The d was absolute.
It latched onto things to frame them for causing it and the knowledge that it stemmed from the Draught of Peace did nothing to stop that. Draco had taken far too much this morning — he knew that, but at the time it had seemed the only thing to do.
His mind had no space for regret now.
The sheer amount of water visible through the window was overwhelming and the thought of what might lurk in it chilled him to the bone; every item in the room exuded malice and even looking at his hands wasn't safe — he had expected them to move of their own volition or for… something to happen to them. The furniture, the walls, the floor - everything was an immediate threat. When he shut his eyes in a bid to protect himself, he had burned.
He had seen the man from his 'dream' and he had jolted. It was a reflex; his entire body tried to pull away from everywhere at once and then the pain had set in, its all-consuming inevitability engulfing him and draining into his bones. For a second he thought he smelled cooked meat.
The pain was over in seconds but the fear was not.
For the first few minutes he had needed Crabbe to tell him how to breathe.
Then the tears had come.
Draco tried to pull himself together but it took more than he had. Crabbe'd had the decency to piss off and guard the door with Goyle.
Thank fuck for the Silencing charm he had cast around the seat earlier.
About an hour later, Crabbe approached him with one of the bottles of the Draught. He had offered him a thimble full and suggested that, unless he wanted to go see Pomfrey, the best thing to do was not take any more for six hours at least. He had also found a cup perfectly sized for the big dose, which he could take afterwards. If he wanted. And whether he wanted anything else.
Draco felt drained.
The skin on his face was dry and puffy and he had hardly moved at all. There were dark thoughts swirling that he refused to acknowledge. At some point there had been a small commotion by the Common Room entrance, but the boys had managed to keep everyone out. He didn't want to think of the rumours that would cause.
Or of the dread.
The heat.
The meat smell.
The dream.
Or facing his Father after failing his O.W.L.s.
Without a word he threw the thimble worth of Draught into his oesophagus and went to the dormitory. Let them have their Common Room. He would be getting his mind to do what it ought to, and Hell — if he was never going to sleep in his bed anymore he would at least study in it.
He slogged through the afternoon.
Focusing had been impossible and he had reread the same section repeatedly, occasionally catching himself just staring at it.
As if he didn't have enough going at the moment, he also had the idea that he had let Crabbe down.
There was a sentiment he had never expected to have.
Since their parents were acquainted before they were born he had basically grown up with him and they had met once every two months or so for as long as he could remember. He thought Crabbe was the kind of stupid where he would accidentally touch on wisdom every now and then… That he was a genius made him a stranger.
Yet it seemed oddly fitting: He didn't have the blank facial expression that Goyle always had, after all. Draco couldn't help but believe that Crabbe was actually intelligent. He didn't think this was some draught-induced situation either, Crabbe had seemed far too cohesive for that and besides; what would be the point in lying?
It could of course be there, some reason Draco was unable to grasp because he wasn't smart enough, but that idea seemed so unlikely that he managed to brush it off… for the most part.
There must have been so much judging, too. Draco knew he wasn't always necessarily the smartest person in the room - he had never beat that Mudblood for top marks, after all - and even though he wasn't an idiot either, he was sure Crabbe must have had some opinions about everything he had ever said that had turned out to be wrong.
There had also definitely been judging of some other kind though.
Being put on a pedestal like that, being told he was respected, admired, loved — lied to, but loved, for well-founded but somewhat unflattering reasons, was great. Uncomfortable, but great. He would have liked to bask in it, milk it for what it was worth.
Then again, it gave him the shivers to consider the thoughts Crabbe might have had while Draco had gone about his business, completely oblivious..
It made him feel watched.
Draco had been watched, obviously, but though different eyes than he thought. The deceit made it disgusting.
And to end that pandemonium of a conversation with the greatest panic attack he had ever had, was ...
'disillusioning' didn't begin to cover it. And though he knew a too large dose of the Draught had induced it, he knew that wasn't the sole cause.
It wasn't as if he had panic attacks often. This was number four, not counting the one the dodged when he found the poem, and for an entire lifetime that wasn't so bad, was it?
He didn't know, it wasn't something he talked about.
He had had the first one when his Father had enthusiastically suggested that he should go to Durmstrang. Draco had agreed and his Father had started to make preparations. His Mother hadn't been keen but if it made his Father happy it would be great, surely. Later, when his Mother came to tell him that she would let him go, he had started to ask questions. Her mentioning he would be learning 'Norsk' had made him suspicious, and when he had realised none of his friends would be going and he would be all the way up in Norway, with darkness during the winter and the only familiar faces being some of his Father's 'friends', the prospect of the isolation had overwhelmed him and he had lost it. Even though it seemed minor in hindsight, he was thankful his Mother had been there. She had comforted him and taken the blame, so he never had to hear about it again.
No — none of that. He was sixteen years old, he wasn't going to wish for his Mother to be here.
And anyway, it would be only two weeks until he would see her again.
That first attack seemed laughable now that he remembered it. He had been so pathetic. He had basically felt faint and gotten short of breath on a crying fit for a few minutes, that didn't deserve to carry remotely the same name as the leviathan he had suffered through today.
His now second-worst one did.
It had been shortly after the Muggle Protection Act was signed into law. For days his parents had searched their home for incriminating artifacts with increasing exasperation, so all three of them had been a bit on edge. His Father had at some point been after a 500 year old globe and had become increasingly agitated when he couldn't find it. It was the size of a grapefruit, made of the lower halves of two ostrich eggs, and was the oldest known globe in the West depicting the Americas. Apparently taking it on a vehicle would ensure interesting things to happen to its passengers.
Draco had known that but he hadn't known where it was. All right, he had a funny little globe in his bedroom which said HIC SVNT DRACONIS which was hilarious, since it meant 'here are the dragons' and it was his room and all. It didn't look like it was made out of eggs though.
When, after ransacking the house for days, his Father had spotted it in his room by sheer coincidence, the sudden torrent of — mostly verbal — abuse that followed had set off the attack.
Thankfully his Father had marched straight out with the globe... He still had no idea how long Draco had sat slumped to the floor, feeling faint, trying to breathe and wondering if he would ever get himself together again.
In all fairness — he had deserved it. Anyone with any sense in these circumstances would have offered every roughly grapefruit-sized globe up for inspection.
He had deserved the final one too; the one he had when he attempted his first proper scheme.
During the Quidditch tryouts in his second year, he had implied to Flint that there might be new brooms involved for the entire team if he got on. Then he had written to his Father saying that it would be great if the Slytherin team would get Nimbus 2001s once he'd secured the Seeker position.
Wrong move.
His Father had seen right through him and responded that if Draco wanted to play such games he would happily play too, but he had more experience and Draco might get more than he had bargained for.
A Howler would have been less scathing.
The thought that he had made an enemy of his Father had been enough to set him off — thankfully he had been alone when he had read it. He had responded immediately, apologetically, pathetically… and his Father hadn't written back.
When he did make it on the team - for Flint didn't know better - the brooms had arrived.
What was the opposite of a panic attack? Because he had one of those then.
Thinking about all these situations made him realise he was an idiot. When he had set the causes in motion he had had no idea they were going to jinx him in the back like that, but he had been solely responsible, every single time.
He must be missing something now.
It was difficult to not think about the dream, to put it off until he was home. He could force himself away from the details of it but even without those it was insidious. It wasn't until he had taken the bigger serving of the Draught that he could continue studying.
Overall, the O.W.L.s seemed to be going well. He had been able to prepare despite the nightly terrors and was confident that his results would be representative of his abilities. Now he was glad about having had those tutors over the holidays… He just hoped it had all been enough.
The dream had not been as bad as that night with the Sleeping Draught: Beth's literal thoughts were no longer part of it and also it didn't feel like he was Beth anymore. He knew he was, there just wasn't any consciousness involved, only sensations. He still couldn't think during it, he couldn't move of his own volition or influence it in another way — no matter how thoroughly he planned behaving or thinking before he went to sleep. Once the dream started he couldn't do anything but ride it out and love it while it lasted. Every instance of it moved chronologically, it always contained the part right after making the bed, but the exact moment it started differed a bit each time and it seemed to stop a little later every night… he was nowhere near the end yet.
Mornings were the worst.
Overnight the Draught stopped working and he was getting used to waking up both terrified and aroused, a hellish combination. More often than not he thought there would be nothing left of him if he took the next dose, and as the days passed he couldn't help but notice that that made him all the more eager to take it. Briefly he had considered arranging for someone to wake him in the middle of the night, presumably when the dream was still going, but considering how it had backfired when he took the Sleeping Draught he was scared to poke the dragon in that respect.
He stuck to Crabbe's suggestion of when to take how much Draught of Peace and made sure he wasn't prone to interacting with anyone when it was almost time for a new dose. Now that he was taking no more than the recommended maximum, there wasn't a tsunami of terror when it wore off. It was still unpleasant — any negative emotions that he had been shielded from made a weakened appearance and that he had been without them at all for a few hours made the contrast extra stark.
He hoped the amount of it in his system was not so much that he would have to rescind his Pure-blood status.
He couldn't get himself to worry about it though.
Since Crabbe had guessed that nightmares were the problem anyway, Draco had thought to ask him what it meant if the Sleeping Draught didn't block it out and had, in fact, made it worse.
Crabbe's instant response was that it then couldn't be a dream. He had looked very concerned as he said it, which in itself was disconcerting; he had been about to say something else but Draco didn't want to be pitied or looked down upon, so he may have overreacted a bit when he snapped that Crabbe should go stuff his face or something.
He had never made an issue of his size before, but what else would he say now he couldn't rightfully call him stupid anymore?
That he'd had to make the conscious decision to insult him rather than just have it come naturally left him uncomfortable with the situation.
A clear sign the dose was wearing off.
