A Recipe for Addiction

"Choice, Draco, is something you do not have the privilege of."

"Regardless father, I have chosen him."

"You couldn't leave me even if you tried."

"I have."

**

"Pimpinella Anisum"

The things his father told him, he never forgot. But he had reached a point in his life, and place in his mind where those words mattered little. This new discovery had been comforting, for his father's imposed beliefs were nothing more than vicious arrows, corrupted and corroded, slicing through the twilight of his thoughts. They brought pain and confusion, but now even for that there was comfort.

There had been comfort. Or so he believed.

Draco Malfoy was his father's son, from the shimmer of silk that framed his pale face, to the silver glint in his dusky eyes, the aristocracy of his cheekbones, and the well defined thoughts and words, formed freely, but uttered only out of necessity. Yet now the resemblance had faded. Like a memory of woebegone days, slipping into the recesses of one's mind, ebbed away by the soothing flows of what happiness brings.

"Hyssopos"

Happiness? To Draco this was nothing more than a foreign feeling, a painful memory of future possibilities now lost, seemingly forever. Harry, Draco believed, had made certain of that.

Thus, indifference had been a reassuring substitute. There was no more fear, hate, ambition, happiness, guilt, peace, nor love; no emotion freely given...there was only indifference. Yet, indifference was his new darkness, it enveloped and shrouded him, it flowed within him, fusing with his being. The darkness was now truly his own; his possession, his powerful weapon and this did not frighten him. Nothing frightened Draco Malfoy anymore.

"Foeniculum Vulgare"

Fear was replaced with a desire, a need, a longing, for the raven haired one who abandoned him. The image of what he craved glided behind opaque clouds of dreams. Dreams that were mere canvases of blurry mindscapes, colours meshed and intertwined forcefully by a wanton brush, who knew not its own purpose. They were never forthcoming, those haunting glimpses, but they left him no doubt that something was lacking. Draco was aware of this loss, but his indifference swept it away like black mist clouding his vision, deceiving him, banishing hope so he could do no more than reach out in the dark, grasping emptiness.

Yet, he could not comprehend the power of true desperation.

"Veronica Officinalis"

Until he found her.

"Melissa Officinalis"

The memory of their accidental introduction swam to the forefront of his thoughts. For her, he had no need to explore the maze of his mind, shearing through thickets of unwanted emotion, stumbling over branches of broken ideas, or wading through marshes of festering desires.

No. She always waited patiently, for him to think of her. And think of her he did, more so when the darkness of his inner sanctum became a burden of too many nights past, when the stars dimmed and waned, when indifference gave way to hidden pain and he acutely felt his abandonment. So he thought of her, for she was pure light, radiating magnificent warmth, soothing painful need and quenching burning desire.

"Dictamnus Albus"

At first his inexperience had showed, albeit reluctantly. He had fumbled, stuttered and fallen, but she had helped him, coaxing him free of mental and physical bonds. Her scent was pungent, stinging silver till they bled tears of release. Surreal and unnatural she was in all her green glory, her emerald power held sway over him and reminded his unwilling mind of those green depths that now eluded him.

His heart, he remembered, might have paused; its rhythm crashing to a halt at that moment when he first tasted her. His nerves were personified in trembling hands, terrified but yearning to taste more, a pulse quickening dangerously with every inviting temptation and red blood rampaging through his flesh as he dared to welcome her into himself once more. The memory of this pleasure flowed beneath his skin, tingeing the pale gleam crimson. This memory he would not soon forget, for it was as if on an exquisite reel, playing on a persistent loop of want, demanding his attention.

As he had tasted her, sharp realisation sliced through him like a knife that wounds too deep to heal - she was as bitter as all his victories.

She brought the same explosion of flavour to his lips, fueling his pride, burning her pleasurable path down his throat, pooling heat within him, slowly stripping away the illusion of power. She was inside him then, slivering through his veins, her essence seeping into his very blood, devouring him as he consumed her. She had become an intrinsic piece of him, she could not part with him, nor he with her.

Her liquid envy flared; flames of green licking at memories of a lover's green eyes.

She was the victor.

Yet her fiery weapon failed to reduce those memories to ash.

"Angelica"

Draco sat now with his eyes closed, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. He remembered her vividly each time he needed to. There was no confusion when he thought of her, just refreshing clarity. His tongue slid across his lower lip, tasting this delicious moment, as if she were with him. Draco opened his eyes slowly, icy pools of silver absorbing the candlelight that thawed his quivering flesh. He sat on a hard, cold stone floor, with the lingering scent of indistinguishable mixtures invading his lungs. Chill filled his veins each time he breathed in the cold, musky air, but Draco did not care for this cold. He knew he was here for her warmth, and she would not keep him waiting for very long.

"Mr. Malfoy."

Draco's eyes snapped up to the disembodied voice of the alchemist and he rose, brimming with anticipation. He dusted his black robes hastily, and made his way towards impending bliss. He only needed her now and nothing more, not even Harry, with his emerald gaze that pierced into the depths of Draco's soul. There was no Harry here, but emerald flames still beckoned him, and he answered, ready to be burned.

His L'Heure Verte had come.

"Artemisia Absinthium"

And La Fee Verte beckoned him.

**

His world spiraled, colours fusing into violent themes of black and gold, and he felt himself slip into her vibrant realm. He was alone now, lying beside a raging hearth, his eyes reflecting the orange flames, light dancing in silver orbs, grey now glittering with a brilliance of colour. A thousand shades different from the colour of his soul. There, the darkness still resided, awaiting the opportunity to be free again; it trashed with malevolent fury against the prison of his mind, but he refused to allow it to overwhelm him. Then she had come to his aid and now her light flamed from within his being, subduing whatever else might lay stake to his mind and body.

A bared heart, a throbbing pulse and crystalline lucidity brought thoughts of a past life and love, ones he willed to free himself of, but they broke free from the darkness and usurped the throne of thought. A satire this was surely, as she coerced him to think of the one who could stir oceans of pain. In vain Draco fought against her persistence, he tried to defy this new poison seeping into his thoughts, but he knew there was no antidote. He had lost the antidote the last time eyes of emerald green lingered upon him, making him theirs, binding him to their owner, his possessor. Yet, even now he was possessed, by one he thought he loved, one who would not abandon him as easily.

His very own Green Goddess.

**

"I want you as you are, without her."

"She is a part of me, I cannot leave her."

"You have to choose Draco. We always have a choice."

"That, is a privilege I lack."

**

"If only Harry," bitter whispers drenched in emerald ecstasy, "you were so addictive."

- Finis -

Author Notes: Kudos to those who figured out that (a) there is no woman; and (b) Draco's poison of choice is Absinthe.

L'Heure Verte is French for The Green Hour, what absinthe drinking sessions are fondly known as.

La Fee Verte is French for The Green Fairy, what absinthe itself is fondly known as.

The interposed Latin words are absinthe ingredients.

This story was inspired by Ernest Dowson's "Absinthia Taetra" and John Moore's "The Return of Absinthe".

Please review! I'd love your thoughts on this fic!