Tastes the Sweetest

Part Five

Hermione woke to the smell of weed.

That didn't make any sense. She didn't smoke weed. Neither did anyone she knew. Well, except Harry. There were more than a few nights in the tent that Harry had pulled out a pipe before bed to help him sleep.

But Harry was in the Auror training program right now. How was he here?

Unless she died.

Oh, no.

She was dead. She'd died. Draco Malfoy had actually killed her, and now she was dead. Deceased. Whatever the opposite of alive was.

It was nice to know Harry was in her version of the afterlife, but she hoped it was just a rendition of him.

Wait.

What if he'd died?

What if Harry was dead, too?!

Hermione's eyes snapped open.

A nonchalant Draco was seated in a chair near her bed, a lit blunt held between the ring and middle finger of his right hand. His left hand was curled into a loose fist, his temple resting against it as he smoked and watched her. The lanterns weren't lit, but he'd pulled the curtain of the window open. Lightning illuminated the room in flashes every so often. She could hear the rain pounding against the castle, reminding her that it was still All Hallow's Eve.

"I hate joints."

"Huh?" Hermione groaned. Her head was pounding. "What the Hell are you talking about?"

He took a hit off of the blunt, inhaling deeply then exhaling a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. "Joints. I hate them. These are better. Smoother. They do a better job of staving off the hunger, too."

"Okay...?"

"Want a hit?"

"Ew, no," she scowled and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. "You're so annoying."

"I try."

Hermione looked at him through narrowed eyes. "I'm not dead."

"Lucky you," Draco drawled. He lifted the blunt to his lips again. The light at the tip flared as he inhaled. He blew the smoke out, and his eyes glowed violet through the cloud.

Hermione sat up to scold him with a few choice words, but was stopped by the horrific way her head throbbed. Her body felt like it had been thrown into a rock tumbler and polished like a stone. She felt awful. He'd vanished the blood from both of their bodies, but she felt like she could still smell the metallic tang. It lingered in the air.

She glanced at the door.

"Where's my wand?"

"Relax," he purred, and he gestured to her bedside table with his chin. "It's right here."

Her wand was there. She eyed it but didn't reach for it. He was faster than a spell, so there was no point trying if she wasn't in imminent danger. He could have let her die, but he hadn't. He'd carried her to her dorm and laid her in her bed.

"I'm not saying thank you," she said with a sniff of feigned disinterest. "So don't expect my gratitude."

"It was right at the edge of the landing in the moving staircase room," was his reply. "Another few centimeters, and you would have needed a new wand."

"I bet you'd love that. A Mudblood, thief of magic losing her only connection to the wizarding world."

"Ohh, come now, Granger. Don't be like that."

"Oh, and how do you expect me to be? You just tried to kill me."

He rolled his eyes. "I didn't try to kill you. I was hungry. I ate. I stopped in time. Now we're here."