AUTHORS NOTE:

This has been in the works awhile and I hope to supply you with regular updates and lots of delicious angst for your dark heart.

The biggest of all thanks and shoutouts to PartyLines, my alpha/beta/cheerleader. This is all garbage if not for her!

Also, huge shout out to SweetLilBullet because maybe a year ago now, we played around with this little plunny and while it has evolved into something entirely different, I still know the bones are there that we talked about all those months ago! I hope I do it justice.

You will notice all the chapters have a song title as their chapter name. I encourage you to give the song a listen either before, after or hell, during. I listened to them on repeat while writing, even while driving and daydreaming about the words I was going to write. So I think you'll enjoy the undertones of each song!

Help me, it's like the walls are caving in

Sometimes I feel like giving up

No medicine is strong enough

Someone help me

I'm crawling in my skin

Sometimes I feel like giving up

But I just can't

It isn't in my blood

Shawn Mendes, In My Blood

As I stand there – knobbly-knees trembling from lack of sustenance and nerves - I realise just how fucking pitiful I am. I exist only in shades of gray: never fully embracing darkness; never stepping into the light.

He's here. It doesn't matter how many times I lay eyes on grey, rotting face and scaled skin, I feel a wave of panic spread down my spine. Dark magic billows off him in waves tainting the air in his wake.

He announces Potter's death and I feel… something; something I never intended to feel. Maybe I thought I'd be relieved, or even joyful.

I'm terrified.

That megalomaniac bastard has won.

He's going to burn this entire world to ash and I'll either be dead or cowering in his shadows. He's making a speech now; asking his true followers to join him. I know I should join my parents. My father steps forward and beckons me to cross the divide, and I'm filled with disgust. It's not until my mother steps forward that my foot twitches and I consider standing next to her. Even in the darkness she's always been my light.

I hesitate too long.

My mother is dead on the stones between us in a matter of moments. Her blood doesn't spill; she doesn't gasp for breath. There's no fancy spell or a flourishing of wand. She's just… gone.

Everything moves in slow, silent motion for the next few minutes. Longbottom's heroic speech belies his cowardly nature, but it's muffled. I hardly hear it. It's not until his long sword slices through the neck of the giant beast that the world begins to crash in waves around me.

Potter is, of course, alive. We were so stupid to think anyone could put that fucker in the ground. Magic pulses against my skin as action crashes all around me; explodes under my feet. I know that if I'm ever going to decide my loyalties, it's now.

I stare down at my long, pale fingers clenching my mother's wand; the wand she'll never hold again.

The battle rages around me as my eyes fall upon dead bodies – giants, house-elves, children, and old men – and jets of coloured magic that litter the ground.

What am I doing?

I feel a set of eyes on me.

Granger.

She grips her wand but she's not aiming at me; not yet. She seems to be waiting to see what I might do; waiting for me to make a decision.

Yeah, me too.

I nod and roll my eyes, aiming my wand at the back of a faceless Death Eater and firing a succession of stunners. He falls on his face and I add an Incarcerous for good measure.

Looking at her again I see a smile turn her lips; as if she's known all along I might defect.

"Have a drink and you'll feel better," the twin that didn't die says to me. He offers me a bottle of cheap swill that I wouldn't have entertained in my third year.

He's always meddling; always hovering and trying to be fucking chummy. I don't want to be chummy with a Weasley.

I snatch the bottle from his hand and give him a weak sneer as I tip it to my lips.

I don't really have anywhere else to go, now do I?

The Manor has been requisitioned for the foreseeable future and finding a place to let might prove to be difficult with the Death Eater mark still fading on my arm; the Malfoy blonde bright on my head.

Molly Weasley found me after the battle; insisted I come here to await news from the Ministry. For some bloody reason, I listened to her, and here I am.

The Ministry doesn't seem to care too much about my involvement for now - bigger felons to try. It just means that other than taking me home and telling me to behave, they don't pay me a lot of mind.

The Weasley's haven't been too bad. They feed me and don't bother me much... except for George… or Fred… whoever the fuck he is: the tallest one who always wants to sit by the fire and talk about our fucking feelings.

That's not quite fair, I suppose. He doesn't really want to talk about feelings. He wants to get drunk and bitch about Quidditch and nonsense, but that's still too familiar for me.

The pain-in-my-arse Weasley is gone for now. Austria? Australia?

Who the fuck cares.

He's not here so I'm currently in the twat's room, if that's what one cares to call it. There's no real walls…the bones of the house are bare to the world; cold and wind seeping through each crack.

I haven't been warm in weeks.

I still don't leave his room if I can stand it; not until I'm sure everyone else has gone to bed.. Sometimes then I'll sneak down by the fire's warmth to stretch my legs.

The twin is always there.

Waiting.

I expect it and still I go. He's someone at least, and he's not half as bad as Ron.

"Want a hit?" his eyes are glazed over as he stares at the flames licking the chimney.

"A hit?"

"Potion. Takes the edge off… Inhale sharply and feel the edges of your brain melt away, mate."

In Fred or George's lazy hand is a small blue vial.

I snatch it like I'm greedy for it, even though I've never hit a potion for a high in my life. Firewhiskey and beer always seemed sufficient... until now.

I bring it up to my nostril and whiff the harshness of it: burnt rubber and gas. I flinch and the twin laughs.

"Do it fast. Like this," he brings his forefinger up to one nostril, effectively plugging it, and then snorts through the free one.

I nod like it's nothing; like I do this all the time and just needed a refresher.

I hit it and my brain indeed melts. The sharpness of loss, guilt, and betrayal give way to an easy euphoria. The way the fire flicks and licks the air is mesmerizing and I forget my company as my limbs melt - from heat or from drugs - into the chair I'm sitting in.

Gods, this feels good. Too good. What is it? Why haven't I done it before… or more? I should do more. More is better. More has always been better.

The mantra seals my fate.

I keep doing it because it's there. It's not because I'm an addict. No, it's just… convenient.

George, as I've come to be confident in calling him, always seems to have more and he's fucking generous with it.

Eventually, he starts working again; Arthur too. Molly starts cooking and cleaning in what are totally foreign behaviors to me. They seem to reanimate as if they never stopped. Everyone's moving and shuffling forward, one foot in front of the other.

Not me.

No. I'm sitting in the room of my childhood enemy - staring at his stupid posters and sleeping on his lumpy mattress - snorting what George calls Nebula several times a day. The highs are waning - I can tell. What had at first launched me into a complete whirlpool of melted elation now merely hazes the edges.

I need… more. A higher high or a lower low, I can't tell which, but I fucking need it.

Maybe they have sufficient lab materials around here…

Probably not.

I could order some from the one Gringotts account I still have access to, although it's tricky to fuck with potions like that… I could break it down easily enough but testing the new batches of tampered potions would be haphazard at best.

I settle for asking George who his dealer is, and he seems to understand; seems to know my plight. He says he's working on something stronger and it'll be ready in the next week or so and we can take a trip together. He says that part with a wink and it makes me flinch.

Too familiar. Too close.

A week isn't soon enough.

The other Weasley returns when he's been gone almost eight weeks, and I can hear the ruckus downstairs. Everyone's fawning over him and fucking Scarhead.

Do they know I'm here?

That answer would be yes.

It's fast and furious as Weasley bounds up the stairs towards me and my new-found haven. His fists land on me wherever they can, especially in my ribs, and once, along my cheekbone.

I can't fight; can't move. I'm stilled by the haziness of the Nebula not yet gone from my blood.

Scarhead pulls him off, pining his arms behind him, while Ron growls like a fucking animal. The Mudblood kneels beside me as a let out a cough and blood splatters on the floor between us. Pure blood, I think and let out a scoff.

Lot of good it's done me.

She fusses over me and I wince away from her touch.

Her hands persist – wiping and tugging at me as mutters something under her breath. I try in vain to push her hands away but they are effectively useless, limp in their pursuit.

What'd she say? Tells me not to be a… 'bloody prat'?

I chuckle as my head lolls to the side, my eyes rolling briefly towards the back of my skull before I regain my strength of them.

I struggle to sit up, pushing up on my palms but I can't support my weight and crash into a heap again. Granger lifts me by my underarms and I lay my head back on the bed, groaning at my injuries.

My eyes find her face– focus on her through the haze of high. I haven't looked at her in a while.

She's pretty, I notice absently. Prettier than I remember. The curves of her face are delicate, and her brows are low in concern over her toffee-coloured eyes.

She's worried about me, I realise suddenly, and it makes me laugh again.

"Not to worry, Granger. I've survived worse," I gargle over my spit.

"I'll fix it," she says, her voice dripping with undeserved worry and her hand reaching for her wand.

"Unnecessary," I wave her off and reach into my pocket for a vial of the swirling icy-blue liquid I'm constantly craving. I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger and rattle it back and forth, until I'm sure the vapors have awoken.

She watches with a confused twitch of her head as I pull the cork out with my teeth and bring it up to my nostril, giving one sharp snort. The vapors from the vial work instantaneously, the feeling of pain dissipating as I melt into the mattress.

"Jesus–" she whispers with a shake of her head, she's disappearing slowly into a shimmering fog. "You really are hopeless."

I find the strength to give her a humorless chuckle: my specialty.

"You have no idea, Mudblood," my lip curls up and I try for a sneer.

I don't really mean it, but it's familiar where everything is foreign, and I cling to it.

"Dear, you should eat." Molly fusses after me, constantly bringing food when I can't stand the smell of it. "You look like you've lost more than you can afford."

I laugh a deep belly laugh and she stares at me.

"That's the truth of it," I mumble to the window in the attic, the place I've been reassigned since Weaselbee returned.

"I'm worried about you," she says in a low voice, her hands resting on her apron clad hips. It reminds me of my mother: a current of love flowing under an unyielding exterior.

I feel a twitch in my neck, an ever-present reminder that it's been too long since I've been high.

"Is George back?" I ask abruptly, and the question surprises her.

"George? He should be at the shop. He's moved back into his flat just above it. He should be back Sunday for dinner – hopefully," she shrugs casually as she readjusts the thin-bare quilt on my cot.

She continues to move about the room, poking at things to try and make the fucking attic seem more homey.

I've got maybe two days of vials left.

"Can I Floo there?" I crane my neck, stretching the tendon that's been so tight I've thought it may snap.

"Where? The shop?"

I nod.

"Oh? Are you sure you're feeling up to-"

"Do you have a Floo?" I clarify sharply, unwittingly.

"Are you quite alright?" Molly's eyes study me too closely. She's probably noticing the hollow to my cheeks or the black rings around my eyes. If she looks close enough she can see my cuticles bleeding from picking at them incessantly and the slight shake to my hands.

"Quite. Just had something we were meant to talk about," I run my hands through my hair, scratching at my scalp. "Maybe I could use the fresh air."

"I just -." She pulls at her fingers, "I'm not sure how you'll be received is all. I wouldn't want-"

"For me to be treated like a Death Eater?" I spit icily.

She gulps decisively – mustering all that lioness courage her lot is known for – and fixes her stare on me.

"Yes."

"Why do you care?" I sigh heavily.

I can't look at her. I return my lazy gaze to her unruly garden out my window instead.

"I can't help but wonder what your mother would do if she came across my Fred," Molly said after a moment, her eyes trained on the knotted floorboards.

My eyes flick involuntarily towards her. I hadn't expected that.

"She wouldn't help him," I say with a shrug, "That's not who she was."

"I thought as much," Molly's shoulders shrug slightly and I study her face. "But, there's something out there… after death. And if, in that place, Narcissa Malfoy comes across my son? Maybe she sees me caring after you – maybe... well, maybe she might look after my Fred."

An itch. A twitch. A need.

I need a hit; need her to leave.

These fucking Weasley's. This fucking house. These walls feel like they are going to collapse and cave in on me at any moment.

She leaves, and I pace – back and forth, back and forth – until I've almost worn a hole in the floor.

I need a hit but George isn't due back yet and I don't have enough.

I can go to him; risk being hexed and maimed in the streets – hell, I risk that going down the stairs.

My feet bring me to the bathroom they created up here for me and I stare at my reflection a moment in the mirror.

Gaunt. Haunted. Grey.

I look fucking ill.

A rage builds before I know how to tamper it back down but my first finds the reflection in the mirror and the glass shatters into dozens of jagged pieces at my feet. A guttural, foreign scream escapes my throat and I fall to the floor, glass cutting into my bare feet as my head collapses against the cheap door.

I need a fucking hit. Badly. It's all I can think of.

"Have a drink and you'll feel better."

The first words the twat ever said directly to me.

I summon a bottle of Firewhiskey he gave me once and drink it hungrily, hoping it will take the sting of the ache away.

It doesn't.

I still need a hit.

I'm caged here, and I can feel my insecurities clawing through the iron bars. The sheer disappointment of my life overwhelms me and I want to cry – want to scream.

I claw at my face, simultaneously relishing and hating the pain of my nails against my skin. My breaths are too sharp as they tear up my throat..

I throw the Firewhiskey against the wall and the bottles shatters; the glass shards join the ones from the mirror.

I don't give a shit as another raw scream rips itself through my throat, my fists slamming into the tile, bruising my knucles.

I roll the vial between my long fingers, the potency is weak and I should save it. Save it 'til I can't stand it another minute.

I can't stand it now, I tell myself. My blood is boiling, a fire licking at my muscles.

I'll talk to George. I'll get more. I can have this now.

My reasoning is weak and somewhere deep in my subconscious I know that I'm making the wrong choice. I'm always making the wrong choice.

I take the vial out and hit it hard, too hard maybe. I feel the effects immediately and smile as I feel blood leaking out from my feet onto the cheap tile.

"Hello?"

Fucking hell.

"Malfoy? I thought I heard… Oh my god…" I can hear the blood draining from her face and I smirk.

My spine gives out and I hit the tile. Hard.

It doesn't hurt but I can't right myself.

"Where is this blood from? Just your feet?" She asks, moving into action.

I feel like I could give up now. If I had any strength at all I'd pick up a shard and slice through the grey skin of my forearm and end it once and for all.

But I can't.

No, I really can't. I physically can't move my limbs– but I also can't give up. Not yet. It can't be the worst yet. I think I'll save my grand finale for the worst.

She moves my legs and I feel her magic lick my skin as she heals the cuts on my feet. As if they matter.

"You're high," she mumbles. She's disappointed.

I gargle a sound that isn't close to English.

"Do you remember when you're high? After, that is. Can you remember this?" she draws her knees up and rests her elbows on them.

Do I?

I've never thought about it. I think I do… I remember talking to George. Right? Or is it Fred? Fuck. I can't concentrate.

She cleans the mess around me, still fussing. Just like Molly. Like I'm in a need of someone to fucking tend to me.

I drift out of consciousness for a moment or an hour– there is no way of telling. I blink and see the shimmer of reality.

Someone is talking.

Is it Granger? What does she want?

"You're messing this up, Malfoy. You've got a real chance here… and you're messing it all up."

I think I'll tell her to fuck off.

"Ffffffshh."

She sighs unhappily.

"Mobilus Corpus," she flourishes her wand and I feel my lifeless body move. She hovers me to the small twin bed they've rounded up for me.

She lays me down gently and I wish I could roll my eyes at her or make a snarky comment. I can't.

She looks down at me, but it's missing the sneer I would expect.

"Do better, Malfoy," she says sadly.

She's gone.

She's gone and I'm high and it's not what I want to be anymore.

AUTHORS NOTE:

Would love to hear what you think and thank you for following me on another adventure!

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LK