Warning: I have rated the story an R due to a Harry/Draco slash pairing. So
please avoid this fic if you do not like the idea of a same sex romantic
pairing.
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just a humble dog not even worthy of dusting her shoes.
Your Morpheus.
Narcolepsy: a disorder characterized by recurrent, uncontrollable, brief episodes of sleep, often associated with hypnagogic hallucinations, cataplexy, and sleep paralysis; of unknown cause but possibly hereditary. The condition is incurable.
*
You name a place-I've fallen asleep there. In Quidditch fields, leaving trains and waiting rooms. Once in a tub of stone cold water and once in the crook of your arm.
I woke up startled, as your hand touching my hair shattered me out of sleep. Right in the middle of the Potions classroom, Snape looming over the two of us, his face a grimace of discontent. 'Mr Malfoy' he said 'Do you find my instructions so boring that you have to fall asleep on your Potions partner?' You laughed at me, together with all your Gryffindor friends and I shoved you away. For days I walked around Hogwarts with my mind full of the exclamation marks of your laughter, with your scent trapped in the hollow of my palms.
At the age of seven I fell asleep on my broomstick while father was teaching me how to fly. I plunged down from the empty sky and crashed on an old oak tree. A branch pierced right through me and came out of my back. Father took his wand out and sewed me back together. Seventy stitches through the heart. Sometimes I feared that one day, that raw wet mouth of yours would find the loose thread inside me, as it searched over my body. You would snap it with your teeth and without waking up I would break into pieces again.
At the age of seventeen you said: 'I think I caught your narcolepsy. It must be contagious. I don't remember doing anything but sleep and fuck these last weeks.' I didn't reply, just reached out and stroked your inner thigh under the covers. Moments later, as I slid over you, my index and middle finger moving inside you, I felt I was really a contagious disease, creeping over your skin, searching for an entrance into your flesh. My brand-new Dark Mark burned, as you rippled and simmered against the sheets underneath me. We banged our foreheads together clumsily and sobbed another climax.
Funny, how our bodies met in a way our eyes never could. Mine were always closed, yours were always bent upwards in blind faith. You really though this would change everything, didn't you? And then, just before the war, you cut me off the root and threw me away, like a cancerous tumor.
At the age of twenty-seven I'm asleep, stretched still on Finnigan's floor. I remember killing him earlier on. I'm not sure, though. There is no deader sea that this sleep which has fallen over me. But for a moment, I can see a glimpse of something stirring down at the depths and I dive deeper and deeper as it eludes my grasp. Something that looks like you, something shiny and wet and alive, made of all these dreams I have forgotten completely upon awakening. Ten years of midnight I've been waiting, for you to come and touch my hair, and wake me up again.
The End
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just a humble dog not even worthy of dusting her shoes.
Your Morpheus.
Narcolepsy: a disorder characterized by recurrent, uncontrollable, brief episodes of sleep, often associated with hypnagogic hallucinations, cataplexy, and sleep paralysis; of unknown cause but possibly hereditary. The condition is incurable.
*
You name a place-I've fallen asleep there. In Quidditch fields, leaving trains and waiting rooms. Once in a tub of stone cold water and once in the crook of your arm.
I woke up startled, as your hand touching my hair shattered me out of sleep. Right in the middle of the Potions classroom, Snape looming over the two of us, his face a grimace of discontent. 'Mr Malfoy' he said 'Do you find my instructions so boring that you have to fall asleep on your Potions partner?' You laughed at me, together with all your Gryffindor friends and I shoved you away. For days I walked around Hogwarts with my mind full of the exclamation marks of your laughter, with your scent trapped in the hollow of my palms.
At the age of seven I fell asleep on my broomstick while father was teaching me how to fly. I plunged down from the empty sky and crashed on an old oak tree. A branch pierced right through me and came out of my back. Father took his wand out and sewed me back together. Seventy stitches through the heart. Sometimes I feared that one day, that raw wet mouth of yours would find the loose thread inside me, as it searched over my body. You would snap it with your teeth and without waking up I would break into pieces again.
At the age of seventeen you said: 'I think I caught your narcolepsy. It must be contagious. I don't remember doing anything but sleep and fuck these last weeks.' I didn't reply, just reached out and stroked your inner thigh under the covers. Moments later, as I slid over you, my index and middle finger moving inside you, I felt I was really a contagious disease, creeping over your skin, searching for an entrance into your flesh. My brand-new Dark Mark burned, as you rippled and simmered against the sheets underneath me. We banged our foreheads together clumsily and sobbed another climax.
Funny, how our bodies met in a way our eyes never could. Mine were always closed, yours were always bent upwards in blind faith. You really though this would change everything, didn't you? And then, just before the war, you cut me off the root and threw me away, like a cancerous tumor.
At the age of twenty-seven I'm asleep, stretched still on Finnigan's floor. I remember killing him earlier on. I'm not sure, though. There is no deader sea that this sleep which has fallen over me. But for a moment, I can see a glimpse of something stirring down at the depths and I dive deeper and deeper as it eludes my grasp. Something that looks like you, something shiny and wet and alive, made of all these dreams I have forgotten completely upon awakening. Ten years of midnight I've been waiting, for you to come and touch my hair, and wake me up again.
The End