I was browsing on Netflix a couple of weeks ago when I came across a TV show named Painkiller. Binge watched the whole thing. The gist of it is that an addictive drug was manufactured, mass produced and sold to doctors to give to the general public. The show followed the creator of the drug, a fictional advertiser, a fictional lawyer trying to prevent it, and a fictional victim of the drug — it was based, however loosely, on an unfortunately true story.

I thought about Painkiller for days after finishing it. Then I came across some article talking about that new Harry Potter show. Apparently it's going to be 'faithful' to the books, which is a little disappointing to me considering we have the movies to do that. The OG Harry Potter fans are older now. Much older. Why not tackle topics that haven't been mentioned in the books? It's not like something like Deathly Hallows was child-friendly material to begin with.

Well, that's how this fic was born.

M Rating: Reader discretion is advised. M for many mature themes, most importantly being drug abuse and addiction, which is a common and ongoing aspect of this fic. If this is a trigger for you or you are sensitive to the topic, this is not the fic for you.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Harry Potter.

"The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you" — Time in a Bottle, Jim Croce


Prologue


November 19 1998

Here she is, on the seventh floor, her back against the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. "It's been a while," she mutters to the blank wall in front of her, wondering if she even dares. She starts forward, then falters mid-footstep, hesitant.

There is so much time between her and the wall. Really, only over a year, but to her it feels like centuries. So much has been lost to it. So many people. Her heart. Her soul. She stares down at her shaking hands, pale and clammy. How much blood is on these hands? A dry sob catches in her throat. This is a bad idea.

She means to turn around, but her feet won't move. Cola is now illegal in most parts of the world, and smuggling it into other countries is near impossible with the invention of a new, specialized detection spell. What the Ministry didn't count on during their sweeps was the Room of Requirement. It has a place for hidden things. The secret stash is among those things. Their secret stash.

She has been checking the Map since the start of the new school year, waiting to see if his name would disappear from it. Over the course of a few months she would trace his name in the Great Hall, the grounds, the Greenhouses, the library, the dungeons, the Slytherin common room… and today, it would seem, he has succumbed. Dazed and delirious on the other side of this wall.

Euphoria. Energy. Freedom. She would die for another taste of it.

Setting her jaw, her stomach flipping in anticipation, she walks thrice along the tapestry, and their door appears on the wall. She wrenches it open, revealing the cavernous room lined with towering, dusty shelves, stacked with forgotten items. The door shuts behind her like a final breath.

She steps into the gloom. The air is heavy and silent. She explores the different aisles of shelves, her fingers gliding over familiar spots. She crosses the vanishing cabinet and pauses, staring at it. Vincent Crabbe had been ready to set this whole room on fire, and had the cabinet not been behind him, she would have thrown the Killing Curse at him.

The thought shoots like ice down her back, but then she shakes her head at herself angrily. Crabbe is a Death Eater. A murderer. She gave him mercy he doesn't deserve.

Turning away from the cabinet, she wanders closer to their location. The aisle in between the giant vase with the long decayed plant and a stack of dirty magazines with models moving promiscuously in loops of time. With each footstep her heart beats faster. She can taste it already. She can actually taste it, through the top of her nose and the back of her throat.

As she rounds into the aisle, it's proven true that she's not alone in the room.

In the war, she'd gotten glimpses of him, his face gaunt like a skull, his eyes wild. The last several months have been kind to him. His face has filled out healthily, his jawline sharp-edged rather than jutting out, his cheekbones smoothly rounded. His skin has some color in it and the shadows under his eyes have faded. He's grown out his hair slightly, his fringe now swept back carelessly. Their eyes meet, and his are soft, warm, and familiar. Not dazed and delirious... Startled and alert.

She is ripped out of her trance. Her gaze falls to his hands, one clutching the last vial with the last pills, and the other holding his wand.

"Hermione," he says, almost pleadingly.

"Give me the vial. Give me the vial, Malfoy." He shakes his head, fist closing over it. He takes a step back as she takes one forward. "Give it to me now. Give it to me! Malfoy, please," she chokes out a sob, and he gives her a tortured look.

"You know I can't give it to you."

She crumples to her knees. "Malfoy, I'm in so much pain. So much pain. I need to forget... I keep seeing their faces… Remus and Tonks… Ginny… R- Ron," she gasps, "Oh Draco," she moans, bowing her head and throwing her palms to the ground and sobbing. "Please, Draco. Please…"

"Get up, Hermione," he says, "Please get up."

She slowly crawls towards him. "I can't… I'm in so much pain…"

Her head jerks up with the sudden swish of air. His wand —

She has never moved faster in her life. Darting up, Hermione leaps forward and barrels straight into him. Draco lets out a puff of surprise, the vial and his wand dropping from his hands to the ground with a clatter as his arms encircle her. She scrambles for the vial, but his arms tighten firmly around her, and she struggles to break free of them. His lips brush against her forehead.

"Let me go, Malfoy."

"I can't," he whispers against her skin.

She hates this. She hates him. As if he is any better than her. As if he can make up for all his sins by doing something noble. She beats against his chest with her fists, but his arms only tighten, and she kicks and thrashes with her legs, but he only backs her into a shelf and presses into her legs with his, mumbling pointless apologies in her ear. Her eyes are pinned on the vial, lying on the ground just feet away from them.

But fighting his grip isn't helping her.

Hermione relaxes her muscles, panting as she drags her eyes to him and pulls her head back from his. There is sweat beading on his forehead and tears brimming in his eyes. For a moment, her heart aches. She remembers when they were innocent. When they were bright-eyed and optimistic about the future, about their future. She had even imagined the names of the children they might have. A tear slipping down her cheek, Hermione leans her head forward and presses her lips against his.

At first, he responds tenderly, his lips moving soft against hers like she is spun-glass, like he is afraid to break her. One of his hands slides down to her waist and the other moves up to cradle the base of her skull, his fingers curling gently into her hair. She can taste tears, both hers and his. He kisses her like they are in love. But then, something shifts. The anger. The resentment. The fear. She imagines it's all settling in, now.

His lips become hot and hungry. They nip and tweak at hers until she whimpers, and then his tongue darts into her mouth, battles with hers, and it tastes like salt. His hand fists painfully in her hair, the other gripping her hip so tight she knows it will bruise. His kisses are searing, desperately rough, like this time, he wants to break her, he wants to set her on fire. He closes the minimal gap between them until she is flush against him, and she can feel him hard against her abdomen. She wraps her arms around his neck, her fingernails scraping his scalp, and she simultaneously bucks her hips against his.

He groans against her lips and she feels the hint of a sob.

He pulls back for air then dives for her throat, nipping the skin there in all the spots he remembers are her favorite. He shifts his feet back as his hands roam her body, her shoulders, her arms, her stomach, her breasts. She clutches his hair, gasping, wrapping her freed legs around his hips, her eyes dropping back to the vial.

"How did we get here, Draco?"


September 12th 1995

The black pills crushed under the stub of his wand, and then he bent his head and snorted the powder. Immediately euphoria clouded his mind and energy pumped in his pure blood. He groaned and leaned his head back against the side of his bed. Vanishing the remnants of the powder from his bedside table, he slipped his wand into his robes and smirked dandily at the empty boys' dormitories.

Nott and Zabini had to endure the incessant whining and nagging of Parkinson — without the help of 'Cola', a new, expensive drug that had been selling in Knockturn Alley like a whore in a Pureblood Convention. His on and off girlfriend had been starting to piss him off lately, but he couldn't exactly just tell her to fuck off, since it would upset the alliance of their families. Oh, the qualms of descending from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Draco Malfoy got up, smoothing his robes and adjusting his prefect's badge, then headed down to the Great Hall for lunch.