Andrew's car was beat up, looked as though it had not been washed in months, and, on the inside, was filled with all sorts of useless trash. The front fender was completely smashed in, and had the smell of cigarette smoke embedded in every inch of it.

"Is this thing really safe to drive?" Hermione asked as she opened the passenger door.

"Hasn't let me down yet,"

Well... she couldn't very well argue with that.

Judging by the sounds the car made as it turned on, each moment it was on the road was a miracle. Hermione wasn't about to point out the fact that this was the most suspicious car she had ever seen, and didn't doubt that the police would think the same thing - Andrew was paranoid enough as it was, without her stating the obvious.

Trying to take her mind off the fact that, if Andrew made a minor traffic violation, she would be in the deepest trouble she could ever imagine, Hermione took a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, lit one up, and took light puffs out of it. She had gotten better at it in the last couple of days; it helped to constantly be around people smoking, and, at the very least, the smell of heavy cigarette smoke. Still, she could only take light puffs, and coughed every couple inhales.

Really, she didn't even know why she was smoking - it wasn't like it made her feel particularly good. Funny, she thought. Very funny.

She exhaled out the car window, keeping the cigarette turned away from Andrew out of courtesy - although, it didn't seem to make a difference to him, either way.

"Where do these people live?" She asked, coughing in between her words, trying to end the awkward silence.

"Some shit-hole motel down by the city center." He sighed, "I don't even know why I bother going to the people. Should make them come to me; It'd be a lot less risky."

Hermione reached the end of her cigarette, and put it out in the ash-tray. "Maybe. But then you'd have your address going around, and if someone got caught... maybe they'd think they could give you up in exchange for a lighter penalty."

"You think like a criminal - I like it."

Shrugging, Hermione sank back, feeling completely exhausted. When was the last time she had gotten sleep that wasn't drug induced? She couldn't quite remember... Her mussels were tight, her head ached, and she craved any sort of high she could get, at the moment.

As far as she knew, her parents had made no effort to find her - although, since she had spent every moment holed up in Andrew's living room, she didn't expect she would have heard of it. How long would she have to be gone before they started worrying? She thought it would have suited them right if she disappeared for a few weeks - let them wonder what happened to her. Let them see what could have happened to her...

It was silly, she thought. She had wanted to leave - they simply helped her in the process.

"Told you it was a shit-hole." Andrew said, stopping the car.

Saying it was a shit-hole would have been nice. There were no more than six rooms, blue paint chipped and faded; the lights that glowed from the windows dim and, on occasion, flickering.

Andrew stopped her as she went to open the door, and told her, "don't say anything, just watch what I do. If they talk to you, keep the conversation as short as possible, and, above all, don't do anything stupid."

"Right... got it..." Hermione said, going back to open the door. The nighttime air was cool, and gloriously fresh - save the noise of light traffic, the night was silent. The motel seemed to be out of place here, as though it was the thing that didn't belong; right down to the people inside of it.

Hermione followed Andrew to the nearest door, which had mark on it that looked as though someone had kicked it. Only a few seconds had gone by between Andrew knocking and the door being swung open; a forty-something year old man was on the other side, with a girl who looked as though she was falling apart in the background. Her hair was thinning, and she was amazingly thin; her eyes bugged out of her head, standing out against her pale skin.

The room itself was a complete disaster - clothes, dishes, and a small collection of pornographic magazines were strewn over the floor, the bed was unmade, and the blanket was beginning to come apart. The walls were covered in a hideous wallpaper, which was peeling, and had several punch holes in it.

"Hello there," Andrew said, inviting himself inside. Hermione stuck close by him, heart pounding, wishing she was anywhere but in this motel, at this moment, with these people.

Skipping the questions, the man launched straight into the transaction. "We need two grams - you have that much, right?"

"Anything for you two," Andrew said, "the real question is: do you have the money?"

"Fuck, yes, do you think I would have called you if I didn't?"

Andrew shrugged, "we all have our reasons for doing things. You know the drill - money first, and then you get your shit."

The man pulled a wad of notes from his pocket, handing them to Andrew. In turn, Andrew took his time counting out each bill, nodding when he saw there was the right amount, and pulled a bag of white rocks from his pocket. He tossed it to the man, who caught it mid-air, and smiled - his teeth were nearly entirely rotted out; what was left were nothing more than black stumps. Hermione suppressed the urge to cringe, and felt pity for the girl who was with him.

"Thanks for coming through, Andrew." The man said, "I knew I could always count on you."

Andrew grinned, "there's nothing I wouldn't do for my favorite costumers."

The man through the bag to the girl, who seemed to know exactly what to do - she walked over to the dresser, poured half of the rocks out over it, and fetched a razor to cut it with. She was skilled, Hermione noticed, briskly chopping and dividing the meth into two lines.

"Right then - I'll see you later?" Andrew said, heading for the door. Hermione went with him, not waiting to hear the man's goodbyes, and instantly felt her heart-rate drop once she was back outside; she took several deep breaths as they walked back to the car, trying to calm down.

Getting back into the car, Hermione was amazed at how quickly the deal had happened - save the setting, it certainly wasn't what she had imagined a drug deal looking like, despite the number of times she had seen Andrew sell out of his house. Were they all like that?

They did not talk as they drove to their next destination. Few cars were on the road; the only places that were open at this time of night were the bars, and even those would be closing soon. What places did these people have to be? Were the people in their cars thinking the same thing about them?

Hermione drummed her fingers on the arm-rest, admiring the track-marks on her arm. The first ones she had gotten were beginning to heal over, and the newest one - the one she had gotten this morning - was nothing more than a tiny, pink, pinprick. Something about them was beautiful to Hermione; she wished that she had more light than that from the passing streetlight - looking at them was like falling into a trance. Without thinking, she rubbed her thumb over a cluster of them, nothing but affection in her heart.

Their next location was much nicer than the motel - it was small, but the lawn was well-kept, and there was a chain-link fence surrounding the grass. Someone had even planted a flower-bed, with each plant brightly colored and perky. Only one light was on, giving the assumption that the people that lived there had simply gone to bed without remembering to turn it off.

It was comforting.

Andrew seemed to know the place well, knowing exactly where the latch was to open the gate, and striding to the front door, knocking several times.

It took much longer for these people to answer; when they did, Hermione was nearly taken aback - the woman who answered the door looked... normal. She did not have scabs on her arms, her face was not sunken in, and she did not look at though she was about to jump down the throat of the first person to get on her bad side. She did, on the other hand, have her arms crossed over her chest, and did not look as though she was about to welcome Andrew inside.

"I thought I told you not to come here anymore." She said, firmly, a scowl on her face.

Andrew shrugged, "if Morgan's going to call me, I'm not going to ignore him. If he wants it... I need the money, you know? If I've got a costumer, I'm not going to deny them."

The woman was not about to take this. "He's trying to get clean, you know that! It's never going to happen if you keep coming down here every time he asks you to!"

Sighing, Andrew answered, "look, if the guy doesn't want to get clean, he's not going to get clean - end of story. I'm sorry, but I don't know what to tell you. If I don't sell to him, he'll find someone else - someone much, much, more cut-throat than I am."

"Like you're a saint or something?"

To answer this, Andrew pulled open his jacket. "I'm the only dealer I know who doesn't carry a weapon on him. You don't know the half of what a guy would do to someone who couldn't pay them - Morgan is lucky to have found me, and not someone else."

"You've ruined his life, and you won't take responsibility for it!" The woman replied, throwing up her hands. "And look, you've even gone out and found a little kid's life to fuck up, as well!"

Hermione looked at Andrew, unsure if she should say the things she wanted to. Right now, feeling as though she had been run over, she was more than willing to punch the woman in the face, if she didn't believe it would get the police called on them. As if he knew what she was thinking, Andrew shook his head at her, and returned his attention to the woman.

"I'll leave tonight, but I'm telling you, you're just putting Morgan in more danger."

The moment Andrew finished speaking, the woman slammed the door shut; Hermione could hear more than one lock turning.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked as they walked back to the car.

Again, Andrew shook his head. "Morgan's been buying from me since I started dealing. His girl wants him to quit - the guy's going crazy, you know? Getting more and more desperate as the days go on. I wouldn't be surprised if we found him wandering around some ghetto tomorrow, looking for anyone to sell him anything."

"How is it you can't manage to get to him?" Hermione asked, "if he could call you to come over here, how can't you manage to get him away from her long enough to make the deal?"

"Fuck if I know..." Andrew said, sighing heavily.

A look crossed over his face that made him look at though he was lost in though; leaving him to his thoughts, Hermione returned to her hobby of watching the other cars drive by. It was just after two in the morning; soon, she knew, a group of Andrew's friends would be gathering at his house, expecting to drink and use until they passed out, the memory of what they had spent the night doing lost forever...

This was the story of most every night, each one seeming more wild than the night before. While she tried to reign herself in when there were so many people around, she could hazily recall being so drunk the night before, that she had not even been able to sit up. Who knew how long she had been laying on the floor, giggling like a child, slurring out the stupidest of things, and clutching a half-empty bottle of vodka to her chest.

All in all, it had been a pretty good time.

They arrived back at the house shortly after two thirty; Hermione lighting a cigarette as she walked in. The house was even messier than usual - with her cigarette in one hand, Hermione piled the heaps of Andrew's dirty clothes into a corner, deciding that, tomorrow, she would give the place the proper cleaning it desperately needed.

"Ah! Look what I found!" Hermione shouted, finding a bong under a filthy sheet. Honestly... if Andrew was going to use the living room as a hub for his laundry, would it really hurt him to actually get it to the laundromat at some point? "God, you're lucky I'm not a cop."

"Oh, hey, I was looking for that," Andrew said, walking over and taking it from her. As everything Andrew owned, it looked as though it had seen better days, but was still in working order. He carried it back to his room, which Hermione found highly amusing, considering he might want to keep it - compared to Andrew's bedroom, the living room was immaculate.

"Do you often just misplace things like that?" Hermione called, pausing to cough. "I'm amazed you haven't gotten arrested yet!"

Andrew reappeared, stepping around the maze he had made for himself. "It takes skill, trust me. Not many are suited for this kind of lifestyle - we are the few, the rare, the... calculating."

Hermione's heart froze momentarily when she heard Andrew say, "we". Did he consider her a member of the drug world? Honestly, she herself considered her as such... but it seemed... surreal, almost, that others would.

How had she ended up here?

Clutching the ledge of the counter with one hand, Hermione used her other to tip the Vodka bottle, spilling more on the counter-top than she did into her glass. Despite using the counter as a crutch, Hermione was at risk of falling over at any moment - she had lost track of how much she had drank tonight; if someone asked her, she would just be able to say, "a lot."

Sitting on the kitchen floor, Hermione raised the glass to her lips with both hands, getting most of the burning liquid on her shirt, and choking from taking too big of a gulp. She gasped, sputtering, unable to even form a coherent thought.

Andrew's friend, Brian, was standing in the doorway - he might have been asking her something, but if he was, Hermione could not understand what he was saying.

Ignore the fact that he was there, Hermione slid until she was laying down, not noticing she was doing so until it was too late to stop herself.

"Oh, no!" She cried, not knowing what else to say. Coming out, even she could not make out what she was trying to say - next time, she swore to herself, she would not get this drunk.

Brian laughed, at her, drunk as well, coming over and helping her to sit up. She wanted to tell him that she didn't need his help, that she was perfectly capable of sitting up on her own, but she couldn't think of the words one would say to convey that message.

"You remind me of one of my friends," she said instead, not sure which friend she was thinking about, just knowing that something about Brian seemed very familiar.

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" He asked, sitting down next to her.

Hermione shrugged, "I don't really know."

From that moment on for her, the night was nothing more than a big, void, blank.

This chapter seems a bit short to me, but this seemed like too perfect a place to end it.

I hope you enjoyed - I'm very happy with how it turned out, myself, despite it's short length!