Chapter Text
He woke up tucked under a blanket, shirt stripped away, the fire burnt down to embers and Hermione Granger asleep in the leather chair with a book hanging from her limp hand.
There had been something so fascinating about watching her worry for him, scurrying around the office, looking for water, cooling his skin. It was almost nostalgic, bringing up memories of when he was a child, his mother tending to his every need, wiping his brow and reading him stories. He may have played up the pain just a bit out of spite, or to make her feel guilty. Maybe it was just to have a chance to feel that nurturing hand, hear a soft voice. Whatever he did it for, it wasn’t the first time he’d gone through what happened; that was very real. In the months since he’d started taking the Fang he’d overdosed twice and each one had been life changing.
The problem was that like with any potion or muggle drug or even the caffeine in his tea, the body grew accustomed to its effects. What he hadn’t counted on was that his body would crave more so quickly. The initial doses he purchased from Norway were supposed to last more than two months and he’d counted on that time to learn how to brew it himself in order to save money.
That had been the easy part. He’d learned the potion and discovered the secret, tasteless, odorless ingredients in a matter of days. The initial magical energy boost and near euphoria that accompanied his first dose had given him the focus and ambition to hole up in the lab without eating or drinking, picking apart the potion as best he could. But after the third week, he found himself lagging after only a couple days, rather than six or seven as it had been in the beginning. What started as slow rolling hills of feeling good and feeling bad was now spiking like jagged teeth, ups and downs so extreme he would break into a sweat, nauseated from the swing. Taking the potion every five days turned into every other day in a flash and before long, he was constantly brewing, making sure he had enough Fang on hand to carry a vial with him, in case twelve hours went by without him “topping off”.
The first time he’d taken two vials at once he’d laughed out loud, goosebumps rippling over his arms as if he were made of lightning. He was sure that he'd found the answer. Within minutes he’d felt like a child again, clear headed and happy, filled with inspiration and energy. It was as if he’d never had the affliction in the first place, magic bursting from every cell in his body, every negative thing in his life reversed with a single swallow. It was the kind of pure joy he hadn’t felt since the first time he climbed on a broom, his first kiss third year, hearing ‘not guilty’ spoken at the Wizengamot. And yet it faded within a matter of hours, his body wracked with exhaustion, his heart pounding as if it were pumping plaster through his veins. Without thinking he quickly grabbed a third vial, drank half of it and woke up on the floor of the lab, bleeding. A vial of blood replenisher had fallen from the table when he passed out, shattering on the floor, the shards sinking into his arm as he fell, lifeless onto the stones.
Again it had been Abner who found him. Again it had been Abner who healed him and sent him home. Again it had been Abner staring at him, his eyes sad, filled with disappointment.
“This isn’t the way, Draco,” he’d told him as he vanished the mess on the floor. “I told you this potion is dangerous. And now you’re brewing it yourself? Half of the ingredients are restricted and I can’t allow that in my lab. I just…I can’t take the risk. You understand, don't you my boy? I’m sorry.”
“You’re sacking me?” Draco asked, eyeing the shelves of ingredients and equipment that he relied on to keep him supplied. Even so, it wasn’t the lab he was afraid of losing.
“I think perhaps you need some time to think, maybe speak with another healer, someone more specialized…to find another way to deal with your illness.”
“And what would that be exactly, Abner? You already know there’s no cure. This disease will kill me…”
“Draco…”
“Save your platitudes. It will take away my magic and I assure you, that will kill me. I won’t live as a muggle.”
“If you keep taking this potion the way that you are, son, you’ll end up killing yourself.”
“Don’t call me son,” Draco said, grabbing his wand and satchel. “After throwing me out on the street? Don’t you dare.”
He couldn’t stand the way Abner looked at him, the pity and misery in his watery old eyes. There was no way to undo the harm he’d already done. He would always be a disappointment to the healer who had had such high hopes for him. He had to leave. Money wasn’t the issue and he'd grown accustomed to working alone so he’d gone back to the flat and built his own lab.
Within a month he was careful to never be too far from a vial of Fang. The consequences of missing a dose were too great. When his hit was fading his hands would shake, the muscles in his legs and arms twitching, aching and hot. He became short tempered, unfocused, barely able to cast a simple Lumos. So when he wasn’t sleeping or studying he was brewing vial after vial, miniaturizing and storing them up in case of an ingredient shortage or late delivery.
Ashby Woodlock delivered his herbs from a magic garden in Oxford. She came every two weeks with a crate crammed full of dried leaves and flowers, powders, pods and oils. Her products were expensive, but it came with silence, both in not asking questions and not telling anyone who she was working with. She’d recognized him the first time she came to the flat and he’d dropped a heavy bag of galleons in her hand to keep her from snooping into his business.
Three weeks into their arrangement she’d appeared at the flat at the appointed time and knocked on the door, calling out for Mr. Asp, the code name he’d given her so as not to raise suspicion. If Draco was anything at all he was punctual, so when he didn’t come to the door she became worried. Stepping inside she found him collapsed on the floor in a sweat, his cheeks red, closed eyelids fluttering as if he were dreaming.
“Draco! Mr…Mr. Malfoy!” Ashby dropped the box she’d been carrying and rushed to his side, slapping his face to wake him.
He’d only taken an extra half dose, just to…wake up a bit, but it caught up to him quickly. He wouldn’t have died, he was sure of that, but it was good that she saved him just as well. Because then she knew everything. While he crawled to the sofa and curled up to breathe through the harsher symptoms, she went to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea, nearly half sugar. He soon fell asleep and she poked around the flat. By and by she saw the vials, the cauldrons, the recipe. She’d already seen the effects and now she knew the great value this potion had for Draco and she knew it would most likely be the same for hundreds of other wizards.
Opening one of the warm vials next to the cauldron she choked on the smell but dipped her pinky into the liquid and touched it to her tongue. Her whole body shivered, a tingle through her veins as her arms covered with goosebumps. With a glance over her shoulder she dared to pour a few drops on her tongue, less than a sip. Before she could count to ten it was as if she’d been pumped full of black coffee, the cobwebs swept from her brain. Completely unlike being drunk, or high on pixieweed, she was laser focused, strong, clear headed. It was incredible.
It was gold.
He woke a few hours later, when she was already coming down from the minuscule dose and she got him the tea and something to eat. For a rich pureblood wizard his flat was nearly barren, no art or photographs, no clutter, no pantry full of snacks. It was like he lived in a hotel room, cold and impersonal, as if he had no intention of staying, as if he had no roots.
“It would help you pay for the ingredients,” she explained when she joined him back on the sofa. “And you would never even have to use your name. Like with me, you’re Mr. Asp. I can start spreading the word that the magic rejuvenator is available, but in VERY limited supply.”
“I would never be able to keep up,” he said, although the gears were already turning in his head. Even one or two steady customers would keep him flush, and he had weeks of the potion stockpiled due to his increasing paranoia. “I wouldn’t want it…I don’t want it to be tossed around like candy either. As you can see it’s a powerful potion.”
“You heard of muggle heroin?” Ashby asked, petting Timothy who’d jumped into her lap. “When the addicts find out that there’s a batch going around that kills people with its strength, they seek it out. They think they can pull back just enough to get the ultimate high. I know a lot of people who would be interested in trying this precisely because it’s dangerous. I also know a lot of older wizards who would cut off their arms to get this sort of fountain of youth, they just never knew where to look for it and they don’t want to deal with international transactions.”
After setting the cat back down on the floor, she stood up and took the empty teacup from his hand. Already his eyelids were drooping, the overdose having taxed his system. He would sleep until the next afternoon.
“Just think about it,” she said. “You don’t have to do all of this alone.”
He’d taken Ashby up on her offer, and within two weeks the Alchemy Club was asking him to ‘visit’ on the nights when their older, richer clientele were in town. He knew that one day the Ministry would come calling, that someone would squeal or get hurt or grow a conscience and like he had all his life, he’d have to talk or bribe or threaten his way out of going to Azkaban. Only this time it was literally life or death. It didn’t matter what he had to do, how far he had to go. He would not allow the Viper’s Fang to be taken from him. He would not let his magic disappear.
He pulled himself up from the floor and found his shirt, still damp with his sweat, and pulled it over his head. Hermione whimpered a bit in her sleep and twisted in the uncomfortable chair, her head lolling forward as the book dropped from her hand.
Draco had nearly laughed out loud when he realized it was her and Hannah out in the club working “undercover”. Justin had come back to tell him that two nosy birds were poking around, asking about the Fang, but they seemed awfully young and a bit jumpy, putting up all sorts of red flags.
“Describe them to me,” Draco had asked, lighting a cigarette.
He spent most of his time at the Alchemy hidden in the back office. Contrary to the image he’d attempted to put forth in his younger days in the Slytherin common room, he didn’t really have much interest in fucking his way through the wizarding community, especially if they were already married and most likely friends with his mother. But if two young single witches wandered in with nothing to do, he could be persuaded to emerge…just once. And surprising Granger, seeing her thrown off her game if only for a minute when she recognized his face was worth all that time staying in hiding.
After dosing up for the morning and fixing a cup of tea he covered Hermione with a blanket and went out to the front of the club, now silent and brightly lit as various staff cleaned and reset for the evening rush. Justin himself was sitting at a table near the entrance counting out galleons and bars of gold. Membership dues.
“You alright boss? Look a little down,” he asked, flipping a toothpick between his teeth. “I never saw that girl leave your office. Did she offer you something other than galleons?”
Justin smiled wide, his teeth gleaming like the half werewolf he was. He was in high demand in the club, particularly amongst the more…mature…witches. Women liked his young, strong body and his ability to “knot”, which Draco required no further detail on. Beyond that his low, throaty voice and impeccable manners kept him up to his neck in pussy, but like a true gentleman he was always happy to see others get theirs as well which made him impossible to hate.
“I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her,” Malfoy said, lighting a cigarette. “That was the brightest witch of her age, you dolt.”
“Hermione Granger? The Ministry officer?”
Draco took a long drag and nodded, letting the smoke trail from his nose as he watched Justin work. His morning dose was finally hitting his bloodstream and it was a brief bright moment that he always tried to savor, just an hour or two of feeling pure, glowing magic in his veins; like watching the sunrise. In the silence he stared over at one of the velvet lined booths and thought about Hermione Granger offering him “something other than galleons” and his cheeks felt warm. It had surprised him to see her in shiny black heels with a tight dress that accented her ass and full, perfect tits. It was certainly nothing she’d ever tried to show off at school, and a few years of adulthood had done wonders. His mind wandered, imagining her wearing those heels and nothing else, lounging in his flat, crooking her finger at him as she spread her legs.
Granger. He was imagining fucking Granger.
Then he was imagining if she’d ever really had a proper fuck, since he’d never believe that Ron Weasley could deliver in that department. Draco may not have had the laundry list of partners that some might have believed, but they’d all left him satisfied. Begging for more, actually. If he gave Hemione a good deep dicking she’d probably forget all about this silly Fang business.
“So what happened?” Justin asked, pulling him from his filthy trance.
“I…we…reminisced about school…” Draco said, crushing out the rest of his cigarette. “She’s actually still asleep. Now if you’ll excuse me…we have some private plans.”
His mind was going a mile a minute as he chose the right words, appropriate moves...the delicate precision seduction for a lonely woman with a wound up soul. Justin had fed him the perfect daydream, and it had birthed an ideal plan to keep him off the Ministry’s watchlist. If she fell in love with him, or even just his dick...she would never turn him in.
He just had to convince Hermione it was her idea.