A/N: This is a gift fic for aline_daryen on LJ: a thank you for reading When a Tree Dreams as it posted and leaving lovely comments each week. It is a stand alone oneshot, which despite being set during a similar period as When a Tree Dreams is totally unconnected to that story. She asked for one of the boys comforting the other after waking from a nightmare. I'm not sure if this is what she had in mind, but I woke up in the middle of the night the day before writing this, deeply moved by a dream of my grandmother (who passed away many years ago). I couldn't get back to sleep, and ended up writing this instead. It is also, unusually for me, in the present tense.
Finally, huge thanks to birdsofshoreandsea for prereading, and evilgiraffe82 for some very speedy and thorough betaing.
The Silence of Dreams
At night, somehow, their closeness seems more intimate; losing themselves to sleep, they are at their most vulnerable. Neither of them mentions this, the first day as they pitch their tents. In fact, they barely speak to each other, and from the far end of the field, McGonagall watches them with misgiving. Perhaps there are some scars which will never fade.
In his dreams, it is not the memory of his mad aunt, or the giant snake, nor even the red eyes and hissing voice of the Dark... him, which are the worst. Those nights are bad, yes, and he wakes drenched in sweat and calling out, but then he can remind himself that it's over now, that they are dead and gone. No, the worst nights are those when he dreams of fine, soft hair; a curtain between him and the world. The scent of spring flowers, sharp and bright, and a gentle voice whispering words of love in his ear. Her hands are cool as they stroke his face, fingers long like his own. Her eyes are clear like the sky before dawn as she gazes at him, with that look which only a mother can give. With her he is safe, and the world is a quiet place.
Draco wakes, to find his face is wet with tears. Silently, he weeps into the night for his mother. There is no salve for this pain; she is dead and gone, and nothing will bring her back. He weeps for his childhood, for his innocence. It too is dead and gone.
In the morning, his body aches with the lack of sleep, but he says nothing. There is a febrile quality to the way he sees the world, as its edges blur and the trees sway. He tells himself that it's just the wind; he feels it blow straight through him, and he is scared for a moment, that it will carry him away, past the trees, into the sky, until he joins the stars he was named for.
He performs all the tasks allotted to him, too tired to care that it is Potter who he is partnered with. They are the quietest pair in the group, but no one seems to notice as they all become embroiled in their own struggles to humiliate or forgive, to show that they are human too, or just to make it through the day. By the time night falls, there is a large bonfire of scavenged wood, and Hogwarts is looking neater somehow, its scars beginning to fade. Everyone is bone tired, and Draco hopes that this means a night free from dreams. He can barely think anymore as he makes his way away from the fire and his classmates, and heads back to the tent.
He knows that he is sharing with Potter because McGonagall thinks that Potter's probably the only one who won't try to kill him in his sleep. Bizarrely, he can see the truth in this belief. He remembers the firm grasp of a hand and being pulled from the flames, and this outweighs everything that came before. Between them though, lies this absence of words, this silence.
Draco is in his narrow bed, his eyes half-closed in the dim light of the tent. His body feels heavy, as sleep comes to claim him. Just before he falls asleep entirely, he watches as Potter enters the tent and removes his horrible Muggle trainers, his socks, his jeans. Standing there in his boxers and a sweaty t-shirt, he looks strangely pathetic. He glances quickly over at Draco, then takes his glasses off and pulls the t-shirt over his head, revealing a torso that is pale and scarred. It is reassuring to see that the great hero is human. Draco closes his eyes, and drifts into sleep.
That night it is Nagini, slithering through the rooms of his childhood, biting, eating, consuming people. They are there, and then they are not. His mind does not want to see the shapes distorting the length of the snake, but he cannot stop his dream eye from lingering in horror at the stretch of scales over limbs, at the imaginings of movement. Nothing stops Nagini, and there is fear in all but the red eyes when she is near. Draco calls out, a strangled cry of terror which he has previously only ever dared utter in his head, and the sound of it, the act of crying out, wakes him. All he can hear is his breath, tearing in and out, and his heart, pounding in his chest. It takes a few minutes to remember where he is, to remember that it is all over. Now all he can hear is the wind in the leaves outside, along with the subtle creaking of canvas.
He starts to go through the steps of how to make Pepper Up potion, the familiar sequence comforting and wonderfully free from thought. Just as he is calm enough to fall asleep again, he hears it: a whimper, coming from the other side of the tent. His attention is immediately fixed on the dark hair peeking out from the top of the blankets on the bed opposite. Potter is facing the wall, and Draco can't see his face. He freezes, holding his breath and his body still as he strains to hear if Potter makes another sound. And he does, another low moan. Draco's heart has suddenly started its rushing tattoo again, and he doesn't know what to do. Another whimper makes him shiver, passing through his body like pain. Draco gets out of bed, and stands in the darkness of the tent, unable to see past his nose. He sets a small bluebell flame in the lantern between the beds, and crosses the tent to stand over Potter.
Up close, he can see that Potter's hair is damp with sweat. He reaches out and touches it. It feels... heavy, yet soft. It is thicker than his own. He strokes it, his touch light. Somehow, he doesn't want to wake Potter. He knows that this, the pain of the memories, is too private to be shared. So he just continues to run his hand through Potter's hair until the moans stop, until Potter has calmed. He looks at Potter for a moment, then makes his way back to his own bed, and climbs under the cold blanket. He leaves the lantern lit; this is no night for darkness. His hand is tingling, and he can still feel the damp hair, the warmth from Potter. He closes his eyes and listens for the rhythm of Potter's even breathing. It takes a while, but then he finds it, and his own breathing begins to fall into step with it. By the time he is asleep again, there is the hint of a smile on his lips.
While repairing the South wall of the castle, Draco and Potter build up a good rhythm, and make a good team. Neither speaks any more than is strictly necessary, and they finish their work for the day early. McGonagall, who has come to check on their progress, is secretly impressed by these quiet young men. She cannot help but still feel a nagging worry, because they are too quiet. This is not how she expected them to behave, and nor is it how their peers act with one another. She tells them to head back to camp, and to enjoy their free time before the others return. They look at her blankly, but pack up neatly and head back together.
Potter knows where Finnigan has hidden a stash of booze, and they sit by the lake and drink the bitter cold of lake-cooled beer. It is a new taste for Draco, and he is surprised to find that he likes the earthy freshness of it. He looks at Potter's hands as they grip the bottle. They are browner than the rest of him, the nails bitten short. Draco blushes at his secret knowledge of Potter's body, and looks away. The sound of Potter clearing his throat draws Draco's attention back. Potter takes a breath as if to speak, but no words come. He looks at Draco and shrugs.
Draco understands, and he shrugs too, and nods back. They sit, side by side, watching the ripple of the breeze as it moves across the lake.
That night, Draco is first in the tent again, and he feigns sleep to watch Potter through half-lidded eyes. He notices, this time, the sigh with which Potter removes his glasses and rubs at his scar. The scar on his head, anyway: there are plenty more across his body, and Draco is curious about how they got there. What stories does Potter hide, behind his silence? He seems so subdued, and Draco realises that while their lack of conversation has not been much of a surprise, he's hardly seen Potter talk to anyone, his friends included.
Questions about Potter, and what he has been through, rise and fall in his mind. Draco recognises something in Potter's new-found reticence. It is, he thinks to himself, a way of keeping safe: the world is more peaceful, more empty, without words. Draco knows that he is scared that his own quietness, his withdrawal from others, is actually a lack which runs deeper, that something inside himself is missing, or broken. He wonders if Potter knows this fear, too.
He listens for Potter's breathing, and is lulled to sleep once more by the steady rhythm.
His sleep is haunted by the vague outlines of people, but he manages to sleep the whole night and wakes refreshed. He hopes that Potter slept too, and feels guilt for not having been able to help if he didn't.
They work through the day, and take on extra tasks when they finish early again. Moving, sweating in the sun, grounds Draco more than anything else could. He feels connected to the earth below his feet, to the air brushing his skin, and the stones they are slowly bringing back together. This place was once home, and it does him good to see it become whole again. He tries not to think of his other home, empty and scarred in its own way.
Draco does not even pretend to want to sit by the fire that night, and goes to the tent early. Potter follows soon after, and there is an awkwardness as they both strip and get into bed. Soon though, they are breathing in unison and asleep.
She is sitting in her favourite chair, by the window in her sitting room. It overlooks the gardens, and is bathed in afternoon sun. He is young, and climbs up onto her lap. She regards him, a serious look on her face, until the light of her smile breaks through, and she brushes some sugar from his cheek, then pulls him close. He can feel her breathing, and she smells like flowers. She presses a kiss to his head.
In his dream, Draco is flooded with warmth. He wakes though, to a flood of tears. Her absence aches, deep inside him, and he screws his face up as he cries for his mother. He opens his eyes when he feels a touch, feather-light, on his arm. Potter is crouching by his bed, his face all blue and shadows under the faint lantern light. Potter touches his arm again, more firmly this time. He holds on, until Draco raises his eyes and meets his gaze.
"I couldn't let you be alone," he whispers. And then Potter puts his arm around Draco, and hugs him tight. Draco stiffens for a moment, then relaxes into the embrace. He cries into Potter's shoulder, for all that he has lost.
Potter strokes his back, his hand moving in long arcs and swirls. The pressure is surprisingly firm, and it calms Draco.
They sit like that, until Potter's hand has stilled, and the tears have stopped. Draco's head rests on the patch of dampness his tears have left on Potter's t-shirt-covered chest, and beneath the fabric he can hear the gentle thudding of a steady heart. It feels good to be so close, to feel the warmth of another person. Potter smells of sweat and sleep, it envelops him and is comforting.
Eventually, Draco pulls back, enough to see Potter's face, but not so much that they lose contact. Potter's eyes are clear as they regard him quietly.
"My mother, it was my mother," Draco says.
Potter nods. "She was brave, and she loved you," he says, and his hand begins to move again, rubbing up and down Draco's arm.
"She was my mother, and she smelled like spring," says Draco, his voice cracking as he talks. Haltingly, he tells Potter of how she sat, in her chair, and hugged him.
Potter is looking at him again. "I've lost so many people in my life," he says. "But I don't know how it feels, to have known a mother and then..."
"l've lost the only person who would hug me," whispers Draco, and the tears threaten to rise again, as he acknowledges just how bleak and empty his future is. Potter is silent, but then draws him into a hug again.
"That doesn't have to be true," Potter says, and his voice is muffled next to Draco's ear, but the words spread through Draco like an ache. He doesn't know what he's doing, being hugged by Potter in a tent, but it feels so good to be close to someone like this, and so Draco hugs back.
Moving his hands down Potter's back, across the heat and the firmness of muscle through damp t-shirt, Draco tries somehow to give back some of the comfort Potter has already given him. This time Potter clings on, and he makes a small sound of loss into Draco's neck. Potter's head hangs down, and Draco whispers a "Shhh," then pulls until Potter moves onto the bed. It should be awkward, but it isn't. They need this, and they lie there together, holding onto each other without words, until they fall asleep.
They wake in the morning, arms around each other in Draco's narrow bed. It is still early, and Draco can hear the noisy song of the birds in the trees, greeting the sun. Neither moves. One of Draco's arms, hot and wet with sweat, is crushed between their bodies, even as the other is sprawled across Potter's chest. He can feel the weight of Potter's legs along his shins, and when he flexes his foot he feels Potter adjust his position slightly. He should want to break free, but instead he wants to stay here, just like this, for as long as he can.
"I... I've heard you at night, crying out," says Potter, into the still air of the tent. "But last night was different." In the cool light of day, the words sound strange.
"I've heard you too," says Draco. He moves his hand up and strokes Potter's hair. "I've done this, to calm you." Potter closes his eyes, and they lie there in silence as Draco comforts Potter.
"Thank you," whispers Potter, in the end.
Draco turns his head to look at him. They are lying so close their faces are nearly touching. "I... I know what it is to fear sleep," he says. There is a silence, punctuated only by their breathing.
"I see them all," says Potter. "The ones who died. Sometimes I think I'm going mad."
Draco reaches out and touches his face. "No, you just– we both just need... space."
Potter shuts his eyes, thick eyelashes black against his skin, and nods. When he opens them again, he looks at Draco for a moment, as if reading his face.
"I need more than space," he whispers. His hand finds Draco's and squeezes. Their fingers find a way to link together, and Draco holds on. Suddenly he understands that although the words are still hard to find, perhaps he is not as empty as he thought. He squeezes back.
It is warm and, hands joined, they drift off to sleep again.
The next time McGonagall checks on Draco and Harry, she finds them talking quietly as they repair the cracks in a tower wall. As she steps nearer, she hears Harry describe his memory of green light as his mother died. She stops. And then she sees Draco reach out and hears him whisper "Harry," as he places his hand on Harry's arm, and they just stand there, for a moment. She quietly backs away, unsettled but relieved. Their silence is over.