A/N: I. Am. Overjoyed. Thank you for the warm reception. Truly. From the bottom of my heart.
The Draught of Dreamless Sleep has a particular side-effect that I failed to consider. If you're disturbed from your slumber before its influence has worn off, it's similar to awakening in a drunken stupor or a blackened-out state. Not that I would know from first-hand experience what a 'drunken stupor' feels like, though I get a crash-course lesson in it now.
A gnawing sensation festers in my gut as I find myself propped up against the pillows with no recollection of ever moving to sit. The black, dense fog lifts from my consciousness, my thoughts clearing in rapid succession as the world sharpens into focus, the dingy cottage room with all its drab furnishings and neglected charm greeting my vision.
I know before I turn my neck that someone is watching me.
Their weighted stare is burning into my skin.
Sunshine streams into my eyes as I face my captor, my mouth hanging open mid-sentence. It's apparent by the sand-papery coating covering my tongue and the scratchy soreness lining my throat that I've been speaking for quite some time, or possibly even yelling, though I haven't the faintest clue as to what I've been saying at all.
It's a maddening concept.
A helpless sensation.
I blink with dawning horror as the owner of that weighted stare frowns at me from across the pillow fort, eyeing me with trepidation as though I might burst into tears at any second.
"Alright, Granger?" asks Draco, raking a hand through his oily mop. "Or is this another… You know. Episode." His hair separates and sticks skyward in every direction like a platinum crown, a winsome look had he been Harry or Ron.
But he isn't Harry or Ron.
He is a traitor to the light, the would-be-murderer of Dumbledore, and the complicit heir to one of the most corrupt families in Britain.
The memories of the last few days slam into me like a tidal wave, and the tears that Draco seems to have been waiting for are spilling down my cheeks in rivulets, tickling my neck as they journey towards my bandages. My dearest friends abandoned me without a wand or means to defend myself against this dangerous man, the fickle side-swapper whose loyalty and true motive for helping us is still a mystery. It was so incredibly foolish of me to drink a mind-altering substance in Draco's presence. Anything could have happened while I was out cold, and I would have been none-the-wiser. Clearly, something has happened since my position in bed changed without me realising it.
"What did you do to me?" I whisper, lower lip trembling. "Why did you touch me? I don't want you here, Malfoy. I want you gone."
I clutch the blankets against my bound breasts, vying for modesty, the threadbare fabric snagging on my jagged nails as I glower at him. Draco's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before his expression darkens, lips curling in a sneer.
"More of this rot…." His eyes drift shut as if holding my gaze any longer is painful. "As I've told you, and told you, and told you. You awoke at dawn screaming for help. I sat you up so you wouldn't choke on the pain potion, but you've refused to lie back down. You've been babbling like a bloody broken record ever since, accusing me of every dark ambition under the sun, including the unthinkable. I had to silence you so you wouldn't break the taboo. Seriously, Granger. Is there any point in explaining all of this anymore when you keep forgetting at the next minute? It's exhausting. I'd stun you if I didn't think you'd try to fight it until your mind cracks like an egg."
Dread trickles down my spine.
"I… What? How many times have we had this conversation?"
Draco watches me through one slitted eye.
"Ah… Finally, a break in the cycle." His cheeks puff up with air before he blows it all out in a mighty exhale. Gooseflesh prickles up my arm as his breath washes over me. "Excellent. Fucking excellent. And the slurring has stopped."
Draco rolls to his side and rummages through the bedside table, returning a moment later to hover over the pillow fort with a red-labelled bottle in his hand.
"Like I said. I've defended myself for the better part of the morning while you've been trying to summon every villager and ghost with your babbling and wailing. Although, it seems as if your brain can catalogue new memories and pathways now. Let's test it. Say something else, Granger. Say anything."
I scowl at Draco as he snaps his fingers at me like I'm a dog.
"Stop that, you prat. I'm not an animal sent to dance for your amusement."
Draco's lips twitch in the corners, and I think he's rather pleased to be insulted in a new way.
"Brilliant, Granger. There's the temperamental witch I know."
I grind my molars and turn my cheek, ignoring the flush of warmth creeping up my neck. A massive part of me wants to interrogate him all over again or accuse him of wretched things, but the way he's smiling with such relief has my stomach flipping upside down, twisting itself into knots.
"You don't know me at all," I say. "You don't know anything. You shouldn't even be here, let alone be the one caring for me while I'm incapacitated."
The truth of it stings more than I'm prepared to handle. Deep down, I know that Harry and Ron wouldn't have left me here if given any choice. Through thick and thin, we've always had each other's backs. But I also know that travelling with an injured party is dangerous, and I can't imagine the peril I'd place us in if Voldemort's forces caught us while we were on the run. We barely escaped with our lives the last time, and doing so again with dead weight and one fewer wand are odds that even the riskiest gambler wouldn't take.
The mattress creaks as Draco abandons it, the soft pattering of his feet edging towards the bathroom.
"I know enough," he says, shutting the door with a quiet click. A moment later, he returns to my bedside, urging me to drink from the red-labelled vial.
I narrow my eyes at him and suck in my lips like an insolent toddler.
"For Christ's sake, Granger. It's not poison. This is what the healer brewed for your… Trauma." He spits the last word. "It's supposed to last twenty-four hours, though none of that hag's brews have stayed in your system for as long as she claimed they would. Thank fuck she left her cauldron behind. Maybe I can forage later and find something useful."
Draco uncorks the vial and waits with an exasperated expression until I pry open my dry, cracked lips. My breath tastes as foul as rubbish smells, and I can only imagine the odour is potent enough to kill a dragon. However, to my surprise (and embarrassment), Draco doesn't breathe a word of offence, nor does he gag as he hovers less than a foot from my face, tipping the potion into my mouth with careful ease. When the contents are drained, Draco banishes the bottle and straightens my spine so I'm not cockeyed on the mattress, ignoring my shrill protests as his hands tighten on my shoulders.
"Stop fighting me," he grits out, shifting my torso into a centre position. I wiggle in his arms like a squirming cat. "You gave me your word that you'd stop fighting. Fuck. I should have never agreed to this."
"Then why did you?" I say, flashing a spiteful grin as gravity takes hold, and I topple to the side. Draco growls and sets me upright again, propping all the pillows around me until I'm cocooned, cushioned in a down-feather prison. When he's certain that I'm contained, he stomps towards the window and faces the sun, gripping the ledge with whitened knuckles.
"I didn't have a choice," he spits, spine slumping. "It was either take an unbreakable vow or fend for myself against the Dark Lord and the Order."
I frown at his back.
"You took an unbreakable vow?"
"Yeah, Granger." He faces me with a defeated grimace, cocking his hip against the window ledge. "Potter and Weasel demanded it. I vowed to do everything within my power to protect you, keep you comfortable, and keep you alive until they return. Which means I'd really fucking appreciate it if you'd stop acting like a brat, seeing as how I'm compelled to intervene."
My jaw slackens, the breath hitching in my throat. Whichever one of my reckless friends knelt on the floor with a Death Eater will suffer my lashing later.
"You are perhaps the most foolish man in the world, Malfoy. I own you with that vow."
Draco drags his palm down his jaw and shoots me a withering glance.
"Don't I bloody know it?"
We stare at each other in a foreboding silence, the gulls cawing in the distance as the breeze rattles the window. My fingers twitch around the blankets as an idea strikes.
"I want your wand," I say, nodding towards the holster strapped onto his forearm. A gleeful smile spreads across my face. "In fact, I'd feel a lot more comfortable if I carried it with me at all times."
Draco takes an automatic step forward and reaches for the leather clasp, then blinks and shakes his head.
"Tricky. Very tricky." He almost looks impressed. "But I can't do everything within my power to protect you and keep you alive if you take away my conduit." He eases his back against the wall and props his foot on the moulding, an easy smirk resting on his lips. "Seems like you'll have to be wandless until you're back with the Order. Chin up, Granger. Don't look so forlorn."
I try a few other commands for my 'comfort', asking Draco to banish the cobwebs from the rafters and the water stains blooming along the ceiling. He goes a step further and repairs the cracks in the plaster without my asking, then transfigures and charms the blankets until the holes knit themselves up by their threads. The covers are a little smaller now but infinitely warmer. A grim sort of satisfaction courses through my veins at the knowledge that Draco Malfoy is compelled to do everything within his power to keep me, his muggle-born enemy, content.
God bless Harry and Ron for their cleverness.
I'm no longer seeing red when they've given me such a gift.
The morning continues with Draco gritting his teeth as I request a multitude of items: mint leaves to chew, something sweet to drink (even though he's told me time and again that there isn't anything), and another tonic for my headache.
I can never seem to drink enough tonic—the pain pulses in my temple and arm with every beat of my heart.
Draco draws the line at summoning books.
"Absolutely not. The healer said you're on 'cognitive rest'. That means you can't exercise that enormous noggin until the lesions are healed."
"Lesions?" I grimace and spit the mint into a cup. "What do you mean by lesions?"
Alarm bells ring in my skull. Draco leans against the wardrobe, his face drawing into a grim expression.
"Set the glass on the table," he says. "I'll take care of it in a minute." I follow his instructions and frown as he clears his throat. "I gather that you've studied the Cruciatus curse outside of Hogwarts' curriculum?"
My curt nod confirms his suspicion.
"Then surely you recall that the curse maims and disfigures. Always. It primarily targets the nervous system, though it can also manifest in the vascular system. It kills with prolonged contact, which is only minutes if the caster is experienced. And my Aunt Bella…." Draco's lips curl in a sneer, his fists clenching into white-knuckled balls. "It was one of her favourite spells."
My mouth runs dry at the memory of lying on my back on the drawing room floor, my torturer's blood-red lips cackling with cruel mirth as I writhed beneath her boot.
Draco clears his throat and crosses his arms.
"The healer said your torture was meant for murder, though all of us who were at the Manor already knew that to be true."
His stony gaze never leaves mine, and I am frozen in place, stricken again by the icy reality that my life hung in the balance multiple times that day. First with Bellatrix Lestrange, then with the sea, and finally with my own weakness. My own hand. It isn't a revelation, but it startles me still how fleeting everything is in this world, how someone can breathe with life one moment only to have their light snuffed out in the next, their body returning to the Earth as dust.
Draco's expression softens a fraction, the sharpness of his scowl easing into a frown.
I clear my throat and motion for him to continue.
"And the lesions?" I ask, my voice higher pitched than usual. "How bad are they?"
Draco bites the inside of his cheek before answering.
"Bad," he says. "The curse has burrowed into both hemispheres of your brain. It's ulcerated the tissue despite the healer giving you liquid dittany. If it's left untreated…."
He breaks eye contact and glances at the floor, although I've heard enough to piece together that my condition will probably worsen before it gets better, if it gets better at all.
Time is of the essence, now more than ever.
"Well," I say, grappling for courage that I resolutely don't feel. My most cherished asset is deteriorating with every passing second, and there's nothing I can do except pray that Harry and Ron return with help before it's too late. I blink back hot tears and force a tight smile. "It's a shame that I can't read while convalescing."
Draco's chin jerks upward at my black-humoured joke, eyes narrowing as if he's considering whether it's appropriate to scold me for making light of a morbid situation.
He settles on a neutral, softly spoken, "It's a shame, indeed."
The rest of the morning passes in relative quiet, with me spending most of it sleeping between doses of pain relief potions. I wake up in the early afternoon to Draco rummaging around on the nightstand. For a moment, I think he's a dream, but then I hear him curse, feel his velvety robe brush against my hand, and realise that he's actually corporeal and not a phantom. Whatever he's doing is blocked from my view, but I hear the sound of plastic clicking like he's fiddling with a contraption. The quiet tinkling of piano music fills the bedroom, a Beethoven sonata that my father used to play on windswept autumn evenings. The immediate ache that dulls my chest is both wrenching and sweet.
When Draco notices I'm awake and rubbing my face, he steps backwards with a self-satisfied smirk and shows off the wireless.
"The healer might have banned you from reading, but she didn't say a word about listening to music." He catches my expression and pauses, dialling the knob to the lowest volume. "My apologies. Was this a mistake?"
I shake my head and sniffle once, playing with the edge of the blanket.
"Please, leave it on."
Draco nods and hovers for a minute longer, then walks to the doorway and glances at me once more before clicking it shut. A melancholy mood cradles me as I close my eyes, drifting along with the music, the memories, and the ghosts from my past. When I dream next, it's of two familiar faces lined with middle age. Their voices are a humming whisper of comfort in my ears, their warm arms a shelter as we embrace, and it all seems so real that I almost, almost, almost forget that dreams are the only moments we have left.
The next time I awaken, it's on the cusp of a nightmare. My heart races and bounds as I suck in greedy gulps of air, spreading my fingers across my chest to remind myself that I'm alive. The dream's plot escapes me, though I know something feral chased me in the dark and that it watches me now, even in the light.
It's hours until I'm able to rest again.
There's an awkward moment later in the afternoon when nature beckons, and I need to use the loo.
I hold it in for as long as possible, determined to stretch my bladder beyond its natural capacity as I bargain with God for a miracle. When it becomes apparent that I'll either have to wet the bed or ask for help, I grit my teeth and choose the lesser of two evils, calling for my flatmate's assistance. My cheeks burn hotter than any sun in the universe as I hear his footsteps trek down the hallway. Draco enters the room at the precise moment I'm struggling to balance on the edge of the bed. Before I can fall over and smash my nose into the floor, he darts forward and steadies me with solid hands, slinging a heavy arm around my waist as he breathes against my hair.
"Just let me carry you," he says, squatting to tuck his other arm behind my knees. "You're all skin and bones."
I squeal in his ear and chant, "I'm not comfortable! I'm not comfortable!"
At once, Draco straightens and stares down his nose at me.
"Fucking hell, Witch. Do you want to make this difficult? Fine."
He brandishes his wand and points it at where I'm sitting. Magic swirls around my body and wraps me in its hold, lifting me a foot from the mattress as I gasp and squirm. The blanket loosens from my grip and crumples to the floor. Cool air whispers against my bare skin and prickles it with gooseflesh, and without glancing down, I know that my bandaged torso is exposed, my bound breasts hovering just inches from Draco's face.
It's the longest five-second stretch of silence in my life.
Neither of us seems to know what to do.
Draco's cheeks bloom into a rosy shade that matches the heat in mine. His stormy eyes dart upwards to examine a point above my head as he motions with his free hand. The blanket whizzes skyward and wraps around my shoulders like a backwards cloak, knotting itself into a gentle hold at my neck.
"Sorry. I'm sorry," he mumbles, jerking his wand towards the bathroom door. He winces as I grunt from the heavy-handed jostling. "Shit. I'm sorry."
Draco clears his throat and walks us into the bathroom with measured steps. His eyebrows furrow as he levitates me onto the loo as if it's a precious throne and I'm its reverent queen. The mortified and feeble queen who Draco secures onto the seat with a sticking charm after floating my trousers and knickers to my ankles.
Thank God for the blanket covering my lap.
I wish it covered my face.
My jaw slackens as I stare at Draco in absolute horror, though he avoids my gaze and backs towards the door.
"Right," he says. "I'll duplicate my shirt. Your jumper was shredded beyond what a charm could repair. If you need anything else, um… Knock on the wall."
If sitting upright didn't require so many abdominal muscles, I would stay on the loo until kingdom come. I make a fair play of settling on the throne permanently but swallow my pride when my legs go numb. Currently, my chest is slumped over my knees, crushing my splinted arm against my thighs, and there's little choice but to kick the wall with my heel and pray that my flatmate hears the thud.
Immediately, Draco returns, breathing a sigh of relief as he finds me still attached to the seat with my modesty intact. Without a word, he scourgifies me twice and casts a quick cleansing charm over my body, and I don't even argue that his thoroughness is overkill or offensive.
I'm just pleased that I didn't have to ask for his help with that.
When I'm tucked back into my pillow prison, wearing my newly transfigured shirt, it dawns on me that Draco's attentiveness is far too practised.
"You've done this before," I say, biting my lip as he pauses in the doorway. "You've taken care of a dependent."
I try to wrap my head around who that could have been, though I come up short of ideas. Both of his parents appeared healthy, from what I recall, ashen and thinner than usual, but healthy.
Was Draco forced to care for injured Death Eaters?
Or did he want to?
The man in question glances over his shoulder with an unreadable expression.
"So I have, Granger, though it hardly matters now."
It's our last exchange until the afternoon sun burns with the gloaming, sinking beyond the horizon until its reddened rays fade like dying embers in a hearth. The window, once caked in dust and grime, is newly polished thanks to my flatmate's obligation, granting me a clear view of nature's quiet splendour.
The stars and the moon keep me company until Draco comes bearing dinner a short while later, hovering in the doorway as I hum along with the radio.
"Bread?" he asks, holding up a slice of buttered rye. "You drank the last two nutritional potions for lunch."
My stomach grumbles as I lick my lips.
"Maybe just a bite."
Draco comes closer and holds it out as if he intends to feed me, but I shake my head and snatch it from his grip.
"I'm not an invalid," I say, though I regret it immediately as I drop my dinner. It lands on the dusty floor planks with the buttered-side facing down.
For what must be the hundredth time today, Draco pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a huge breath, nostrils flaring as his chest deflates.
"Granger… Stop. Fighting."
It's both a threat and a plea.
He cleanses the dirt and hair from the slice and holds it out for me with a stern frown until I open my mouth. While I'm chewing the first bite, stifling a grateful moan as butter and leavened heaven slide over my tongue, Draco lectures me like an aggrieved parent at the end of their wits.
"In case you've forgotten, if something happens to you, then something happens to me. And you're not exactly getting stronger by the hour, Little Witch. I've already had to double your pain relief dosage, and the brew that the healer left will only last a few more days at most."
I noticed that my breakthrough pain was worsening, but I thought it was because I was moving around more today. Surely, if I rest again, the magic will work its wonders. Draco motions for me to take another bite, then sighs as I lick the butter from my lips, his head tilting backwards as he stares at the ceiling.
"Did you hear what I said, Granger? The food is running low, as well. I'll have to scour the village for scraps."
The bread sticks to my throat in a wadded lump, and I start to choke.
"Water," I say, coughing hard and trying to swallow. "I need water."
Draco tips the glass against my lips and holds it there until I tap his wrist.
"Thanks," I say, shaking my head when he offers another bite. "That's enough for now. But what do you mean the food is running low? How much do we have left?"
He shrugs a bit too casually for my taste, biting off a chunk of rye as an excuse not to answer. After watching him gnaw on two more mouthfuls, I've had enough of his silence.
"Malfoy. It would certainly comfort me to know how much food is left in the cottage."
Draco rolls his eyes and drops the crust onto the plate, the ceramic clattering on the nightstand as he sets it down.
"Really, Granger? Is that how you're going to play this? Fine. There's not enough to supply you with the proper nutrients that the healer says you need. And since I'm bound to your service, I'll have to leave you tomorrow so I can fix the problem."
I frown as his words sink in.
"Is our situation that dire?"
He looks at me as if I'm insane, eyebrows lifting towards his hairline.
"How can you keep asking that with a straight face?" He drags his palm down his jaw. "Oh, right. Because you have a brain injury. Yes, Granger. For the love of God. Our situation is that dire. Potter and Weasel need to hurry the fuck up with help."
We don't speak again until nature calls.
It's just as awkward as the first time, though we have a rhythm now that requires minimal acknowledgement of the other's existence. The silver lining in the entire situation is that I never have to ask Draco bloody Malfoy to scourgify my nether regions. He simply tips his wand at my lap with a wordless series of spells and carries on as if this isn't a mortifying experience for both of us. His magical signature is becoming so familiar that the warmth of it trickling down my spine is a welcome caress, a pleasant relief as it washes the impurities from my skin.
When I'm situated back in bed, lying flat on my back with the pillow prison-reconfigured into the pillow-wall, Draco snuffs out the light with a snap of his fingers and collapses onto his half on the mattress.
An eerie silence stretches inside the cottage once Draco stops rustling beneath the covers. It lasts for ages until the wind howls low in the distance. A flash of white light illuminates the room, followed by the rumbling of thunder somewhere along the coast. The radio warned of storms tonight. Raindrops patter on the window in pings, then pound against the roof in sheets as the swell edges closer, the shutters banging into the wall as lightning dances across the ceiling. There are so many strikes that I lose count. I jiggle my feet as the room is swallowed with creeping shadows between the flashes, the darkness twisting and morphing into harrowing shapes from my nightmares.
My heart beats faster as a sinking sensation settles in my gut, the shapes looming closer as my breath quickens.
The shadows no longer appear as tricks of the light but as living, breathing creatures sent from the underworld. The hair on the back of my neck stands on edge as I realise that this must be the curse's sinister designs, its lesions altering my perception of reality. I know that what I'm seeing isn't real. Yet, they look as tangible as any beast in the Forbidden Forest, almost glowing with ominous energy.
Thunder crackles overhead as I squeeze my eyes shut, biting my bottom lip so hard that it draws blood.
"You're breathing incredibly fast," says Draco, and I turn my cheek the other way in case the lightning reveals me as a weeping mess.
It's difficult to speak, but I swallow a tender lump and whisper, "I'm seeing monsters in the dark."
Draco's sharp intake of breath is audible above the rain.
"Do you want to try another Draught of Dreamless Sleep? It might last longer since you were just dosed up for pain."
I wipe my eyes on my forearm and shake my head, catching a glimpse of black tendrils snaking along the wall.
"No," I say. "I can't stand losing control like that."
If I take another dreamless draught, it's almost certain that I'll wake up in a few hours' time in a repeat of this morning's mess. As much as I would love to forget everything about this moment and drift into the void, I'd rather face the monsters I can see than face the world without my faculties.
Draco isn't panicking.
What's happening isn't real.
The creatures drift over my head in swarms until they morph into corporeal forms, twisting their disfigured bodies as their gnarled teeth clack inside their bloodied mouths. As a sharp claw reaches for my chest, I slam my eyes shut once more.
"Please distract me," I whisper, pushing into my pillow to escape. My fingers dig into the sheets. "Please."
The mattress dips and whines as Draco moves. His voice sounds much closer than I would ever allow in normal circumstances, his breath warm on my cheek, though I'll take whatever reprieve he can offer from this nightmare.
"Granger." His tone is just as calm as the first night we rallied inside the cottage. "When I was a boy, I had a castle in my garden."
I suck the air between my teeth and try to focus on Draco's story, unclenching my fist and stretching out my aching fingers. A little boy no taller than his mother's hip flashes behind my eyelids. He's wearing a sword and shield on his back, a wand held aloft in his grip, slaying demons much like the ones floating in the night now.
"You had a castle?" I ask.
"A castle," he confirms.
"What kind of castle? A mediaeval one?"
I can almost hear him smile as I turn my cheek to face him, peeking through my lashes. No evil creatures are writhing behind Draco's head. I twist my neck to check the rest of the bedroom, then consider the abominations vanquished for now and focus on quieting my breathing and the racing in my heart.
They weren't real.
They weren't real.
They weren't real.
The pillow cradles my temple as I rest my head again, studying Draco's face as I take deep breaths and hold them in my chest. In the dark, it's easy to forget who Draco is and what he's done, and all I see is the boy who's helped me more times than I can count today. The boy who saved our lives. He's lying but a foot away, the soft swell of his breath tickling the matted curls against my forehead, watching me with careful consideration as his eyes trace the curve of my cheekbones and the shape of my mouth.
As our gazes lock, I lick the blood off my lip and feel a strange sort of camaraderie.
Draco is the anchor in this storm, the lifeboat holding me afloat, and the beacon in this moonless night while I am bound and tethered, dependent on the security in his presence and the clarity of his mind.
His mouth presses into a thin line as he shakes his head at me.
"No, it was a fairy-tale castle, like from a child's storybook," he says. "It had an emerald-green roof and a dragon enclosure."
"You had dragons?" The breath whooshes from my chest. My eyes widen as my mental story of Draco's childhood shifts to accommodate flying beasts.
"Not quite. My father charmed the family dog to look like a Norwegian Ridgeback. He was the most beagle-like, tongue-wagging dragon you'd ever meet. Guess what his name was."
I squint in concentration and admit that naming pets was never my forte. Another flash of lightning reveals a glimpse of Draco's smirk.
"We called him Sparky."
"Sparky…." I try to imagine this gentle version of the Malfoys, the patriarch as a doting father instead of a murderer in a madman's army, and the son as an innocent boy with a goofy-named beagle.
It's challenging to reconcile the polarising truths, so I focus instead on the image of a yipping dragon chasing Draco around a castle and smile as my eyes drift shut.
"That sounds wonderful," I say, curling my toes into the blankets. "Like an absolute dream."
The bed creaks as Draco scoots back to his side, the pillows brushing against my cheek as he reconstructs the wall.
"It was, Granger. Now, try to get some sleep."
Slumber doesn't come without trial, though it does come. Draco's deep, even breaths lull me into a relaxed state as darkness pulls me into its embrace, my consciousness fading into nothing.
