Young (Drarry Fanfic)

Side Effects

It's 4 AM, I don't know where to go.
Everywhere is closed, I should just go home.
My feet are taking me to your front door.
I know I shouldn't though, heaven only knows

That the side effect to my loneliness is you.

— Side Effects (The Chainsmokers)

~oOo~

Yawning widely, Hermione shuffles her way towards the hob, intent on making a bracing cup of morning tea. She'd just set the kettle to boil when the sudden chime of an incoming call from the Floo startles her out of her sleepy stupor. Frowning, she hurries to the sitting room, already worried that it may be an emergency considering the ungodly hour. The sun hasn't even risen yet.

A familiar yet unexpected face, dancing within the green flames, greets her as she approaches the fireplace.

"Draco—?" Surprised, Hermione tugs her dressing gown tighter around her midsection as she sinks to her knees in front of the hearth.

"Granger—Hermione... please, I need a word."

Hermione frowns in concern at the look of abject terror on Draco's face. She quickly rises to her feet and steps back, "Of course, Draco. Come on through."

As Draco stumbles through the Floo, Hermione is stunned by his haggard appearance. The dark circles underneath his eyes stand out like angry ink stains against his pale skin. She's never seen Draco Malfoy look so unkempt. He looks like he hasn't slept, showered, much less shaved, in days. Even his clothes — a well-worn jumper paired with black denims — look utterly rumpled. What strikes Hermione the most is the mien of hopeless despair that shrouds Draco's countenance.

He sways on his feet, prompting Hermione to reach out and steady him.

"Draco—what?" Hermione rushes to ask, a bubble of panic beginning to rise in the pit of her stomach.

"Scorpius—" the blond breathes out, voice barely above a whisper. He cards shaky fingers through his lank hair. "He's ill, Hermione. Very much so. He needs—" he swallows nervously, panicked grey eyes looking anywhere but at Hermione. "He needs—oh god..." Draco closes his eyes, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Draco, what does Scorpius need?" Hermione grabs his arms; her fingers digging into his skin through the soft material of his sweater.

"Not what—" Draco brings a hand over his trembling lips, voice breaking, "who."

Hermione's breath stutters to a stop in her throat; her mouth falling open. Being the brilliant witch that she is, it doesn't take Hermione long to realise what Draco means.

"Harry," she whispers.

Draco looks up and Hermione is gutted by the terrible sadness and deep-seated pain mirrored in his stormy, grey eyes, "Yes."

She's had her suspicions, but to actually hear it confirmed is more stunning than a physical blow to the head. Hermione inhales sharply, nodding her head mechanically. She guides Draco towards the couch and sits him down, "Tea or something stronger?" She stiffly tucks a wayward curl behind her ear, "I, for one, need something with more kick than a bracing cup of tea."

"Firewhisky, if you have it, please." Draco leans his head back wearily, closing his eyes.

Hermione draws her wand and flicks it towards the liquor cabinet standing at the opposite corner of the cosy living room. Moments later, a bottle of Ogden's Finest, followed closely by two tumblers, float towards the wooden coffee table.