Tainted - {d.m. & h.g.}

twelve - kilos | bruises

this has not been edited, so sorry for any spelling errors!!!

TW: description of drug usage, alcohol consumption

If you don't read this, i'll be mad: a reminder that drugs are fun in fiction, but can be highly addictive in non-fiction. they have power to quite literally ruin your life— i have watched it happen to many people in mine, it's not worth it— and they are solely depicted in this story to further the theme of the effects of the war.

i do not condone the usage of the drugs mentioned

you so much for 80k reads <3

songs: don't trust me - 3oh!3
drunk face - mgk

DRACO

DRACO

That fucking dress.

The fucking dress that has a bottle of Fire-whiskey glued to his lips as soon as he and Nott get the crate of Pucey's black-marketed finds situated behind a couch.

The fucking dress that has his eyes immediately dancing around the crowds of already drunk people looking for her— her and that velvet ribbon that's strung snuggly around her neck.

The fucking dress that has his mind so occupied that he doesn't even notice when Pansy laces her fingers through his free hand, and plants a drunken kiss on his neck.

HERMIONE

Her face is numb.

The music is loud.

Alcohol is grinding through her veins— her conscience is grinding away with it.

And she's only graced the doors of the place for a little over two hours, and she's already figured out the word dark in the title isn't referring to the lighting— or the color of the walls.

No— it's referring to everything else but the damn lighting— or the damn walls.

It's the feeling— it's almost like magic.

It's the dark of the liquor that's sloshing around in the chiseled glass bottle as she dances.

It's the dark of the hair that's begun to curl up around her face as she sweats Ginny's straightening handiwork away.

It's the dark of the mascara that's rubbing down underneath her eyes— the dark of her lipstick staining the circumference of the whiskey bottle's rim.

It's the dark shadows of bodies moving, dancing—in corners, on couches— hands all over— lips attached to other lips, to necks, to shoulders— to other body parts.

It's the way the golden hue of the chandeliers has been dimmed to darkness— flashes of green, red, and blue strobes replacing their light.

It's the deep bass of the music that's rattling heavily in her ears as she moves off-beat, with Ginny's arm strung heavily around her shoulders.

It's the way she doesn't feel like herself in this very moment— and that's exactly what she's craved— what she's needed.

Her mind has ventured toward a certain red-headed boy several times— and she finds herself thinking about how he'd roll his eyes at her right now— how he'd call the place pretentious and tell her to stop acting sloppy— that her dress is too short— heels are too high.

And she finally settles on the feeling of relief that the certain golden trio link is probably crowded about a pitcher of Butterbeer in the Gryffindor common room, bantering around the topic of Quidditch games with Dean and Seamus.