This was written for the forum Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Challenges and Assignments) for Assignment 11, Toxicology, Task #6 - Write about someone who has difficulty sleeping.
The context for this piece is that Regulus Black was reincarnated as Draco Malfoy.
There is something haunting Malfoy Manor. He doesn't know what it is, but its cold slips into his lungs and leaves him breathless. He feels like he is underwater once again, (drowning, screaming, dying), and once again there is no one to pull him out.
In the light of day, it's easier to shake off such things. This isn't like the time magic pulled him towards the lake, (until he drowned submerged himself and remembered). And yet, it's similar in a way that he can't quite shake.
(The past of Regulus Black haunts him in these moments, a ghostly hand pressing down on his shoulder, the sensation of poison pouring down his throat, and the thirst that he felt would never leave him. His past teaches him that there is dark magic here, the kind of magic that's darker than most, the kind of thing that Regulus Black died for him.)
(The child of Draco Malfoy shouts that his parents would never want to hurt him, would make sure that he's safe at all times. It's a child that grew up in peacetime, though, with parents that loved him and something that Regulus never really got.)
(But then there is this—Draco and Regulus are not separate individuals. They are the same, now, and Draco is the accumulation of a child and Regulus' memories. His life before might not have been a happy one, might have been missing love for so much of it, but his childhood here? It's been full of love and he trusts that his parents love him, even though he knows that they had been Death Eaters. Perhaps it's selfish, but he is glad that his parents never got convicted.)
Still, the person who is Regulus-and-Draco, the child that is Regulus' horror at wars and Draco's unrestrained love for his parents, knows that there is something out there. It calls to him, whispering something indistinguishable in his ears.
But he ignores it. In this life, right now, he is only a child. His magic is untrained and he has no wand. He can do nothing.
And still, still, something calls to him.
For a while, he ignores it. It is easy to do when he is far more focussed on responding to Draco, (because his name is no longer Regulus, but it is a hard thing to throw off eighteen years of learning), and listening to his parents talk. They involve him in conversation, but sometimes Pureblood children are there just for appearances and not to be involved in conversations. There is much he has to learn, about the world and its current time, and about the politics he has been born into.
Night after night, a haunting melody sings in his ears, the shadows crooning to him. He fights it, struggles to sleep, and wakes with dark bags growing under his eyes. His parents worry over him, fretting over whether he's getting sick. He has no explanation to offer them, however, because he knows that this melody is not one that he can share with anyone—not when he is only Draco here, (and that's all he will ever be known as to these people, he will only ever be Draco—and maybe that will be okay, one day).
Eventually, it grows too much for him, however. When the shadows are at their deepest, the light all but faded, he gives up on sleep. His eyes are gritty with sleep and his eyelids feel waited. Sleep itches at his spine, but he knows that it won't take him. It hasn't yet and so there's no point waiting any longer.
The marble floor is cold beneath his feet and a chill runs down his spine, even though he shouldn't at all be cold—nor should the floor be cold either. Malfoy Manor is kept warm by a series of charms, and one has been inscribed onto the floor so that it's never freezing.
And yet, he is shivering as he leaves behind the warmth of his bed. He takes a jumper with him, pulling it over his head. It's an emerald green with a silver ashwinder on the back, because while he might not have been sorted yet, he is a Slytherin, regardless of where the Hat places him in this life.
With slow steps, he makes his way out of his room. The portraits are silent on the walls, some asleep, but most do not notice his passing. Is this magic? Some spell laid on him?
(No one noticed when Regulus slipped away to go to a cave and to his death. There is magic here, and magic upon magic. After all, why would the Dark Lord let anyone be noticed if they are to find his Horcruxes? Better for people to disappear, unheard of, unnoticed, then anyone's absence be noticed and discussed aloud.)
The whispers are still wordless, but the magic has become more distinct. It has become darker but, far more important, it has become familiar.
Step after step, he walks down hallways and corridors. He is not seen or heard or detected, though such a thing would normally be impossible at this hour.
For a while, he doesn't know where he is walking, only knows that he is walking.
He comes back to himself before an impossibly large door, down in the depths of the Manor, far below the earth's surface. Down here, the air turns to white mist when he breathes out, and his jumper is not enough to keep out the chill.
The door looms, dark, and the Malfoy Family symbol resides in the middle, laid in untarnished silver. Its eyes are a glaring gold that pierce through the darkness.
There is no light down here, he suddenly realises.
There is no noise either.
"Come, come," the wind whispers, (there is no wind).
"I know what you seek," the shadows tell him, (there is no light).
"Behind this door, lies all your answers," the magic tells him, (darkness opens its hungry maw).
And the boy who was once Regulus Black stares at the door with wide unseeing eyes.
(He screamed and screamed and screamed and no one came to his aid. He died alone, and that was by choice, but he died alone and he was only eighteen.)
And the boy who is Draco Malfoy stares at the door, breath caught in his throat.
(He knows his parents' unconditional love and knows that he is lucky. And yet, he remembers begging for scraps of attention, begging for some kind of notice from his parents. He is Draco Malfoy, but that is not all he is.)
And the boy who is both Regulus Black and Draco Malfoy steps forward.
(I am you, Regulus whispers to Draco, hand pressed against hand. I am you, Draco whispers back, magic tied to magic.)
(We are, they say together, and there is only one. There is only Regulus, only Draco. Because they are the same person, in the end.)
The door has no knocker, no handle, no way of entering. But Draco is a Malfoy and from old memories and teachings, he draws on his familial magic and presses a hand to the door.
The engraved symbol lights up, the gold eyes glowing and shattering the darkness. The door opens inward, silently, and the whispers in Draco's ears cease to exist. Whatever is waiting for him is only a few steps away. Cautious, wary, he steps forward into the vault.
Space seems to extend in the vault. There are shelves lining the walls, which seem too far away when Draco considers the size of Malfoy Manor. The rest of the room is likely in some kind of order, but he knows not what order it is. To his eye, it seems chaotic, items laid without care for what lays beside them.
Still, none of them catch his eyes.
Onwards, onwards, onwards, the message beats against his bones.
Draco thought something was haunting Malfoy Manor, but perhaps it's more correct to say that something is haunting him.
He walks past golden, glittering coins, and trunks heavily locked. He walks past wands on pedestals, jewellery in glass cases, heirlooms centuries old. He walks past them all, keeps walking until he is near the back of the vault, where the walls are only shadows and the darkness looms like a tangible thing. He walks until the magic is at its thickest and tries to drown him. He walks until the wordless whispers turn to words.
And it is there that he stops.
On a seemingly plain wooden table, there lays a book. It is a thin book, the cover a plain dark leather. It is unassuming in every way, and yet it is at the centre of the dark magic, the kind that makes Draco break out into gooseflesh.
Horcrux.
(The thing Regulus died to destroy, the thing he failed to destroy, the thing that—just maybe—saw him brought back a second time.)
No figment of the Dark Lord rises from the diary, but Draco knows what lies in front of him, knows the danger that it holds.
The Dark Lord is not dead. Regulus failed.
But Draco lives and with all of Regulus' carefully found and hoarded knowledge. The Dark Lord might not be dead but neither is he.
This time, there is no room for mistakes. This time, Draco will have better plans. Of course, he's also a fair bit younger too. For now, wandless, he won't be able to do much—and if the Dark Lord hasn't reappeared yet either, that means he has some time up his sleeve as well.
It's enough. It has to be.
Straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin, Draco walks over to the table. Using nearby objects, he nudges the diary into a bag without touching it with his fingers. He might not have a way to destroy the Horcrux, but that's okay. Draco is patient.
And this time he plans to live past the age of eighteen.
(The Dark Lord won't know what's coming for him.)
