At 5:27 am, Harry Potter awoke screaming in his bed, drenched in sweat, and feeling like he would throw up any minute.

Disentangling himself from his sheets, he lurched out of bed and staggered into the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face. His head ached so badly he half expected to see a hatchet embedded in the back of his skull, and his body shook and trembled from the aftershocks of his dream.

They kept coming back. They kept fucking coming back. No amount of Dreamless Sleep, Knockout Draught, or hard liquor could keep them away.

It had been the Cedric dream again. So many years later, and that one still plagued his nights. Harry's sweaty hands slid on the countertop, and suddenly he threw himself from the sink to the toilet, just making it before closing his eyes and vomiting so hard and so long, he was afraid he might pass out. Finally it stopped, and he weakly hung his head, headache somehow getting worse, arms shaking violently from the dream and supporting his torso over the toilet. When he opened his eyes and saw the copious amount of blood mixed in with the rest in the bowl, the room spun. Had his skull split open? He wasn't sure. He tried to make it to the Floo, too disoriented to Apparate, but he couldn't make his legs move. He was faintly aware of the room turning on its side and the floor rearing up to hit the side of his face, and then, blessedly, nothing.

…………………………………..

The first thing Harry was aware of was how absolutely wretched he felt. A second later, Auror instincts (and, he supposed, Horcrux-hunting instincts) kicked in. Where was he? Was he in danger? Harry took in his surroundings and catalogued what he could sense before deciding if he could show that he was awake. He was lying in a bed, and sheets were soft and smelled clean. His mouth tasted like shit. It was bright outside his eyelids. He could hear soft voices, but they were familiar. Safe. He opened his eyes. He wasn't wearing his glasses, but he could see what looked like Ron and Hermione talking with a woman, but they weren't looking at him. The woman nodded at them and left. Harry's surroundings were blurry as well, but he was comforted by the room and once again felt it was familiar and safe, so it wasn't St. Mungo's, or his apartment, or anywhere he had been recently.

"Hermione? Ron?"

"Oh Harry!" It was Hermione. He felt the bed dip a bit as she sat on the edge of it. "We've been so worried!"

"Urg." Harry responded, still feeling awful. "Hand me my glasses?"

They were given to him and he shoved them on, blinking in the clearer light and the faces to his right. He looked around.

"Why am I in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts?" That certainly explained the good feelings about the room – Hogwarts was still his favorite place in the world.

"You gave us a right scare there, mate," Ron said solemnly. "Mungo's isn't completely secure, and Madame Pomfrey has always taken the best care of you, so we brought you here."

"What happened?"

"What happened?!" Hermione shrieked, sounding a bit hysterical. "You didn't come to work all day, Ron and I Flooed in to check on you, and we found you passed out on your bathroom floor!"

"We thought you were dead. Pomfrey says you almost were." Ron finished, putting a soothing hand between Hermione's shoulder blades.

Hermione took a deep breath before calmly continuing, "What's happening to you, Harry? You don't go out, you don't play Quidditch, and you only ever see us or Teddy. Is it Auroring? All the press? Harry, don't lie to us anymore, that's all you ever do, just tell us what's wrong!" She was starting to lose her just-regained cool.

Harry looked down at his hands. He pressed his thumbnail into his opposing palm and watched as the area surrounding the crescent-shaped indent turned white, then red. "I still have nightmares."

"What?" Hermione's voice was soft and a little…frightened? "You said they went away after you killed Voldemort."

Harry shrugged, still not looking up from his hands where his thumb was decorating his palm with patterns consisting of the crescent-shaped indents. He could sense Ron and Hermione exchanging a 'Harry's-being-difficult' type look.

"Harry," Hermione continued, "Are you saying that these nightmares are making you sick?" Another shrug from Harry. Struggling not to lose patience, she said, "Could you fill us in on what happened before you passed out?"

Harry turned his face to look at the ceiling, still resolutely refusing to look at either of his friends. "I had a nightmare, the one about Ce- the graveyard at the Triwizard Tournament. I woke up and felt sick, so I went to the bathroom. I threw up, saw the blood in the puke, and sort of blacked out." He risked a glance at the pair after finishing his abbreviated tale, which was probably a bad idea – their disbelieving scowls could have burned holes through a lead wall.

"Harry…" Ron trailed off threateningly. Harry fumed at the ceiling, glaring as if it had caused all the problems in his life. Why the fuck couldn't they leave him the bloody well alone? His head hurt. He wanted to go to sleep again. The safe feeling was gone now that they started poking and prodding him. It reminded him of Snape in his Occulmency lessons, always crawling into his head and getting a good look at his memories, whether he liked it or not. Just like Voldemort. They didn't belong in there, damn it! He snapped his eyes to their faces before yelling,

"FINE! You want in? You want to know what happened? This isn't like it's the first fucking time it's happened, after all! Merlin, you want to hear about when I woke up sobbing after dreaming about the Dursleys? Or the time I didn't make it to the bathroom, so I puked all over the floor and then slipped in it? How about the when I pissed myself while dreaming about Voldemort feeling up my scar in the fucking graveyard?"

Hermione looked like she might cry, and Ron was peering at him with concern radiating out of every freckle on his earnest face. Harry looked down to the floor at his left. "Sorry." He said shortly. They said nothing.

Madame Pomfrey walked briskly over, cutting straight into the loaded silence, and looked sharply to Ron and Hermione. "Out. Mr. Potter does not need to be agitated in his delicate condition."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Ron cut across her. "Okay. Harry, we'll be in the hall if you need us. We'll check in with you before we leave, yeah?" Harry nodded, and Ron steered his bushy-haired girlfriend out of the room.

Harry looked at the Healer expectantly. "Good morning, Madame Pomfrey," he began in a slightly too-cheerful tone. "You're looking well."

She spared him a terse, worried smile before saying, "Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for you, Mr. Potter. Before I tell you the results of the tests I ran, I need you to tell me of the events leading up to the discovery of you upon your bathroom floor; preferably a calmer and more comprehensive explanation than you gave Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley."

Harry fought back a blush, lost the battle, and explained what had happened. Madame Pomfrey was frowning heavily by the time he had finished talking. "Then it is as I feared." She stated gravely. "Mr. Potter, combined with your unusually strong magic abilities, intense emotional reactions, and regrettably painful past, these dreams are extremely dangerous to your health. In fact, it would be accurate to say that they are killing you." Harry struggled not to laugh at the irony. The Chosen One, the Vanquisher of Evil, the Defeater of the Dark Lord, was being killed by bad dreams.

Madame Pomfrey seemed to take his expression as one of stunned horror, as she nodded somberly and continued. "I take it you have already attempted to use Dreamless Sleep from the apothecary?"

Harry said yes, but, obviously, it hadn't worked. "It would seem that you require a specialized adaptation of the potion, but it is exceedingly difficult to make – far beyond my capabilities, or that of any professor at Hogwarts."

Harry bit his lip apprehensively as he waited for her to continue. He had a feeling that there was going to be a way of obtaining this potion, but he wasn't going to like it much. "There is a very talented Potions Master currently working at the Ministry," she continued. "He's young, but he has found great success in privately creating and adapting complicated potions to an individual's needs. I'm sure Mr. Malfoy will be able to make enough specialized Dreamless Draught to keep your nightmares at bay."

Harry sank against the pillows, flabbergasted. Draco Malfoy, making a potion to save his life? A detached part of his brain wondered if this was how Lupin felt when he was told that Snape would be making his Wolfsbane potion.

"Mr. Potter…" Harry looked at Madame Pomfrey as she began to speak again. "I think you will find that Mr. Malfoy isn't quite the boy you used to know. It would be unfair of you to treat him as such."

"I know," Harry said, sounding dazed. "He thanked me for testifying at his trial after the war. And then again when I returned his wand."

She nodded. "Good. I've been monitoring you the past two days – "

"Two days?! Oh Merlin, Kingsley must be blowing an artery-"

"Mr. Potter, please!"

Harry shut it and looked sheepish. "Sorry."

"So, as it is the summer holidays, Headmistress McGonagall has given her permission for you to sleep here in the Hospital wing. Your Auror Insurance will cover Mr. Malfoy's charges. Any other questions?"

"I can go to work, right?"

"You seem to have no problems during the day, so I suppose you could handle it a while longer, since your body has healed from the potions I have been administering. Mind you, these are only a temporary solution to your problem – it is too risky to continue using them over prolonged periods of time. You may need to take off Auroring completely as your condition worsens."

"And… will you be… checking up on me? To try to, um, stop the dreams, I mean."

She regarded him with a frown on her face. "There appears to be nothing I can do. Getting sleep is a very important to the healing potions – they cannot work properly without it, but the nightmares will continue to wreak havoc on your body. All I can guarantee is that if you sleep, you will delay your body's deterioration more than if you didn't. But if you want, Mr. Potter, I can wake you up if it appears you are experiencing a night terror."

Harry shook his head. "No thank you. Could you bring Ron and Hermione back in, please? I want to speak to them before I head to the Ministry." She nodded and headed for the door.

"Mr. Malfoy will be here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Good day, Mr. Potter."

"Bye."

Harry told Ron and Hermione that a specialist was coming in to make him a potion. They didn't need to know the whole story. When they left, he flooed to his flat to get dressed, and then went straight to the Ministry. Kingsley was worried when Harry wouldn't tell him much about his 'condition', other than that it affected his sleep, and forced Harry into paid vacation, refusing to acknowledge that this had been going on since before Harry was even an auror, so obviously it wasn't any more of a danger now than it had ever been. Disgruntled and glowering, Harry transferred some essentials to Hogwarts before settling in for the night, finally setting up the strongest layer of Silencing spells he could cast before going to sleep.

………………………………………

His weak, eleven-year-old arms were being held down by his captors and he hurt all over, the constant pain only made bearable by the sharper pain that rang through his body with every blow his cousin landed. Unable to even curl up to protect his face and vital organs, he just waited for the pain to be over, to end with the usual snapping of his glasses or face shoved in a toilet. Suddenly, Dudley stomped down on his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs in a pained whoosh. He couldn't breathe. He cried and struggled to draw in breath, but the oxygen wouldn't come and his body refused to give in to unconsciousness, no matter how much he wanted it to. A slap was driven across his face, so different from the punches, and Harry sprang fully upright in bed, arms no longer fettered, air drawing into his chest in ragged breaths. Before he could fumble his glasses onto his face, he heard a very familiar voice, but what would normally be an aristocratic drawl was instead rather shaken;

"Alright there, Potter?"

Oh shit. Draco Malfoy. Automatically defensive from the dream, and forgetting that he no longer hated Malfoy, he spat back, "Ever heard of a fucking Ennervate, Malfoy? If you're going to slap me like a girl, at least wait for me to try to get my hand up your fucking skirt first!"

Then they stared at each other, at a loss for words how completely weird and awkward this situation was. Malfoy had just rescued Harry from a nightmare with a rather prissy slap, only to have Harry simultaneously berate him and threaten to try to touch him in his naughty place, and now Malfoy was somehow going to brew Harry a lifesaving potion.

Harry was seriously considering the possibility that he had passed through the floor in his bathroom into a parallel universe where this kind of stuff could actually happen, when Malfoy spoke up.

"…I thought you were gay?" Malfoy blurted.

Harry stared blankly at him. "What?"

Malfoy's eyes widened and his pale face pinked. "Well, if you were gay and I was a girl, you wouldn't be trying to get your hand up my skirt, would you?"

"Erm… I guess not?"

Malfoy stared at him for a moment longer, then shook himself as though coming out of a trance. "I thought you were told that I was coming?"

Harry rubbed his scar with the heel of his hand – it didn't hurt, but it was a habit that he found hard to break. "I was. I don't understand, I set my alarm for seven thirty…" he glanced over at his travel alarm clock and found it dead. "The batteries must have worn out," he muttered, and looked back at Malfoy. "Sorry about that." Malfoy looked nonplussed, but then again, Harry thought, he probably didn't know what the hell he was talking about. "I'll just, er, be getting dressed then." Malfoy nodded, but made no move to leave. Trying again, Harry cleared his throat. "Could I have a moment?"

Malfoy pinked again and, with some sort of apology, went to wait in the hallway. Something about the color in Malfoy's cheeks and the way he nearly stumbled on the way out made the corners of Harry's mouth quirk into a smile. This might just work out after all, because despite Harry's less than genial greeting, the Slytherin seemed to be making every effort to be, well, nice. Not to mention nice to look at, his brain felt like injecting, because Merlin, how the hell did you miss that arse in school? And fuck, that face is gorgeous. When did the ferret become a fox?

Harry sighed at himself and shook his head. He was not about to hit on Draco Malfoy, of all people, no matter how long his mind decided to spout worse lines than the skeezy guys who tried to pick him up in clubs. Throwing on some clothes, he went to invite Malfoy back in the room.

Surprisingly, the first thing the blond did was look him up and down. Though the gaze was not unappreciative and ran a small thrill up Harry's body, Malfoy sighed and asked, "Potter, how long was I in the hall?"

"I don't know, less than a minute? Why?"

Malfoy looked scandalized. "Because you look exactly like you did in school every day! Ever think about putting a little effort into your clothing choices?"

Rather than feeling insulted, Harry was amused. No doubt Malfoy put a lot of time into his own personal appearance. He made to respond, but Malfoy held up a hand and said with a pained expression, "Forget it, I don't want to know."

Harry laughed, which quickly turned into a deep, hacking cough. Malfoy held out a steadying hand on his shoulder. When Harry finally stopped and cast a quick cleaning charm on any spittle (and, okay, a tiny bit of blood) that had made its way into his palm, he looked up to see Malfoy frowning at him. Harry sat back on the bed, leaning against the pillows propped up against the headboard - he needed Malfoy's grasp to stay upright more than he cared to admit.

The Slytherin surprised him by moving to the foot of the bed and sitting cross-legged facing Harry, so they were about the same height when he asked, "How are you feeling?"

Great, now he was the Invalid again. "How do you feel after you wake up from your worst nightmare? Multiply that by five years, and you're almost halfway there."

Malfoy looked at him steadily. "So it's been since the Dark Lord fell?"

Harry looked away from that grey gaze. "I had the nightmares before that, but they weren't so vivid and far less frequent."

"What are they about?"

Harry's eyes darted right back to Malfoy's, hard as emeralds. "That's a rather personal question, don't you think?"

"I'm sorry." Malfoy said, and looked as though he meant it. "I did some research yesterday on cases in which Dreamless Sleep has failed, extreme night terrors, and some potion-making techniques that the ancients used that I think would apply perfectly in this situation. The basic principle is that the brewer needs to have the contents of the recipient's nightmares in mind while certain ingredients are added-"

"No."

Malfoy gaped at him. "What?"

"I said no. I'm not telling you about my nightmares."

"But-"

"Tell me the truth, Malfoy," Harry hissed, saying the name with malice for the first time since sixth year, "Are you a shrink? A Mind Healer? Is this some sick, twisted thing that Hermione and the Weasleys set up because I've refused to go see some fucking St. Mungo's psychiatrist? I've told her again and again, she can't make me-"

"Potter!" Malfoy shouted to make himself heard. Once Harry had ceased ranting, the Slytherin looked him straight in the eye and said, "I am not, nor have I ever been a Mind Healer. Neither the Weasleys or Granger had me come here. I am here to keep you alive, and that's it."

Harry nodded sheepishly. He seemed to be flying off the handle more and more frequently lately. "Okay. Er… sorry about that."

Malfoy inclined his head. "It's alright. But may I ask you something? Preferably without you hexing me into goo?"

Harry smiled a little. "You can try."

"Why have you refused to see a Mind Healer? Many people have, especially after the War… even me."

Now Harry frowned absently, trying to pick his words carefully. "Well, my head is a private place. I've always had… difficulty telling people about problems in my life." He said, thinking of Umbridge and her blood quill. "My muggle relatives weren't terribly interested in hearing anything I had to say, so keeping my mouth shut was a lesson I grew up with. Not to mention that I'm Harry Potter – I can't know that whatever I say won't end up on the front page of the Daily Prophet."

Malfoy's gaze sharpened. "Harry, I swear that whatever is spoken or transacted between us will be completely confidential. No one else will know a single thing, not my mother, not Madame Pomfrey, not even a bloody House-Elf."

"Thank you." Harry said sincerely, because Malfoy sounded like his meant every word.

The blond leaned forward until he was less than a foot from Harry's face. "So, Harry. Are you going to let me save your life?"

Harry stared right back at him, refusing to flinch away from the proximity. Not to mention his brain commenting, those beautiful grey eyes are nearly hypnotic, while, unhelpfully, his body wholeheartedly agreed. "Do you promise that if I do what you say, the dreams will stop?"

Malfoy considered. "I promise that if you don't do what I say, then the dreams will not go away and you will die."

Harry couldn't ask for much more than that. "Okay then." After a beat, he chuckled humorlessly. "It's like with the Fiendfire, right? I couldn't promise that if you grabbed my hand you'd be saved, only that if you didn't, then you would die – only this time, you're the one with the broom."

Malfoy shook his head disparagingly, but his smile gave away his amusement at Harry's analogy. "There is one catch, though."

Harry froze. "What?"

Malfoy grinned wider. "Call me Draco." The words sounded like a challenge. Harry knew how to handle that.

He smiled back. "No problem, Draco." He liked the name – saying it felt like a new beginning.

********

In short order, Draco called a House-elf from his Manor. "Mr. Potter and I would like breakfast. I'll have eggs, sausage, and coffee. How about you… Harry?" Harry shrugged, and Draco turned back to the elf. "Mr. Potter will have the same. Be sure to bring cream and sugar – we will be served in here."

The elf bowed and, with a squeaked "Yes, Master," he was gone.

Harry looked at Draco bemusedly. "I thought we could just use the school's elves."

Draco threw him a scathing look. "Are you kidding? I hardly survived on the food they served here as a student! Really, you never noticed how horrible it was?"

Harry looked away. To him, Hogwarts always had the best food – the summers were when he starved.

Draco frowned, obviously sensing that he had said something wrong, but before he could ask what, two food-laden elves appeared. They produced a folding table, set the silverware and food, and Disapparated. The blond tucked in immediately, but Harry just picked and frowned at his plate. Shit, but he was tired.

Draco watched Harry carefully. "Is something wrong with your food?" he asked politely.

"No, no, it's fine, thanks." Harry shoveled in a forkful of something to prove so. He couldn't taste it, and it sat like lead in his stomach.

Finally, he looked up and asked, "What were you saying about the potion before I, er, interrupted you?"

Draco met his gaze seriously. "Let's start with something else first. Could you tell me what side effects you're experiencing from the nightmares?"

Harry rubbed at his scar again, trying to think. "Exhaustion. Dizziness, vomiting, migranes, loss of breath. Sometimes when I cough too hard or throw up, there's blood. More recently, I've had an easy temper and complete lack of appetite." He grinned at Draco, remembering his outburst before.

The Slytherin nodded. "Well, at least I expected those. They're partly related to the exhaustion, but also a result of your body shutting down on itself. Now, as I said previously, this potion must be very precisely made. It is similar to Dreamless Sleep, but the brewer – that'd be me – must have either the contents of the dreams or the memories that the dreams are based on in their own mind."

Harry thought for a moment before slowly asking, "So what does that mean?"

"It means… it means that I would have to view your memories. Just the ones that your dreams are based on, of course, but the end result is that the potion would suppress those memories from surfacing while you sleep, which is when your mind is at its most vulnerable."

Harry was silent for a long time until, finally, he nodded. "Okay," he said.

Draco started. "Okay? You mean you'll do it?"

"What can I say?" Harry asked. "I trust you, Draco. I believe that you meant what you said before about keeping everything that occurs between us private."

The blond flicked his eyes up, but kept his head bowed, "You have no idea how much that means to me, Harry."

TBC