Draco was drunk, but pleasantly so. He had found a balance between comfort and blacking out. The thought made him feel smug. And then ashamed, as if not passing out drunk on the floor was something to be proud of.
Fuck, he was pathetic.
It had been a week, and his mother was still confused. She constantly asked Draco about the peacocks—Priscilla, in particular—and his father. He had to keep reminding her that Lucius and the Peacocks were in Lyon. Priscilla would certainly win many prizes; she was the most beautiful, after all.
Admittedly, he had visited the peacocks at the Zoo once—because he missed them, too. They had recognized him, cooed at him for a moment, and then lost interest completely before wandering off. The peacocks didn't care—not really.
Draco hated lying to her. But it was still better than telling her the truth.
For her? Or for you?
His mother's memory loss had happened too many times, and it scared him. What would happen if he wasn't there?
Draco couldn't stomach the thought of leaving his mother alone when she was like this. He took another swig of firewhiskey to dull the feeling. Maybe he would be passing out on the floor after all.
No. He needed to keep his wits about him. He had a job to do.
Draco hadn't forgotten Jinxy's advice about potions. Of course, he had resisted the idea at the time, but that was before his mother's condition made itself known once more. He always forgot how bad her episodes were; how much they scared him. And then, the other day at breakfast, with Granger's potion shop. It was a funny thing, coincidence was. He needed help—yes, he was willing to admit that much—and there was the Golden Girl, plastered on the front page of The Prophet, so very obviously the solution to his problem.
One of them, at least.
Hermione Granger had always had that way about her. He had never really known the Golden Girl well—too blinded by his own hate and prejudice to even consider the prospect—but she had always been the type to prostrate herself before the feet of the dejected and downtrodden, even back at Hogwarts. The proof of this fact was in that she had testified on his behalf after the War, without him even asking and despite the fact that he had cruelly bullied her for the better half of a decade.
No, Hermione Granger was the type to always do the right thing. It was, and always had been, infuriating.
Knowing this, Draco was certain that she would help him. Or at least, she would try.
He didn't want her help, he really didn't. But, Draco also recognized that while infuriating, Hermione Granger was, in fact, the brightest witch of their age, and if anyone could help his mother, it would be her.
Draco was no stranger to potions. It had always been his favorite subject at school and remained a hobby after school—after his probation, that is. He had scoured the books in the Malfoy Manor library, and he had tinkered with several potions himself, but with no success. The books revealed no potion that would treat his mother's condition, and his own experiments had been fruitless. He was not a stranger, no, but he was also not a Master Potioneer.
So, Draco would swallow his pride—what little of it he had left, that is—and he would beg Hermione Granger to help his mother.
Before he could think about his decision anymore, Draco apparated into Diagon Alley.
He lost his balance slightly as he landed, the firewhiskey sloshing in his stomach. For a moment, he regretted drinking as much as he had, but when faced with the bustling street around him, he was reminded why he was here. He had needed the fortitude that the firewhiskey provided.
It didn't take him long to find the little shop. It was unassuming; squashed between a bookstore and a candle shop. A wooden sign hung above the door; the word Elixir freshly hand-painted in purple. So this was it: Hermione Granger's potion shop.
Fuck, I don't want to do this.
This was for his mother, he reminded himself as he pushed the door open, the little bell hanging above it announcing his arrival.
"I'll be with you in a moment!" shouted a faraway voice that undoubtedly belonged to Granger.
He could still change his mind; he could still leave.
Draco forced himself to walk further into the shop, taking it in. It was small, as he had noticed from the outside, and it was crammed. Potions lined the shelves, and where there were not vials of potions, there were hundreds of books about potions, stuffed onto the shelves. A large purple sofa sat in the middle of the shop, in front of an oak coffee table, which in turn was surrounded by elegant, antique wingback chairs. Candles lit the space, giving it a homey, cozy feel. Draco dropped himself into one of the chairs as he waited for Granger to come out from wherever she was hiding, trying to appear calm and collected, even as he fidgeted in his seat.
"How can I help—Malfoy?" she began, suddenly realizing who was in her shop.
"In the flesh," he replied with a smirk.
She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly suspicious. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?" she asked darkly.
"Saw you in The Prophet, thought I'd come check the place out. Not too shabby, Granger."
"I'm serious. If you don't tell me why you're here in the next 30 seconds, I'll call Harry, or Ron. They're Aurors now, you know," Granger replied hotly.
He did, in fact, know. Draco let out an audible sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm actually here for your help, Granger," he admitted.
Granger wrinkled her nose as if in disbelief. "My help?"
"You know, The Prophet constantly touts you as the brightest witch of our age, but I'm just not seeing it."
"Fine, I'm calling them—" She turned, presumably to reach for her wand.
"I'm here for my mother, Granger," Draco interrupted. He didn't want to be arrested today, after all. Not again.
Granger's demeanor softened immediately. "Your mother?" she asked quietly.
It was well-known that Narcissa Malfoy had played a defining role in the defeat of Voldemort. She had lied effortlessly to his face, and he had believed her.
Harry Potter had not been dead, and still she had lied. If it had been any other follower—any other person—the war would have gone in another direction completely. Voldemort would have won, and Harry Potter would truly be dead.
Draco was ashamed. "I wouldn't be here if you weren't my only option."
"Right," Granger replied tightly.
"She's not well, Granger."
Granger let out a loud sigh. He could see it in her deep amber eyes: she did not want to help him. But this was what he had counted on, after all. She didn't want to, but he knew she would. Her eyes closed briefly, and her pink tongue ran across her bottom lip, wetting it. It was a long moment before she finally spoke again: "Let's go to my office."
Draco nodded and rose from the wingback, relief coursing through his veins. Granger would help him. Granger would help her—fix her. "After you, Granger," Draco replied, sweeping his right arm in front of himself, motioning for her to lead the way.
Granger's narrowed eyes never left his as she made to move in front of him. She was still suspicious, still distrustful. Draco could live with that. He would have to live with that.
He had lived with that, he reminded himself.
Her office was tucked back into the corner of the shop, a small room decorated very much in the same vein as the rest of the shop, albeit more brightly lit. As she walked through the doorway of the office, Granger gestured to the pair of mis-matched wooden chairs—one yellow, and one teal, both with equally mis-matched floral seat cushions—that sat opposite of what was clearly her desk, which was piled high with parchment and books with brightly-colored pieces of paper tucked between the pages haphazardly.
Draco sat in the yellow chair closest to the door, the floral seat cushion surprisingly comfortable. Granger closed the door behind her quietly before making her way to the other side of the desk, where she sat down. She was quiet for a few moments before she clasped her hands together on the top of the desk. Her tongue once again peeked out to trace her bottom lip. She sighed again. "All right, Malfoy. What can I help you with?"
This was business-Granger, Draco instantly realized. She was cool, and calm, ready to strike a deal. She was confident and sure-footed—she was in charge here and she wanted to make sure that he knew it. This was a game he had studied his entire alive, one that he was familiar with. With a smirk, Draco leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Relax, Granger. I really am here about my mother."
Granger observed him quietly, assessing him for his truthfulness, he suspected. "And why am I your only option?" she asked coldly.
His cool demeanor faltered instantly, and he sighed. "As I said, my mother has not been well for quite some time," Draco began.
Granger nodded, encouraging him to continue.
"On the best of days, she stays in bed. She's very depressed—"
"There are potions for that, you know," she interrupted quickly, coldly. "I'm not the only shop in Diagon Alley, either."
Draco glared at her for a moment. "I know that," he replied as he gritted his teeth. "She won't take them, but that's beside the point—"
"—Then why are you—?"
"Let me speak, Granger, and I will tell you."
Granger closed her mouth and her clasped hands disappeared from atop the desk. "Go on," she said quietly.
"As I was saying: on the best days she is very depressed. There are also very bad days, where she doesn't seem to know what year it is. Sometimes—like now—it's like the War never happened," he finished lamely.
At this, her eyes brightened. "Can you be more specific?" she asked as she pulled a piece of parchment from her formidable stack and gathered a quill.
Draco took a deep breath. Once more, he wished he had drank more, because anxiety was currently coursing through him. He grasped his hands together in an effort to keep himself grounded. It always started in his hands, the anxiety. He could feel his fingers trembling against each other. "She talks about the peacocks a lot," he began.
"The peacocks?"
"We used to have peacocks—"
"—I know that."
"Do you interrupt all of your customers or am I the only one privy to this particular charm of yours?" he snapped.
Granger opened her mouth briefly, and Draco suspected she was on the verge of apologizing to him before she thought better of it. She closed her mouth and tipped her head towards him, signaling for him to continue.
"We haven't had the peacocks in years. They were taken away. She talks about them—wonders where they are. She knows where they are, on the good days. It's the same with my father. Some days she doesn't remember that he's in Azkaban. Some days—some days it's like she thinks I'm back in fourth year, or something, before—before everything," Draco finished quietly.
She was staring at him in an expression he could only deem as awe. He had surprised Hermione Granger.
Would wonders never cease?
It only took a few moments before she composed herself, jotting something down quickly on her parchment before looking back to him. "How often does this happen, on average, would you say?"
Draco shrugged. "Every couple of months, sometimes more frequently."
Granger nodded thoughtfully before she began writing again, furiously. "How long do the fugues usually last?"
"Fugues?"
Granger nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, a fugue is a state or period of loss of awareness of one's identity or other important autobiographical information, often coupled with flight from one's usual environment. During a fugue, one suffers from amnesia; often memories, personality, or other important information."
"What?" he asked dumbly.
Granger rolled her eyes as she scribbled furiously at her parchment. "Essentially, a fugue is when a person suffers memory loss for a temporary, but undetermined, amount of time. How often do her fugues usually last?" she repeated.
"Sometimes a couple of days, but most commonly about two weeks. One fugue—" Draco rolled the word around on his tongue, tasting it, "lasted about three months, but that's the longest," he replied quietly, picking at an invisible thread at the knee of his trousers.
She nodded again, more scribbling. "Have you tried any other remedies?" she asked without looking up at him.
"I've tried a couple of potions. She doesn't like to take them, but I've managed to slip her a few."
"Which ones?" She continued writing.
"Most of them," he replied bluntly.
"Could you be more specific?"
He sighed. "I've tried every potion you could get from a standard Healer, as well as a few of my own invention." Draco picked at the thread again.
Finally, she dropped her quill and looked back up at him. "Yours?" She asked, narrowing her eyes once more.
Draco nodded. "This has been going on for years, Granger. I've done a lot of research, a lot of experimenting. I'm officially out of options. So here I am."
Granger stared at him for a long moment before she once more clasped her hands together on top of the wooden expanse of her desk. Business-Granger was back. "I'll need to see all your research, and all of her records," she began slowly.
"Naturally."
"It would be helpful if I could meet with your mother, or at the very least observe her," Granger continued.
"I don't know if a meeting would be productive," Draco responded, his tongue heavy in his mouth.
Her eyes flashed at him, full of fury.
Draco sighed deeply. "It is what it is, Granger. She doesn't know what year it is. What would you have me do? I can't very well fill her in on everything without crushing her."
Granger relented with a nod. "I suppose you are correct," she surmised. "That might cause her too much distress.
"But you'll help me?" Draco asked hopefully.
She let out a loud sigh. "I will try, Malfoy. If I remember correctly, you weren't a shabby potioneer, so if you haven't found anything—"
"I haven't found anything, because there is nothing," he interrupted. "Which is why I came to you, Granger. Because you can create it."
She gave him an odd look, one that he couldn't quite decipher. "Creating potions is not an easy endeavor, Malfoy, I'm sure you're aware of that," she replied harshly.
"Of course I am aware, Granger. I am not a simpleton," Draco sneered.
"I have a business to run—" she began.
"—I'll pay you whatever you want," he interrupted.
Granger chuckled darkly. "I will be charging you a heavy sum, not to worry, but that was not quite what I was getting at, no."
"Then what, Granger?"
Sighing, she spoke, "I'll need you to keep researching, and I'll need you to keep detailed reports on her condition. Detailed notes, everything she does, everything she says, everything you find—"
"So, I'm paying you for a service, yet I'll be the one doing the work?" he asked snidely.
She glared at him once more. "I'm sure you're well aware that the greatest potions were not created by a sole wizard—rather, through a partnership."
"You're not suggesting—"
"Never. Absolutely not. Just a bit of help. I know you can read, Malfoy, I promise it won't be too difficult," she replied with a smirk.
Draco relented. He knew creating a potion from scratch was no easy feat, and ultimately, Granger wasn't asking him for too much—he would have continued research with or without her, if he was being honest with himself. "Fine," he said softly. "As long as you help her."
Granger looked at him earnestly for the first time since he had walked through the door of her potion shop. Her eyes flashed at him once more, but not in annoyance or rage, as they had previously—instead he saw empathy, understanding.
He felt nauseous.
"I'll do my best, Malfoy," she said plainly. "I don't think that I can promise you anything—"
Draco waved her off. He didn't need promises—not when they were often just a waste of words. "I know you'll do your very best, Granger. Your moral compass could not beseech you otherwise."
She nodded. "Please send me all of your research before the weekend."
"I'll send everything the moment I get home," he replied, standing, offering his hand in what was certainly to be an awkward handshake.
Granger stood as well, and grasped his hand in her own, shaking his hand firmly.
Her hand was warm and soft, yet firm. He held onto her fingers a bit longer than was necessary—he didn't remember the last time another human being had touched him.
She removed her hand from his and took a step backwards, creating more space between them.
If he hadn't taken solace in his firewhiskey before this meeting, Draco was certain she would have seen him flush. Thank Merlin for small miracles.
"Thank you, Granger," he said quietly, before leaving her office behind.
He made his way out to the bustling street of Diagon Alley before releasing a shaky breath and apparating home.
Draco awoke with a start, the book that had been resting on his chest thudding to the floor. He sat up quickly, his neck and back instantly protesting. The library was dark now, lit only by the sliver of the moon that peered through the long windows.
So it was night, then. Draco groaned.
After his meeting with Granger, Draco had been in desperate need of some fortification, so upon his arrival back at the Manor, he had swiped a bottle of Ogden's Finest from the kitchens, intent on doing a bit of research, and whole lot of drinking.
Apparently, he had succeeded in at least one of those goals.
He picked the book up from the floor and studied the title: Potio ex Animo.
So, he had gotten well and truly smashed and tried to read a book about potions in Latin. Well, that was new. He constantly surprised himself, at the very least.
With a snort, he tossed the book aside, unsure whether he was more disgusted with it or with himself.
Draco noticed the bottle of firewhiskey, still half-full where it stood. He grabbed it by the neck before bringing it to his lips and taking a large gulp.
He was awake now, he might as well start where he had left off earlier.
Draco grabbed the book once more, wondering if drunk-Draco maybe had some insight on this particular text that sober-Draco was lacking. His fingers skimmed the pages until he was about halfway through the book, where he allowed the spine of the book to fall open fully so he could read. Draco had landed on the page of a specific potion: Inanis, the title read simply.
Void.
Draco had been tutored in several languages as a child, Latin being among them. He was a bit out of practice with his Latin, but he was fairly certain what that word meant: Void. Empty.
Intrigued, Draco read on clumsily, translating the Latin into English as he went:
Early records indicate that The Draught of Inanis was first brewed in 92 BC for Quintus Caecilius Metellus Numidicus, several years after tribune Saturninus exiled him from Rome. It is used for hysteria and other emotional disturbances. The Draught of Inanis creates a feeling of emptiness within the drinker. Emotions are muted, or all together nonexistent.
Draco gulped. Nonexistent. Nothing.
It sounded lovely.
Draco had tried several potions after his release from his Azkaban. None of them had ever come close to tampering the guilt, the panic, the self-hatred, the disgust, the shame that bubbled so close to his emotional surface. It was always there, the thoughts— Kill yourself— They were always there. Nothing had prevented them. He took another swig of his firewhiskey before he began to scan the list of ingredients: all very expensive, he noted; a very potent potion, then.
Draco shook with anticipation. This could be the potion that he had been searching for so many years—one to take it all away, numb it, end his pain—without ending himself. One more gulp of firewhiskey, and he dog-eared the page before closing it soundly and tucking it underneath his arm. He would have to study it at greater length later on, when he was more-or-less sober. Currently, his vision was swimming.
Book and firewhiskey in hand, Draco made his way from the library and towards his bedroom. He had made it most of the way to his room when he noticed that light still shone from beneath his mother's door. Draco was uncertain of what time it was, but he was certain that his mother should be asleep at this point. Concerned, Draco opened the door—just to check on her—and Narcissa immediately called out, "Lucius?"
Her voice was shaky, and Draco knew instantly that she had been crying. His heart sank right down to his toes. "No, Mother, it's just me," he said quietly, opening the door further. "Are you all right? It's late, you should get some sleep."
Narcissa smiled at him weakly, even though she was unable to hide the streaks of tears that ran down her face. "Of course, darling. Yes, I was just waiting for you father to get home."
"Mother, remember? He's with the peacocks—in Lyon."
A delicate hand ran across her face, wiping the tears away. "Yes, of course," she replied in a broken voice. "Lyon."
"He'll be back soon, Mother," Draco lied.
Lucius Malfoy was never, ever, coming back.
"I'm so silly, crying like this. Lyon!" she laughed. "I just miss him so dreadfully when he's away."
"I know you do, Mother," Draco replied softly. "I know."
"Oh, Draco! Don't worry about your silly mother. It is very late, my darling. You should get some rest yourself—I don't like those bags under your eyes."
"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked.
"Positive, my darling!"
Draco smiled at her. It was fake, and it didn't reach his eyes, but there was no way she could see that from where she laid in her bed.
His mother mollified, no longer shedding tears over a man she would never see again without a magical partition in front of her, Draco continued to his room. Once he made it there, he closed the door and took a several furious gulps of firewhiskey, not even pausing to breathe as the burning sensation traveled down his esophagus and to where it laid deep in his gut. Draco didn't stop drinking until the bottle was empty, and once it was, he threw it, smashing it against the wall of his bedroom.
Fuck this. Fuck you, Father. Fuck you. How could you? His brain was screaming—it was on fire. How could you do this to us? To her? To me?
The glass of the broken bottle glittered prettily in the moonlight, as if it was summoning him. Draco went towards it, leaning over the glass. He stared at it drunkenly for a long moment, swaying on his feet, before selecting the largest shard, the one that glimmered the most brightly, screaming for him: Pick me, use me.
Clutching it protectively to his chest, he made his way to his bed, where he curled up, laying on his side.
How could you do this to me?
Clumsily, Draco rolled up the sleeve of the shirt covering his left arm—covered, always covered—where the faded Mark marred his pale skin. It had been a while before he had even allowed himself to look at, and in the pale moonlight, it was even uglier, and more horrible, than he remembered. What he wouldn't give for it to be gone— The glass that was still clutched to his chest, poking him slightly, reminding him of its presence.
Without even thinking, the glass was in his forearm, and he was slicing, tearing—ripping at the Mark. He could cut it off. Of course he could. Why had he never thought of this before? Blood dripped down his forearm as he cut at the Mark, again and again, unfeeling, until there was so much blood that he could no longer see it clearly.
Satisfied that he had destroyed his Mark, he allowed the blood-covered shard of glass to fall to the floor before he passed out in a puddle of his own blood. That night, Draco did not dream.