Disclaimer: I don't own anything, no money is being made from this story.
June 5, 1996
Draco loved his birthday. A whole day dedicated to him and the occasion of his birth. This auspicious day meant bountiful gifts from his parents, adulation from his friends, and well-wishes from the rest of his housemates. Pansy had hinted at giving him more than just a handsy snog this year, too.
Sixteen would be a good year for Draco.
It started well enough. True to his predictions, he awoke to a plentiful pile of presents at the foot of his bed. The pile even included his secret favourite gift: a package of Jelly Slugs.
His mother hated that Draco liked Jelly Slugs. "Common," she deemed them. She probably hated the way they'd stained his teeth and lips, the corners of his mouth, as a child. Artificial coloring bleeding onto perfect, unblemished porcelain, requiring her to produce her wand for face-cleansing charms to ensure her young son presented a pristine countenance.
An appearance of purity.
Draco wondered why she still sent the detested candies at all. He tore the wrappings off the rest of his presents, satisfied to have received an excellent haul of new quidditch apparel, eagle-feather quills, several sets of dress robes, goblin-made cufflinks, and a seemingly unending supply of confections and cakes made by the house-elves of Malfoy Manor.
He'd bring some of the edible treats down to breakfast in the Great Hall, just to display for all that his family's parcels and mail didn't require the same sort of scrutiny as perhaps those students from lesser families. No, Umbridge let all his post (and most of the post for students of Slytherin) come through without having been manhandled or even inspected now that she had full control of the school.
Sitting at his House table, Draco ran a finger along the little badge on his robes signifying his exalted place in Hogwarts as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad. A tiny piece of metal that ensured, finally, he could hold some sway over Potter and his gang of sycophants.
He cast a haughty glance over at the Gryffindor table. These days, most of the older students of that House sat huddled together, trading hushed whispers and anxious glances. Morons.
They had no idea the power they'd be up against, the might that would crush their hopes and dreams and squeeze the self-righteousness from their souls. A good amount of them would probably die if they didn't come to their senses and fall in line. But that was always the way for the type of proselytising simpletons that valued things like misguided courage over the more sensible path to glory to be found with those of the right blood and the proper outlook for the future of the magical world.
Pansy called his attention back as she slid closer on the bench and dropped a hand to his upper thigh beneath the table. She leaned in and whispered a rather salacious promise in his ear for later tonight in the dormitories after the day's O.W.L. exams.
Draco smirked wickedly at her and nodded.
Yes, 16 would be a very good year for Draco.
June 4, 1997
Draco would come of age tomorrow.
Seventeen. A man. A full-grown wizard in the eyes of the law. The Wizengamot could charge and try him as a legal adult and he could face real time in Azkaban for his crimes. His unforgivable crimes.
No. He shouldn't think like that. He shouldn't let thoughts of failure or capture seep into his brain. He would succeed. Draco would finally mend the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things. He'd come so close in his recent attempts, teetering on the brink of a breakthrough with the magic required to repair the object.
But Draco felt the desperation, the wild panic that fogged his brain and made it difficult to think, to just fucking think while he cast spell after spell, while he recited incantation after incantation, as he swished and twirled his wand in precise movements. Something inside his chest would inevitably seize, and his lungs would refuse to cooperate, breath coming in short spurts or not at all. He'd sink to the floor of the cluttered room and brace his head between his knees, haunted by visions of his mother and father on the receiving end of torture, or the sinister sound of a too-large snake slithering along the halls of his family home, or of a hissing voice in his ear warning him to not become a failure, like his father.
There was little glory to be found in servitude after all. A soul sold and for what? Greed and ambition coiled into a rope, fashioned into a noose, tightening more and more each day around his neck. He could buy himself a stay of execution by performing the dastardly act on another, but first he needed to be able to just fucking think.
Draco got to his feet shakily, then winced and clutched at his sternum. He undid the top few buttons of his white Oxford and rubbed a hand against his recently healed injuries.
Scars that stretched all along his chest. Ugly, angry lines of red had now become a bright pink puckering of pale skin. They'd at least been cleared from his face and these would eventually fade to whitened tissue, assured Madame Pomfrey, but would never fully disappear.
More permanent marks on his body. Still more degradation to his skin that he did not ask for: one ugly mark from the Dark Lord and the rest a smattering of cursed streaks from the Chosen One. His body now a literal landscape of their battle. What a fucking parallel. How fucking poetic. His entire physical existence displayed the utter lack of control that Draco held over his own pathetic fate.
Even Snape couldn't do a thing to remove the chest scars. Fucking thanks for nothing old man. He should have just let Draco die on that disgusting bathroom floor. A failure and a coward, incapable of saving himself, incapable of saving anyone.
Draco stalked out of the Room, unsuccessful in his task yet again. Exhaustion threatened to overtake him as he trudged back to the dungeons but thinking the tiredness would lead to actual sleep was a fool's dream. Exhaustion born of wretchedness often only led to fitful nights of gazing at the canopy of his four-poster. If he did manage to succumb to slumber, his dream world consisted of generally unpleasant scenarios involving death and destruction: either his own at the hands of the Dark Lord or innocent faces struck down by Draco's Hawthorn wand. Nightmares that required him to cast a strong Silencing Charm around his bed curtains every night. Recently he'd also needed to quickly Vanish his own sick upon waking. He thought he could handle it. He thought his Occlumency skills could subdue enough of the nightly terrors.
He needed to just fucking sleep. A single night of peace, consecutive hours strung together in blissful repose and he could awaken refreshed, ready to tackle his task. Pepper-Up Potion tasted like shit and had all but lost its efficacy for him. Calming Draughts were much the same. Magical methods that had once allowed him to pass through his days with a mostly clear mind could no longer assist him.
Draco needed a real, proper night's rest. Just one.
His heavy footfalls made it to the dungeons and would eventually lead him to his standard-issue Hogwarts mattress. Draco had even had silk sheets sent from the Manor but alas, they could not stem his nightly tossing and turning.
Dinner must have concluded recently, Draco surmised, given the number of students lingering in the Common Room still. He passed Pansy and Daphne and though both girls called out to him, he ignored them. He did that more often than not in recent weeks. Theo sat in the corner armchair, the one tucked away from the group that Draco would need to pass to access the hall with his dormitory.
Draco walked briskly past his housemate, even as he heard him ask anxiously, "All right Draco?"
He didn't reply, leaving Theo's question unanswered. From the adjacent armchair, Draco heard Blaise's low voice instead: "Leave it, Theo. You've tried enough times."
The Sixth Year Boys' dorms were thankfully empty; Crabbe and Goyle probably remained in the Great Hall, gorging on extra helpings of trifle without a care in the world. Easier to be the type of minions that only required standing guard or flexing a muscle or two.
No one in his life could understand the concept of existing as a pawn disguised as a weapon. No one could know the lengths he'd gone to, to complete a doomed mission. He'd been fed the lie of "this is a great honour, young Draco," and he'd foolishly and willingly believed it.
Murderer.
He'd only just yanked his pajama top over his head when the door opened again. Theo entered, Blaise not far behind as the constant shadow to his friend. But while Theo looked excitable, Blaise looked hesitant and wary. Protective.
"It's your birthday tomorrow," stated Theo without preamble.
Draco raised an eyebrow. "I'm aware."
"It's a pretty important one," declared Theo.
In a normal year of a normal life, he might have crowed about this, but instead Draco shrugged and climbed into his bed, the last one in the room, against the wall. Theo's bed sat next to his and had since their first year at school.
A tall, gangly boy, but not one who used his height as an advantage, Theo constantly folded himself: into chairs, the edges of rooms or crowds, but if one were to look him full in the face they'd be trapped in an intense stare. The strong gaze of someone far too observant for their age. There existed a perceptiveness in Theo that often made Draco feel exposed to the other boy, even when no verbal conversation occurred between them. Too expressive, the eyes of Theodore Nott. He'd make a terrible Occlumens, wagered Draco, but perhaps a decent Legilimens.
Theo sat heavily on his own bed and faced Draco, clearly intent on continuing to make statements in his general direction. Blaise followed, as he always did, and took his place right at Theo's side, so close their legs pressed firmly against each other. Pillars of mutual support.
Theo once again threw out the refrain Draco knew he would: "I can help you."
"No one can help me."
They'd conducted this circular conversation too often in recent weeks.
"I can help you sleep," Theo intoned in a hushed voice. Blaise shot Theo a sideways glance, his mouth twisted in a frown. They were all alone in the dorms, but Blaise looked as if he wanted to chastise the other boy for making such an offering aloud.
Draco narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Whatever game his odd housemate was playing, he'd not fall for it. His sleeping habits (or lack thereof) were no one's business.
Theo took Draco's silence as permission to keep talking. "You're not sleeping, are you?"
"I fail to see how that is any concern of yours," hissed Draco indignantly.
Theo shrugged, nonplussed by Draco's flare of anger.
"You've hid it well most of the year, I'll grant you that," said Theo. "But it's caught up to you, hasn't it? Your Glamours don't work as well as they used to, mate. You've got bruises under your eyes most days, you barely eat when you bother to show up at all for meals, you skip lessons and when you do attend you—"
"Enough!" Draco barked. He got to his feet to tower over the seated pair. "Don't you dare presume you know anything about me. You can sit there and throw out baseless accusations when you have no idea, none at all about what's going on out there, outside the walls. And soon even here won't be safe, don't you get it? You should, with your father." He pointed at Theo.
"So I don't want to hear any more of this fucking concern over me skipping fucking Transfiguration or not eating enough porridge because none of it fucking matters. Do you get that? All of this—this—school shite is inconsequential. You don't have a fucking clue, either of you. Me not sleeping is the very least of my concerns right now… the things I've done, the things I'll yet do… and if I don't I'll—"
He cut himself abruptly with a harsh intake of air. Draco hastily put up his mental walls and retreated into his Occlumency and back to his bed. His body felt heavier than ever as he sank back onto his mattress. The pairs of eyes staring back at him, impassive Blaise and pitying Theo, made something uncomfortable twist in his gut, but he'd at least successfully cooled the fires of his anger.
"You're right Draco," Theo conceded softly. "I don't know what you've been handling, but I do know you're alone."
Draco did not reply, stuffing down his discomfort, locking away the urge to sob at Theo's harsh truth. Wallowing in misery would get him nowhere. In fact, it might get him killed.
"I won't ask any questions, I swear. I just want to help you in the one way I can," Theo offered.
"Why?" Draco asked tonelessly.
"Consider it a birthday gift. We were friends once, you know."
If Draco allowed any emotion to surface at that pronouncement it might have been shame. Of all his housemates, he'd known Theo the longest, and pre-Hogwarts, might have given him the designation of "closest friend" if Draco were the sentimental sort, or the type of person to need friends. But when Father sent him off to school at age 11, he'd given Draco clear instructions to seek out the more influential, more powerful students of Slytherin and reserved, odd Theo did not fit the bill.
But Theo had seemingly found a bond with Blaise over the years, and so Draco brushed aside any guilt at essentially severing ties with a true friend and surrounding himself with Crabbe and Goyle as he rose in popularity among his own house.
And this year should have been Draco's year to sit firmly at the top of the social hierarchy. Especially with the way the winds blew outside the castle walls and especially with the way Draco found himself a key part of the cause. The only student to carry the honour branded on his forearm.
But with that honour came the increasing crush of an impossible responsibility. Draco learned quickly that if he wanted to succeed at his task, if he wanted to restore glory to his family's name he'd first need to suppress and subdue every useless emotion within him.
"You've a natural talent for it," his Aunt Bellatrix had praised him when she'd taught him the basics of Occlumency last summer. "One can never be too prepared. You must always be ready to protect your mind against those who would seek to intrude and use your own thoughts against you."
While his aunt probably referred to Snape or Dumbledore in this instance, Draco knew it to also be a careful warning about appearing in the presence of the Dark Lord. Draco had always been serious in his academic pursuits and he treated Occlumency just the same. He'd learned how to break down, separate, and then file away different bits and pieces of himself, shoving them into corners of his mind to perhaps be accessed again at a later time.
He dutifully emptied his mind every night before bed. But well, Occlumency could only get him so far when he knew the horrors that awaited him behind his closed eyelids.
In his waking hours he struggled with the act of existing, resulting in that embarrassing meltdown in front of that pathetic ghost in the bathroom right before Potter almost killed him.
Pomfrey had already given him enough Dreamless Sleep Potion this term, any more reliance on that and he'd become addicted. Another weight around his neck he didn't need. Perhaps if he let Theo help him in this one instance, Draco would finally be able to clear his mind again, be able to properly strategise, be able to focus on that last missing piece of spellwork to complete the Cabinet repairs.
He really needed to sleep.
"How can you help?" Draco asked.
"I can influence dreams."
All three let that statement reverberate around the room. Blaise's hand clenched at his side. He looked coiled to spring, almost as if he wanted to physically take the words Theo had said and stuff them back inside, never to be heard.
"I don't understand," Draco finally replied. "What do you mean you can influence dreams?"
"I have a sort of… let's call it an ability," said Theo and this time Blaise let out a frustrated exhale and glared at the floor. If anything, Blaise's display of emotion only made Draco more intrigued by Theo's ridiculous and vague statements. Maybe Theo was just trying to wind him up, but the outburst from Blaise hinted at something more in play.
"I can harness a particular emotion or sensation in a person and ensure an overall emotional tone is consistently felt while in a dream state," clarified Theo.
Draco snorted, his incredulity pulling him straight out of his commitment to empty his mind for the time being.
"You're mental."
"He's not," Blaise snapped.
Draco raised a brow in response. "So what, I just… lie here and you point your wand at me and implant a nice dream about quidditch or something?" he sneered at Theo.
Theo remained his usual steady, unbothered self.
"It doesn't work like that. I need to focus on a particular feeling."
"Right, well I'm going to need you to elaborate if you have any hope of convincing me you're not an absolute nutter," said Draco.
Of course, Theo's pitch was all bollocks anyway, but it couldn't hurt to hear his explanation of his self-delusion.
"Calm, for example," began Theo. "I'd harness a sense of calm and then send that concentrated feeling to you. You might dream of flying or just lounging on a sofa in a library for all I know. I'd control the emotional tone, but your brain would be responsible for conjuring the corresponding dream state."
Draco sized Theo up, looking for any hint of foul play, any sign of a cruel prank. He found neither.
"An unnerving boy," Lucius had once called Theo. Narcissa had tutted and gently chastised her husband. "He's a bit strange, dear, but he means no harm."
"Let's say I believe you," said a skeptical Draco. "This ability, how do you have it?"
"Inherited," said Theo. "From my mother's line. Her mother and great aunt both had it, so she claims."
"I've never heard of anything like this," said Draco warily.
Theo shrugged. "My mother felt it best I keep this power to myself."
"And you will tell no one," warned Blaise suddenly, his eyes flashing in Draco's direction. "Especially the crowd you now run round with," he glared at Draco's covered left forearm.
"I hardly think the Dark Lord is much interested in parlour tricks from a charlatan," drawled Draco. "Your theatrics are safe with me," he continued with an eye roll. "The Dark Lord is skilled enough in reading and manipulating people's thoughts all on his own."
"It's sensation based, not thought based," corrected Theo. "Think of it more as an empathic ability as opposed to mental, like Legilimency. I'm only giving you the theme and tone. The rest is up to your subconscious."
"Lovely," clipped Draco. "I fail to see why that's got Blaise's knickers in a twist or why your mother told you to keep it to yourself."
An eerie shadow passed over Theo's face.
"I could do fear. Or pain. Or madness," said Theo in a soft, caressing voice. A wizard confident in his ability to instill these concepts in others. An ominous list of things that sent a shiver down Draco's spine.
"If I so chose," he continued in that same chilling lilt, "I could have your worst fears play out behind your sleeping eyes. I could force visions of torture to dance around your brain, and though you'd be perfectly, physically safe, we both know that's not the sort of thing one forgets easily. How it feels to be a prisoner beneath a wand as it casts Crucio after Crucio. Or maybe your concept of torture is watching someone else get hurt while you look on helplessly? Perhaps those sorts of emotions mess with your waking state. Maybe I eventually have you experience insanity every night. If you felt mad every time you went to sleep, just how stable do you think you'd be upon waking?"
Draco met the unwavering eyes of his former friend, unnerved more than usual at their strangely earnest gleam.
"Thoughts and ideas are one thing. You can dismiss them with logic. But emotions?" Theo kept his unsettling stare on Draco. "Dangerous things, emotions. Wouldn't you say Draco?"
Deadly, he'd say. The right twist of a knife in the chest, the precise prod of a wand at your innermost workings, a manipulation of all your secret desires and wants that could render you into nothing more than clay to be re-shaped into a something else entirely for the sinister needs of someone else, to serve their dark whims.
Something evil. A monster. The farcical notion of choice that died away with your own screams or those of your mother's from a wand made of Yew.
"Your father doesn't know," Draco stated.
"No," Theo answered simply. "He does not."
"They'd use him," said Blaise coldly. "You know they would. Turn him into a weapon or worse."
Draco had seen Blaise hacked off before, adolescent boys and all, but he'd never seen the other boy this furious. He looked ready to rush Draco, to draw his wand and threaten him within an inch of his life if he dared let Theo come to harm in any way. A kind of loyalty Draco wasn't accustomed to amongst his classmates, but one he recognised in himself. In the way he'd do anything for his mother, for her life. For someone he loved.
"And have you done this—this dream thing before?" asked Draco, not interested in Blaise's overt dramatic display of protectiveness.
"I have," Theo promptly replied, demeanour now oddly cheery. "On myself, of course, and my mother and ah—" he stuttered to a halt but slid his eyes in the direction of Blaise. "Only on people who've asked me. Actually that last bit's a tiny lie, I did once make Crabbe feel humiliation in dream state, but he'd been a prick to Blaise that day and I thought it was justified."
Draco still thought both of them to be full of shite, but he really didn't have anything to lose and fucking gods, the temptation to indulge in a sleep-aid became far too strong.
"So how do you want to do this?"
Theo clapped his hands together and Blaise got up and stalked over to the door, peering around outside.
"You're already dressed for bed, no time like the present."
"It's not even half-eight," objected Draco, but his own body knew that to be a feeble excuse.
"No one will wonder why you've gone to bed early, the way you've been looking these days. I'll pull your hangings and cast a Silencing Charm."
Part of him wanted to interrogate Theo further, to be absolutely sure that he wasn't about to be the victim of a silly prank or worse, a trap. This was reckless, Draco knew it, and he could hear his father's voice in his head warning him off this course of action.
But he was so tired. So fucking tired. The lack of sleep wreaked havoc across his senses, now dulled and fogged from his near constant state of suffering.
Part of him felt an additional stab of misery. Theo had absolutely nothing to gain from this and Blaise even less. An actual, genuine token of kindness from another person. When was the last time someone had shown any concern or care for Draco's well-being? Who else besides that stupid ghost noticed he was drowning? Falling and tumbling beneath the crushing tide of expectations, fear, and panic, and a pitiful dearth of sleep couldn't keep him afloat, couldn't bring him to shore. He swung between mania and exhaustion and the sudden swell of hysteria within him sped up his breathing.
He'd almost killed two students already. He'd need to kill their headmaster soon.
Murderer.
Sleep. He needed to fucking sleep. A slave to nothing but the state of his subconscious.
He controlled his breathing and waved a hand in acquiescence towards Theo. "Fine, whatever. Do your weird dream thing, Nott, and we can all have a laugh over it in the morning."
"What would you like to feel in your dream? What would help you feel rested?"
Draco sighed, already feeling too tired to debate further about the ridiculousness of this entire situation. His mind only half empty tonight as it instead buzzed with questions and arguments both for and against this chosen course of lunacy.
"You pick. I really don't care nor do I think this will even work."
It should have felt strange to try and fall asleep with the lamps still lit, his curtains hanging open, and two other people watching him.
Theo thought it over for a minute, canting his head side to side. "All right, I've got it. Your early birthday gift."
He raised his Sycamore wand with a dragon heartstring core and pointed it at Draco, who recoiled on instinct. Theo kept it steady and waited for Draco to relax.
"Are you just going to do that until I fall asleep? That's creepy, Theo."
He lowered the wand and Blaise took up his guard duty by the door. Draco cast his gaze above him and forced his eyes closed.
"I just need to channel my magic to your skin," said Theo. "You'll start to feel sleepy soon."
Draco felt the tip of a wand pressed against the skin of his hand.
No one in the room made a voluntary sound. Quiet inhales and exhales of breath while Draco stared into the blackness, again finding the situation strange for its utter lack of strangeness. He admitted silently to himself that it made him relax, that two people waited for him to drift off and he had no cause to fear dark intentions from them.
Succumbing to the enchanting lull of sleep, he finally slipped into the drowsy state where one had but a few seconds of awareness before the envelopment of blank darkness. In this blip of time, Draco heard a word leave Theo's lips.
The word tried to make itself known to Draco, but sleep had finally claimed him and he missed it.
"Laetitia."
A/N: Oh hello! Welcome to a new multi-chapter dramione from me. No idea yet on that final chapter or word count, but I hope you enjoy the ride. Thanks as always to my beautiful alphabet and friend mrsbutlertron. Thank you to mightbewriting and niffizzle for your early support of this story idea.
Come find me on tumblr: heyjude19-writing.
Next chapter will go up next Tuesday, May 4.