Chapter 35
It had been a long time since he last dreamt of Azkaban.
Draco woke with a start. He had no idea where he was, what time it was, had no sense of anything but the feeling of wave upon wave of panic crashing through him. His whole body felt grimy and damp with sweat, the sheets were twisted around him and clung to his skin. His heart was pounding away. He gasped for air. When he tried to sit up, his arms collapsed beneath him, weak with sleep and panic. He swallowed sharp gulps of air as if trying to scream backwards.
He had been screaming.
"Draco, are you alright?" said a voice that still sounded far away.
Draco blinked. He saw the dark figure of Blaise standing by his bed looking down at him. He had pulled back the draperies around the bed. Draco could make out Nott behind him. They both looked worried. The mad bird in Draco's chest was flinging itself against his ribs. His body still didn't feel entirely under his control when he tried to sit up again, this time with more success. He had no idea what his face looked like, but hoped that the darkness hid at least some of the terror he was feeling.
From the way Blaise and Nott were looking at him, he thought it probably didn't.
"Are you alright?" repeated Blaise.
He sounded slightly shaken. Draco nodded. He swallowed.
"Yeah," he said hoarsely.
"You were screaming your head off…"
"Nightmare."
Blaise watched him. There was something hesitant about his figure. Draco would have asked him to go away, except he wasn't sure he wanted him to. He didn't want to be alone.
"I'm alright," he managed.
He could still feel the dream pounding through him, the cold grip of terror in his mind.
Blaise still lingered.
"You know if you're not…" he began but trailed off.
"You can tell us if you're not alright," said Nott quietly. "Or if something's wrong."
Blaise nodded.
"Would you…" Draco stopped to clear his throat.
He was hoarse. He vaguely remembered the screaming.
"Would you maybe turn on the light?" he asked.
Nott did.
"Thank you. Is it alright if we leave it like that?"
They both nodded.
"Do you need anything else? We can get Madam Pomfrey or… or Pansy, if you…?"
Draco shook his head.
"Alright. Goodnight, then," said Blaise.
They both shuffled back towards their own beds, but then Blaise stopped again.
"Draco, does this have anything to do with-"
"No," said Draco firmly. "It has nothing to do with you. Just go to bed."
"Alright."
He heard the soft sounds of their blankets, then the chink of the curtain rings. He pulled his knees up, rested his arms on them as he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He felt wide awake. He took a couple of deep, shaky breaths. He tried not to remember what he had dreamt about.
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He didn't take long to gather himself before he got out of bed. The others were probably still awake and would hear him leave, but that didn't matter. He had asked them to leave him alone, so they would. Besides, in the wake of his nightmare, in comparison to Azkaban, everything to do with Slytherin and his reputation seemed utterly insignificant. He got dressed and left the dormitory as quietly as he could. He walked down the dark staircase and through the dim common room. There were slight movements in the shadows, and a house elf who hadn't noticed him and remained absorbed in his work of polishing the dark wood of a coffee table. Draco strode past and out into the corridor.
He would have liked to get a hold of Potter, but he had no way of contacting him. Sending him an owl this time of night would likely result in waking up every Gryffindor in his dormitory, and Potter had asked that they be discreet, so sending him panicked notes about his nightmares at ungodly hours was probably not the best way to go about it.
But he could not go back to sleep either. The feeling of the dream still clung to him. The sense of terror had lessened, but the urgency had not. That must have been why he had dreamt it – because he hard started to forget, and this had been a violent reminder of why they were doing all of this and, more importantly, why it could not wait. That was what he desperately wanted to be able to tell someone, just to be able to say it aloud. Just to make it real, to detangle it from the dream-logic of his own head: That every day Azkaban was left standing was another defeat. As soon as they had even the slightest chance of success, they had to go.
He felt compelled to go get his broom and take off immediately. Maybe if he had been in Gryffindor, that was what he would have done. Instead, he made his way to the secret room.
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Draco slumped into the soft couch and eyed the stacks of books on the table. They had been through all of them by now. Nothing but disappointment. He sighed and leaned forward to pick one of them up. That was when he noticed the note. It was a piece of parchment on top of one of the stacks and under it, he saw now, was a thin, black book he had not seen before. His heartbeat picked up as he took the note and the book. The note was addressed to him in what he had come to recognize as Granger's orderly handwriting. It had his name at the top and then Read this! right below. He read:
I came across this in the library (it was in the wrong section, that's why we didn't find it earlier) and I think it might be a breakthrough. Some parts are a bit difficult to decipher, but it's something. See what you make of it. We'll get everyone here as soon as possible.
He put down the note and took a closer look at the book. It was a thin, cheaply bound volume. There was no title or author printed on the cover, which was probably why it had been misplaced. He turned to the title page. He didn't recognize the name of the author, but the title, printed in spindly letters above it, was enough to send a rush of excitement through him: The Dementor. He turned the page and began reading.
It only took him a couple of minutes to realize that the books was… strange, to say the least. Practically unreadable if one was in a less generous mood. The first few pages were perfectly bearable and resembled the sort of texts they had found in their textbooks for defence against the dark arts. But as soon as the author had gotten past those initial stretches, the book spun off into some indecipherable musings about – either the darkness of the world or of the human mind, though he wasn't certain if it was supposed to be metaphorical or if this was someone's actual attempt at describing the physical effects of the dementor. He gave up understanding it halfway through his second reading of the passage. He turned the page, trying to steel himself with patience, and found that the following chapter was written in verse.
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It took him several hours to get through the book. When he finally reached the last page, his mind felt stretched and exhausted and there was not much left of his initial hope and excitement. He was not at all certain that this would be helpful. There had certainly been some new information – some of the less convoluted chapters had described the author actually attempting to carry out experiments with the dementors, something they had not seen in any of the other books they had come across. There had also been anatomical drawings. He vaguely suspected that it was also the creation of these chapters, and the time spent around dementors that must have been necessary in order to write them, that had driven the author into the insane state of mind that shone from the fragmented chaos of the pages.
He closed his eyes for a moment when he had finished reading. He was so tired, but his body felt restless, his mind was overused but it wouldn't stop whirring. He recognized the feeling from past nights of insomnia and knew he wouldn't be getting any sleep.
He opened his eyes again. He sat with the closed, probably useless book in his lap and stared emptily at the armrest of the chair across from him, letting it drift in and out of focus.
Then he pulled out his wand and twirled it between his fingers for a while, already knowing which spell he was going to cast, but putting it off for no reason other than that it was slightly embarrassing even with no one there to see him.
It felt very self-indulgent to cast a patronus charm when there was nothing around for it to protect him from. But the light and warmth of it was so comforting and it made the secret room seem much less gloomy. He wasn't sure what time it was, but probably still late at night. The glass in the windows was mirror-black and showed nothing of the world outside, only reflected the soft light of his patronus back at him. He watched it where it lay coiled on the sofa next to him. Despite its silvery glow it seemed almost like a real animal. And while he wondered about that, he remembered something, though he wasn't sure from where: That the Order of the Phoenix had used patronuses to send private messages. A lot of information about the people who fought against Voldemort and the way they had operated had become public when the war ended. He might have read about their messages in the newspaper, or maybe it was just another one of the many stories that circulated in Slytherin.
It seemed an odd thing to speak to the snake; it was not a magical creature or even a conjured one, just an apparition of his own magic. But as soon as he spoke, the snake raised its head and watched him attentively.
"Can you get a message to Potter?" he asked it - not in parseltongue, he did not speak that, just in plain English.
The snake gave no indication that it understood, but he felt certain that it did.
"Tell him – but only if he's awake, if he's asleep then leave him alone. But if he's awake, tell him I'm in the secret room and… he can come if he wants to. It's not urgent or important, though."
There was a moment of hesitation where he thought it probably hadn't worked, but then the patronus vanished and it was too late to regret the message.
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He felt the exact moment he lost control of it. He had been sustaining it, feeling no strain even though it had gotten further and further away, and then out of nowhere he had been cut off. He wondered if it had made it to the Gryffindor dormitories or if it had just flickered out in some hallway.
He didn't cast it again.
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Time dragged by and Draco was no closer to falling asleep. He had taken off his school robes and tie, feeling suddenly silly for wearing those in the middle of the night. He sat down again in just his shirt and trousers.
He transfigured a cushion in one of the armchairs into a cup and back again. Into a mirror and back again.
He had, for a moment, forgotten about his patronus messenger, and so he started violently when he heard the click of the door being opened. Potter slipped through and closed it quietly behind him, and for a second Draco was lost as to why he was there. Then he remembered and felt embarrassed.
Potter looked rumpled and tired, so maybe Draco had woken him up after all. He wasn't wearing robes or any of his school uniform, just a T-shirt and a pair of very muggle-looking pants. His hair was even more of a mess than usual. Draco's heart convulsed happily.
"Hey," said Potter, his voice a bit gravelly.
He had stopped just inside the door and didn't move to sit down. Draco cleared his throat.
"So you got my patronus?" he asked.
Potter looked at him with a puzzled expression, like he wasn't sure what to make of him.
"Yeah," he said. "I didn't know you could do that. Patronus messages."
Draco shrugged.
"Apparently they practically do it by themselves."
Potter nodded. He had his arms crossed. He looked towards the window.
"Did I wake you up?" Draco asked.
"No, I was awake."
"Good."
Potter wasn't really looking in Draco's direction, but Draco found he had a hard time not staring at him. It was rare to see Potter not wearing his school uniform, and even though it was usually a mess, seeing him in a button-down shirt was still an altogether very different experience from the way this cheap, thin fabric hung on his shoulders. It revealed a lot of pleasant nooks and angles that the uniform usually hid.
"So, what did you want to say to me?" asked Potter
Draco immediately averted his eyes – Merlin, what was wrong with him? He hadn't dragged Potter out of his bed and all the way to the other end of the castle just so he could leer at him.
"Nothing," he said quickly. "That's what the message said, didn't it? That it wasn't anything important, it was just… well, so it's not like I had something I needed to tell you."
But of course Potter would assume it was something important when Draco had sent a bloody patronus to get him like this was the bloody Order of the Phoenix. Or maybe he had come because he felt bad about what had happened in the dungeon the other day - Draco hadn't had a chance to talk to him about it since, he had just assumed that it was all good, it had seemed like they were on the same page about it when they split up. But of course he could have read that wrong –
"Hermione said she had found something, I thought maybe it was about that?" said Potter, interrupting Draco's train wreck of thought.
"Oh. Right," he said. "Yeah, I read the book."
He nodded to where it lay the table.
"I don't know if it's anything. I – well, unless you really want to hear about it, I would rather talk about something else. Something that's not Azkaban."
Potter shrugged.
"Alright," he said, but he still looked sort of lost there by the door, like he didn't know where to look or what to do about himself.
Draco searched for some sort of reason to give him for why he was there at all if Draco didn't want him for anything. He had thought he wanted to talk about the nightmare, to share his panic and explain all over again why what they were doing was so important, to put words to all those black thoughts. But now Potter was there, ruffled by night and incredibly nice to look at, and Azkaban was suddenly the last thing Draco wanted to think about.
"I just wanted to see you," he said finally, which sounded needy and dumb, but felt pretty close to the truth.
A small smile curved the edges of Potter's mouth and a flood of relief surged through Draco.
Potter pointed to the sofa.
"Can I sit?" he asked.
Draco rolled his eyes.
"No, I want you to keep standing there awkwardly for the rest of eternity."
Potter grinned and slumped into the seat next to Draco as if he had never hesitated by the door at all. As if this was something they did all the time. He sighed as he sank into the cushions.
"Guess you couldn't sleep either?" he said.
"I had a nightmare."
"Sorry."
Draco shrugged.
"I'm better now."
Potter closed his eyes.
"I just don't understand how it works," he said. "I am so fucking tired and all I want to do is sleep, I just can't."
"You could get a sleeping draught from Madam Pomfrey."
Potter opened his eyes again, looking up at Draco with his head turned so his cheek was pressed to the backrest and his glasses were pushed askew. The T-shirt had slid down a bit and Draco could see the shape of his collar-bones.
"I thought about it. I don't really like the idea that it knocks you out completely for seven hours, or how long it is. What if something happens and you don't wake up?"
"I wouldn't worry about that, with your luck you would probably end up saving everyone with heroic sleepwalking or something like that."
Potter snorted.
"With my luck, the castle would be overtaken by feral nargles the first time I ever tried a sleeping potion."
Draco laughed.
"What are Nargles?"
"No idea. Ask Luna when you get the chance. So why don't you go to Madam Pomfrey?"
Draco put his arm on the backrest of the sofa and rested his head in his hand.
"I did," he said. "Turns out the potion works really well for me, knocks me out completely for 8 hours and leaves me well-rested the next morning. It just has the unfortunate side effect of giving me very vivid dreams."
Potter grimaced.
"Yeah, in that case I would prefer not sleeping too."
"I sleep really well in class, though."
Potter snorted.
"I fell asleep in transfiguration once. Very scary thing waking up to McGonagall standing over you with that look in her eyes. Can't recommend it."
"I'll keep my naps to other subjects."
Potter closed his eyes again. He was quiet for a while. Then he asked:
"Do you miss Snape?"
Draco hesitated.
"That's a weird question," he said.
"Sorry. You're the only one I know who sort of liked him."
"I don't know," he said. "I didn't really know him. Maybe. I miss the grades."
Potter nodded. There was another stretch of silence. It was the kind of silence that creeps into late-night conversations when all sentences are spoken slowly and the gaps between them become too long – the sound of voices gravelly with exhaustion, of everyone else being asleep, and daybreak still being hours away.
"Are you falling asleep?" asked Draco.
Potter opened his eyes, which was sort of spectacular to watch when you were this close to his face. Every time, Draco was a little bit surprised at how green they were.
"A little bit."
"I think I could sleep too."
Potter sat up and stretched his back.
"Yeah?" he said with a yawn. "You want to lie down?"
Draco hesitated.
"Where?" he asked.
"I think there's room for both of us on the sofa."
It was not a very big sofa. Potter leaned down to untie his shoes.
"Are you serious?" said Draco.
Potter straightened up and looked at him.
"I was but… Not if you'd rather go back to your common room…?"
Draco kissed him. Potter kissed him back. And just as before it was an electrical current through his bloodstream, those three days had been an endless chasm between the first kiss and the next, and Draco had been starving. He had his hand splayed on Potter's chest, he could feel his ribs through the shirt, a scratch of stubble on his lips. He stopped to catch his breath, but when he leaned in again, Potter pulled back.
"Hey," he said quickly, putting a hand on Draco's shoulder, not pushing him back, just marking the space between them.
Draco hated that space.
Potter looked flushed, he was smiling sheepishly and his eyes kept skidding off Draco, looking at him and looking away. He had such a nice mouth.
"I was…" he cleared his throat. "I was actually thinking we would just sleep?"
"Oh," said Draco, removing his hand from Potter's chest. "Yeah, no, of course, I wasn't… That wasn't where I was going."
He could feel heat rushing to his face and was painfully aware that he was probably blushing all the way up his neck.
"Sorry," he said. "I just… I've missed you."
"I've missed you too."
Draco bent down to untie his own shoes, not that that was likely to hide his red face from Potter, he was sure even his ears were burning. His heart was still pounding like crazy. Draco toed off his shoes and Potter put his glasses next to the books on the table. Draco glanced back at him.
"You look nice," he said. "I can't remember ever seeing you without them."
"Thanks."
Potter shuffled around, then lay down on the sofa, his legs trailing behind Draco's back. Draco waved his wand at the lights, and they went out. The room dissolved in shadows. He settled in next to Potter. There was space enough that he could have kept an inch between them. He didn't.
There was a bit of shifting around before they were both comfortable. There was the push of Potters knees and the feeling of their legs trailing along each other, the heat of Potter's breath on the back of his neck and their bodies fitting jigsaw-like into each other. There was the weight of Potters arm draped across his chest and the warm tickle of his breath against the back of Draco's neck.
"You comfortable?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Think you can sleep?"
He probably could as soon as his heart settled down. Potter's hand was curled against his chest. He wondered if he could feel it pounding.
"Yeah," he said. "You?"
He could feel Potter nodding.
"Think so. Sorry if I made it weird."
"It's alright," he said. "It's not weird."
"It's not like I would mind… branching out a bit. From sleeping. At some point."
"I wouldn't mind either," Draco mumbled.
Potter laughed and Draco could feel every muscle involved in it, how his chest convulsed and his arm tightened around him and the blow of warm air that moved his hair.
Draco picked up Potter's hand that lay curled loosely against his chest, and threaded their fingers together.
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"I was thinking about something."
The voice was so quiet it almost wasn't there. Draco opened his eyes. He had already been mostly asleep.
"What?" he whispered back.
"What do you think would have happened if we hadn't met like we did?"
Potter didn't sound close to sleep at all.
"Like, if the first thing you did wasn't insulting Ron. What if it had been you who helped me find the platform instead of the Weasleys? Do you think that would have changed things?"
Each word was a brush of warm air against Draco's neck. Draco had had the same thought. He had had it over and over this year and the years before, had dreamt up quite a few scenarios of it, but they all depended on him being a smarter, better and kinder person than he had been.
"No," he said. "I don't think it would."
It was easier to say in the dark. Easier when he couldn't see Potter's face.
"But-"
"I wasn't the sort of person you could have liked."
"Maybe you could have been… Maybe you would have changed sides earlier. Before it all became so serious."
"Before I was made a Death Eater."
"Before there were sides."
Draco was quiet.
"There were always sides," he said.
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Draco had almost drifted off when Potter spoke again. His mind was soft darkness and the promise of dreamless sleep, so he didn't open his eyes this time. But he wasn't all the way asleep either, so he would still remember the words in the morning:
"You should really start calling me Harry."