Draco was drunk, but pleasantly so. He had found a balance between comfort and blacking out. The thought made him feel smug — and then immediately ashamed, as if not passing out on the floor was something to be proud of.
Merlin, he was pathetic.
It had been a week, and his mother was still confused. She constantly asked about the peacocks — Priscilla, in particular — and about 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 recognised him, cooed at him briefly, 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 episodes had happened too many times now, and they scared him. What would happen if he wasn't there?
He couldn't stomach the thought of leaving her alone when she was like this. Draco took another swig of Firewhisky to dull the feeling. At this rate, he might be passing out on the floor after all.
No. He needed to keep his wits about him. He had a job to do.
He hadn't forgotten Jinxy's advice about potions. He had resisted the idea at the time, of course, but that was before his mother's condition had reasserted itself so forcefully. He always forgot how bad her episodes were; how much they frightened him. And then there had been that morning at breakfast — Granger's potion shop, there on the front page of The Prophet. It was a funny thing, coincidence. He needed help — yes, he was willing to admit that much — and there was the Golden Girl, staring up at him from the newspaper, so very obviously the answer to his problem.
One of them, at least.
Hermione Granger had always had that quality about her. He had never really known her well — too blinded by his own hate and prejudice to even consider the prospect — but she had always been the sort to throw herself before the feet of the dejected and downtrodden, even back at Hogwarts. The proof was in the fact that she had testified on his behalf after the War, without him ever asking, and despite the fact that he had cruelly bullied her for the better part 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 fairly certain she would help him. Or at least, she would try.
He didn't want her help — he really didn't. But he also recognised that while she was 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 favourite subject at school and had remained a hobby long after — after his probation, that is. He had scoured the Malfoy Manor library, and he had tinkered with several potions himself, but to no avail. The books revealed nothing that would treat his mother's condition, and his own experiments had been fruitless. He was no stranger to the craft, no, but he was not a Potions Master.
So, Draco would swallow his pride — what little of it he had left — and he would ask Hermione Granger to help his mother.
Before he could second-guess himself any further, Draco Apparated into Diagon Alley.
He lost his balance slightly as he landed, the Firewhisky 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 remembered why he had needed it. The Firewhisky had provided the fortitude to come this far. He would take what he could get.
It didn't take him long to find the shop. It was unassuming — squashed between a bookshop 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.
Merlin, I don't want to do this.
This was for his mother, he reminded himself, as he pushed the door open. A small bell above the door announced his arrival.
"I'll be with you in a moment!" a voice called from somewhere in the back, unmistakably Granger's.
He could still change his mind. He could still leave.
Draco forced himself to walk further into the shop. It was small, as he had noticed from the outside, and it was crammed — potions lined the shelves, and where there were no vials, there were hundreds of books on the subject, stuffed tightly into every available space. A large purple sofa sat in the middle of the room, in front of an oak coffee table surrounded by elegant antique wingback chairs. Candles lit the space, lending it a homey, cozy feel that Draco found unexpectedly tolerable. He dropped himself into one of the wingbacks to wait, trying to appear calm and collected, even as he fidgeted in his seat.
"How can I help — Malfoy?" she began, drawing up short when she saw who had come in.
"In the flesh," he replied with a smirk.
She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly suspicious. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?" she asked flatly.
"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 thirty seconds, I'll call Harry or Ron. They're Aurors now, you know," Granger replied, her voice sharp.
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. "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, reaching for her wand.
"I'm here for my mother, Granger," Draco interrupted. He didn't particularly want to be arrested today. Not again.
Her demeanour softened immediately. "Your mother?" she asked, quieter now.
It was well-known that Narcissa Malfoy had played a defining role in Voldemort's defeat. She had lied to his face, effortlessly, and he had believed her. Harry Potter had not been dead, and still she had lied. Had it been any other follower — any other person — the war might have gone in an entirely different direction. Voldemort would have won, and Harry Potter would truly be dead.
Draco was ashamed of much, but he had never been ashamed of his mother. "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 slow breath. He could see it in her eyes — she did not want to help him. But this was precisely what he had counted on. She didn't want to, but she would. Her eyes closed briefly, and the tip of her tongue traced her lower lip. It was a long moment before she finally spoke: "Let's go to my office."
Draco nodded and rose from the wingback, relief coursing through him. Granger would help his mother. She would find something — fix her, perhaps. "After you, Granger," he replied, gesturing ahead of himself.
Her narrowed eyes didn't leave his as she moved past him. She was still suspicious, still distrustful. Draco could live with that. He had lived with worse.
Her office was tucked back into the corner of the shop: a small room decorated much in the same spirit as the rest of the place, though more brightly lit. As she crossed the threshold, Granger gestured to a pair of mismatched wooden chairs — one yellow, one teal, each with equally mismatched floral cushions — positioned opposite her desk, which was buried under a formidable pile of parchment and books bristling with scraps of brightly-coloured paper.
Draco took the yellow chair nearest the door; the floral cushion was, unexpectedly, quite comfortable. Granger closed the door quietly behind her before settling on the other side of the desk. She was silent for a moment before clasping her hands together on the desktop. Her tongue once again traced her lower lip. She sighed. "All right, Malfoy. What can I help you with?"
This was Business-Granger, Draco realised at once. Cool, composed, ready to negotiate. Confident and sure-footed — she was in charge here and wanted him to know it. This was a game he had observed his entire life. With a slight smirk, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Relax, Granger. I really am here about my mother."
She observed him quietly, assessing his sincerity, he suspected. "And why am I your only option?" she asked coldly.
His composure faltered, and he sighed. "As I said, my mother has not been well for quite some time," he began.
Granger nodded, gesturing for him to continue.
"On the best of days, she stays in bed. She's very depressed —"
"There are potions for that, you know," she cut in. "I'm not the only shop in Diagon Alley, either."
Draco held his glare for a moment. "I know that," he replied through his teeth. "She won't take them, but that's beside the point —"
"Then why —"
"Let me speak, Granger, and I will tell you."
She closed her mouth. Her clasped hands disappeared from the desk. "Go on," she said quietly.
"On the best days, she is very depressed. On the worst days, she doesn't seem to know what year it is. Sometimes — like now — it's as though the War never happened," he finished.
At that, her eyes brightened. "Can you be more specific?" she asked, pulling a piece of parchment from her stack and gathering a quill.
Draco took a slow breath. He grasped his own hands together in his lap in an effort to keep himself grounded. The anxiety always started in his hands — he could feel his fingers trembling against each other. "She talks about the peacocks a great deal," 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's mouth opened briefly — he suspected she had been on the verge of apologising before she thought better of it. She closed her mouth and tipped her chin towards him, signalling for him to continue.
"We haven't had the peacocks in years. They were taken away. She asks about them constantly — wonders where they are. On good days, she knows. It's the same with my father. Some days she doesn't remember that he's in Azkaban. Some days it's as though she thinks I'm back in fourth year — before everything," he finished quietly.
She was staring at him with an expression he could only describe as stunned. He had managed to surprise Hermione Granger.
Would wonders never cease.
It took only a moment before she composed herself, jotting something down quickly 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 and began writing again, quickly. "How long do the fugues usually last?"
"Fugues?"
She nodded. "A fugue is a state of temporary loss of awareness of one's identity or other important autobiographical information, often accompanied by a kind of flight from one's usual environment. The person suffers a form of amnesia — memories, sense of time, personality may all be affected."
"I see," he replied.
"How long do they usually last?" she repeated.
"Sometimes a couple of days. Most commonly about two weeks. One —" Draco rolled the word around on his tongue, "fugue lasted about three months, but that's the longest," he replied quietly, picking at an invisible thread on his trouser knee.
She nodded again, more scribbling. "Have you tried any other remedies?" she asked without looking up.
"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?" More writing.
"Most of them," he replied bluntly.
"Could you be more specific?"
He sighed. "I've tried everything a standard Healer could prescribe, as well as several of my own devising." He picked at the thread again.
She set down her quill and looked up at him. "Yours?" Her eyes narrowed again.
Draco nodded. "This has been going on for years, Granger. I've done a great deal of research and a great deal of experimenting. I'm officially out of options. So here I am."
Granger studied him for a long moment before she once again clasped her hands on the desk. Business-Granger was back. "I'll need to see all of your research, and all of her medical records," she began.
"Naturally."
"It would help enormously if I could meet with your mother, or at the very least observe her."
"I'm not sure a meeting would be productive," Draco said, the words heavy in his mouth.
Her eyes flashed.
Draco exhaled. "It is what it is, Granger. She doesn't know what year it is. What would you have me do? I can't fill her in on everything without crushing her."
Granger relented with a nod. "I suppose you're right. It could cause her far too much distress."
"But you'll help me?" he asked.
She let out a long breath. "I will try, Malfoy. If I recall correctly, you weren't a poor potioneer yourself — so if you haven't found anything —"
"I haven't found anything because there is nothing to find," he interrupted. "Which is precisely why I came to you. Because you can create it."
She gave him an odd look, one he couldn't quite read. "Creating a potion from nothing is no simple endeavour, Malfoy. I'm sure you're aware of that."
"Of course I'm aware, Granger. I am not a simpleton," Draco replied coolly.
"I have a business to run —"
"I'll pay you whatever you want."
Granger laughed, low and a little dark. "I will be charging you considerably, don't worry. But that wasn't quite what I was getting at."
"Then what, Granger?"
She sighed. "I'll need you to keep researching, and I'll need detailed reports on her condition — everything she does, everything she says, everything you find."
"So I'm paying you for a service, yet I'll be doing the work?" he asked.
She glared at him. "I'm sure you're aware that the greatest potions in history were not created by a single wizard, but through partnership."
"You're not suggesting —"
"Never. Absolutely not. A bit of assistance is all I ask. I know you can read, Malfoy — I promise it won't be too demanding," she replied with a smirk.
Draco relented. He knew brewing something entirely new was no small feat, and honestly, Granger wasn't asking too much — he would have continued his research regardless. "Fine," he said softly. "As long as you help her."
Granger looked at him earnestly then, for the first time since he had walked through the door. Her expression shifted — not annoyance, not suspicion — but something that looked very much like empathy.
He felt unexpectedly nauseous.
"I'll do my best, Malfoy," she said plainly. "I won't make you any promises —"
Draco waved her off. He had no use for promises. "I know you'll do your very best, Granger. Your moral compass wouldn't allow for anything less."
She nodded. "Please send me all of your research before the weekend."
"I'll send everything the moment I get home," he replied, standing and extending his hand in what was certainly going to be an awkward handshake.
Granger stood as well and grasped his hand firmly.
Her hand was warm and soft, yet firm. He held onto her fingers a beat too long — he couldn't remember the last time another person had touched him.
She withdrew her hand and stepped back, quietly creating more distance between them.
Had he not had the Firewhisky to thank, Draco was certain she would have seen the colour rise in his face. Thank Merlin for small mercies.
"Thank you, Granger," he said quietly, before leaving her office behind.
He made his way out onto the bustling street of Diagon Alley, exhaled a long, shaky breath, and Apparated home.
—
Draco awoke with a start, the book resting on his chest thudding to the floor. He sat up sharply, his neck and back protesting at once. The library was dark now, lit only by the thin sliver of the moon peering through the long windows.
Night, then. Draco groaned.
After his meeting with Granger, he had been in desperate need of steadying himself, so upon arriving back at the Manor he had swiped a bottle of Ogden's Finest from the kitchens, intending to do a bit of research and a good deal of drinking.
Apparently, he had succeeded at one of those things.
He picked the book up from the floor and studied its spine: Potio ex Animo.
So he had gotten well and truly drunk and tried to read a book on potions in Latin. Well. That was new. He continually surprised himself, if nothing else.
With a short, humourless snort, he tossed the book aside, unsure whether he was more disgusted with it or with himself. Then he noticed the bottle of Firewhisky, still half-full on the side table. He grabbed it by the neck and took a long gulp.
He was awake now. He might as well continue where he had left off.
Draco picked up the book again, reasoning that drunk-Draco might have had some insight into this particular text that sober-Draco was lacking. His fingers skimmed the pages until he was roughly halfway through, at which point he allowed the spine to fall fully open and he began to read. The page he had landed on bore a single title: Inanis.
Void.
He had been tutored in several languages as a child, Latin among them. He was a bit out of practice, but he was fairly certain of the translation: Void. Empty.
Intrigued, Draco read on, translating 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 indicated for hysteria and other emotional disturbances. The Draught of Inanis creates a feeling of emptiness within the drinker. Emotions are muted, or altogether nonexistent.
Draco's throat went dry. Nonexistent. Nothing.
It sounded lovely.
He had tried several potions after his release from Azkaban. None of them had come close to dampening the guilt, the panic, the shame, the disgust that bubbled so perpetually near the surface of him. The thoughts were always there — Kill yourself — nothing had quieted them. He took another swig of Firewhisky before scanning the list of ingredients: all very expensive, he noted; a very potent potion, then.
Draco's hands trembled with anticipation. This could be the potion he had been searching for — one to take it all away, to numb it, to end his pain without ending himself. One more gulp of Firewhisky, and he dog-eared the page before closing the book firmly and tucking it under his arm. He would need to study it more carefully later, when he was more-or-less sober. At present, his vision was swimming.
Book and bottle in hand, Draco made his way from the library towards his bedroom. He had nearly reached it when he noticed a thin bar of light beneath his mother's door. He wasn't sure of the hour, but he was certain it was far too late for her to still be awake. Concerned, he opened the door — just to check — and Narcissa immediately called out: "Lucius?"
Her voice was shaky. He could hear she had been crying. His heart sank straight down to his toes. "No, Mother, it's just me," he said quietly, pushing the door open further. "Are you all right? It's late — you should be sleeping."
Narcissa smiled at him weakly, unable to conceal the tear-tracks on her cheeks. "Of course, darling. I was just waiting for your father to get home."
"Mother, remember? He's with the peacocks. In Lyon."
A delicate hand moved across her face, wiping the tears away. "Yes, of course," she replied, her voice splintered around the edges. "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, quiet and hollow. "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. 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 false, and it didn't reach his eyes, but from where she lay in bed she couldn't tell the difference.
His mother comforted — no longer shedding tears over a man she would never again see without a magical partition between them — Draco continued to his room. Once inside, he closed the door and raised the bottle of Firewhisky to his lips, drinking in long, furious gulps, not pausing to breathe as the burn travelled down and settled deep in his gut. He didn't stop until the bottle was empty, and once it was, he threw it against the wall, where it shattered with a satisfying crack.
Fuck this. Fuck you, Father. How could you? His thoughts were screaming, blazing. How could you do this to us? To her? To me?
The broken glass glittered prettily in the moonlight. Almost pretty enough to be deliberate. Draco moved towards it, swaying slightly on his feet, staring down at the shards for a long moment before selecting the largest one — the one that caught the light the most brightly, the one that seemed to call to him.
He carried it to his bed and curled up on his side.
How could you do this to me?
Clumsily, Draco rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt — covered, always covered — to reveal the faded Dark Mark on his pale skin. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to look at it, and in the pale moonlight, it was even uglier than he remembered. What he would not give for it to be gone forever.
The glass shard pressed lightly against his chest. A reminder.
Without thinking, Draco pressed it to his forearm, dragging it across the Mark, again and again, mechanically — trying to rid himself of the thing, to scrape it from his skin once and for all. Blood ran freely down his arm until there was so much of it that the Mark was obscured entirely.
He let the glass fall to the floor. The last thing Draco was aware of before consciousness left him was the dark spreading bloom of red beneath his arm.
That night, Draco did not dream.