning to look through samples and photos of the ill creatures, many wracked with fevers. Sores on their back and lags, scrapings from them were currently being cultured, and then there was the hooves, becoming so fragile and cracking and disintegrating in the worst or the vulnerable, like the foal cases. If they lived, she had to wonder if those survivors would ever walk again.

Certain samples of mane and hooves were set aside, ready to be put into a potion, something to sort through and search for root causes. She sorted through her supplies, set up a burner with bluebell flames and began quickly chopping newt-teeth root.

There was a thud against her sliding glass door. Hermione, wide-eyed, jumped up and yanked it open, firing off a stunner at the moving shape just as she realized what it was, letting out a, "No!"

It was a starling. The little dark-feathered bird had built a nest on her balcony, and she'd been watching its mate, waiting for a sign of eggs, and...

She watched the dark scrap flutter towards the ground in the fading sunlight, unable to move to stop its descent. A little sob escaped her lips.

"Arresto momentum!"

She nearly whirled around to curse the new voice, but it was only Harry. The little starling slowly began to float up towards them while Hermione gripped the rail, eyes wide and still not moving. Harry finally reached out and gently grasped it, laying it on the edge of the large nest. "It's okay, Hermione, it's still breathing, you didn't hurt it. Come on." Harry gripped her shoulder, leading her inside. She followed shakily.

"You haven't seen your therapist recently, have you?" said Harry. It was more of a statement than a question, Harry always knew the answer.

She shook her head anyway, sitting on the couch with her head in her hands. "I was working and he ran into the balcony door..."

"So you panicked."

"Yeah..."

There was a sound of liquid being shaken. "Hermione. What's this?"

She peeked through her hands. "Sleep-Less, Harry. I-"

"You promised to go without it for a month-this WEEK, in fact. It's only Wednesday."

"I-I have a lot of work to do, and I didn't think that a little would-" She took a deep breath. "I swear it was only a little! I-It was more than the dosage, but it was only a little!"

He looked disappointed, fingers wrapping around the little vial. His eyes were a dark green in the light, heavy with sorrow. Harry kept himself sane by keeping his friends sane, his eyes were always dark-lit like an old man who had seen nothing but death for fifty years, and Hermione could never meet them for long.

"Hermione. I really think you should see someone about this." Harry sat on the coffee table in front of her, hand on her shoulder. "It's not-"

"I don't need a speech, Harry! I know the dangers, I know, I know everything! I'm fine!"

That frown was still in place, deepening. Harry never smiled. "Do you want some help with your case? Corralling Malfoy is a big task."

She opened her mouth to tell him no, but instead decided to give a little. "Sure."

"Great. I'll go find Vane and get a list of his most frequented hang-outs."

"I've got a meeting with Zabini in a week, so I'll go to Nott's in a few days."

"Oh, and Scamander was looking for you today, so make sure you come in tomorrow, he was anxious." Harry scribbled a few notes on parchment, tearing the piece in half. "I'll be telling the dispensary you're only allowed half the vial count of everyone else this month, Hermione."

She could have complained, but he looked at her a moment and it was more than enough of a lecture. She sighed as he flooed away.

He'd taken the vial of Sleep-Less with him.

So, addictions, blood, Azkaban, singing...

Comments? Questions? Predictions?