Disclaimer : Until I find a way to wipe the entire world's memory clean and take credit for everything JKR wrote, Harry isn't mine.

Note: I started writing this about two years ago under the title "Skies Are Grey." I stopped because I didn't have enough time to do it justice (I'm a semi-perfectionist). But now I have scads of extra time, and a rekindled desire to finish this the way it should have been. I'm really quite excited about it. Basically, the premise is that the entire ending of HBP didn't happen—Dumbledore didn't die, Snape didn't fake over to the Dark Side... you get the idea. My ultimate goal is that nothing in this story goes against the true nature of the characters, Draco's not going to turn into a fluffy little lovesick puppy, etc. (I think you understand that I have fairly strong opinions on out-of-character characters... haha.) Corrections, suggestions, and commentary are all welcome, as long as they are kept clean. Thanks dears! :)

Chapter One

Every morning started just the same. A cold sweat and nothing but the few relentless notes of a sadistic circus performance ringing in his ears… and yet there was comfort in his sick slumbers. Six years of nights—2,191 of them, to be completely exact—and every night just the same since that first fateful evening at Hogwarts. It was not always the same bodies twisting in the same abnormal contortions, but it was always the same song … restful but dark, smooth but sad, exhilarating… but completely terrifying. Always the same voices, lamenting, as if to cry out and reach him from the darkness… Not that he was completely certain of this. The voices did not speak any language with which he was familiar—and that was no small fact: Draco Malfoy was more than fluent in several foreign tongues, and had a passable vocabulary in many more, a skill that had served him well in his many travels around the globe and with a variety of creatures.

He recalled with ease the night that started it all—eleven years old and never surer of anything in his life than he was as the Sorting Hat screamed "Slytherin!" at the merest touch of its frayed edges against his platinum blond hair. He was on top of the world—sure, he was young, but Hogwarts held no unfamiliarity for him: his father, Lucius, had been on the Governing Board of Hogwarts, and Draco had visited the school often. Beyond that, his family connections allowed him access to friendships with older students who were more than willing to show him the ropes. He could do no wrong—and even if he did, he was certain that his father would spare him the consequences of any fun he might wish to have while at Hogwarts. All through the first evening's feast, he felt utterly indestructible… and then came the night. The cruel, hard, cold night…

And Draco Malfoy couldn't escape the sickening faceless people as their boneless bodies stretched past him. Nor could he free himself from the terrorizing music that seemed to force his heart to beat unnaturally against his ribcage. That was the first morning that Draco woke up with a heart full of gratitude for the sunshine. But the night always came again, bringing its horde of horrors and its melody of madness. Even for him it was difficult to summon the immense shroud of fright that came over him before the dream came again. He tried as many remedies as he could lay his hands on, and tried to stay awake through the night many times, just to hide from it… but Sleep will always take claim on its prey, and Draco had no way to evade Its clutches. Soon enough, the dreams became routine, and Draco was able to ignore their presence—until his sixth year at Hogwarts.

His dreams did not seem content to let him be a mere spectator any longer, and he became mannequin to their sick desires. As far as he could tell, he did not actually move while sleeping, but the dreams were like the Cruciatus Curse—he was bent and twisted and driven to his wits' end, waking, each morning, feeling as though he had not slept at all, and in more pain than he had ever been forced to succumb to in his life. He fought it with every ounce of resistance in his body, and paid sorely for it when the sun finally dared show its face. Some mornings he awoke wondering if perhaps light and time were also playing slave to his dreams—each night seemed to drag on longer than the previous. And then one night, he gave in, and gave up. As the Dark Lord began to exercise his power, Draco could not fight against the living nightmare, let alone the demons that haunted his dreams. He no longer felt the childish fear he once had for the darkness, but he now dreaded the pain and the resounding anguish that each step would bear, following another night as a participant in the sadistic dance of his dreams. It could not have gotten worse… and then, he failed.

The Dark Lord is not kind to those who do not fulfill his demands. And the sick pain of dreaming became a safe haven from real life. His darkest fear and greatest suffering became his deepest place of solace. But at the same time, though he tried to pretend that it wasn't happening, Draco was slowly deteriorating.

Now, as he made his evening rounds of the castle looking for stray first years to hassle and send to bed on their first night at Hogwarts, he remembered. Even as he walked, he could feel his body craving sleep—eyes willing themselves to close, muscles caving beneath him, heart and soul begging to be freed from the day's general unpleasantness… But still he fought it, trying to make it at least to the common room before Slumber could take him in arms and allow him to pretend that daytime didn't exist. Distantly down the hall, he could see the light of another prefect's wand. Maybe he could coerce them into taking the rest of his rounds, so he could take a shortcut to the dungeons… But Draco had pushed the limits of the physical too far, and he swayed on the spot.

Please let me know what you think :)