Albus Potter liked pills. Maybe a little too much.

He supposed it could be blamed on his grandfather, since he had a strange obsession with all things muggle. Of course, he could also blame his parents for not paying quite enough attention to his extracurricular activities. He could put all the blame on Scorpius and Rose for not stopping him.

But then again, he was pretty sure Rose and Scorpius didn't think it was that bad. He figured they just thought he liked to get fucked up every once and a while. He didn't think they knew he was addicted. Maybe if they weren't so busy hating each other, they would notice.

He could never figure out why his two best friends didn't like each other. Ever since first year they had been at each others' throats. It was hard to be friends with them both while they were acting like that. They tolerated each other and acted somewhat civil when he was around. But that was the extent of it. Whenever he turned his back they were hexing each other.

Albus supposed that was part of the reason he had ended up at the point he currently was at. The other part had a lot to do with his father being "The Boy Who Saved Us All". And of course his mother's affair.

Only he knew about it. One day, in his fifth year, Albus had gone down to Hogsmeade one weekend on his own. Scorpius had been at quidditch practice and Rose had been in the library, as she always was. So he had gone alone.

He went into the Hogshead, where he spent the afternoon drinking glass after glass of butterbeer. Just when he was about to leave, since it was nearly dark, he had noticed a shock of red hair. He immediately recognized it as his mother's. He was going to go over and say hello when he noticed a man next to her that wasn't his father. At first he figured she was just having a pint with an old friend, but then she leaned over and began to mercilessly snog him.

Albus almost threw up.

His mother was snogging Dean Thomas. In fact, she was probably doing a whole lot more with him.

After that, every time Albus went home for holiday, he was very conscious of his mother's lateness. She was always working late. She was always late for dinner. Late, late, late. His father was too blind, too in love, to realize what was going on. It hurt to watch his mother go around screwing whoever she wanted to; it hurt to watch his father not realize.

So in the pills went, because they helped dull the pain. But soon it took more and more pills to help the hurt. Eventually, the pills weren't enough. So Albus had decided this.

He looked at the pill bottle. Thirty-six pills. Would it be enough? He sure hoped so.

Al looked down at the envelopes he had set on the nightstand next to his bed. There were seven in all. Each bore a name. They were to the people he was leaving behind.

He slowly opened the pill bottle. He tipped it back and swallowed them all. A few stuck to his tongue while others clung to his throat. He swallowed once more, trying to get them all the way down. Maybe he should have brought a glass of water.

That was the last thing Albus Potter thought before he closed his eyes forever.