What Else Can We Do?

Part 2:

The Dream Walker

Chapter 15:

'If there were a sympathy in choice,

War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it,

Making it momentary as a sound,

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,

Brief as the lightning in the collied night

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,

And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!'

The jaws of darkness do devour it up;

So quick bright things come to confusion.'

~'A Midsummer Night's Dream' by William Shakespeare

2000

The day I turned thirteen, I learned the true nature of the Sleeping Sickness.

But perhaps I should go back a bit, start at the beginning. That is the proper way of things, is it not? I may be the only one who can tell this story, but I fear I cannot do it justice.

I can't help it. It gets jumbled in my head. My mind rebels against remembering. Even though it's become a comfort to me to write it out, to finally set it free, there is pain too. One cannot come without the other it seems.

That line of reasoning was why I stayed silent. Retrospect makes this easier to understand, to accept. I'm trying to forgive my younger self, you see. Not a simple task, I know. There is a lot to forgive. And even when something is forgiven, it is never forgotten. It stays with you for life.

I gave up on father that day.

I never thought of Lucius as an evil man, just convinced of the right of something wrong. I loved him because he was my father, my blood. He was there. I thought he loved me too simply because of the time and the effort he invested in me. But he saw me as a means to an end. I know that now. I wasn't a person to him yet. And when I was, it was too late. I'm not blameless, I thought him incapable of changing . . .

That is my greatest regret.

I wish he knew the person I am today. I like to think he'd be grudgingly proud.

But I've gotten ahead of myself again. That is a story for another day, another page. I've yet to tell you of that strange affliction that picked at the Wizarding World, spreading panic: the 'Sleeping Sickness', as the Prophet dubbed it, ever fond of alliteration and sensationalism. The name caught on, as did the rampant hearsay of various ridiculous cures and talk of doom.

I saw the pattern and it frightened me. Those that succumbed were known or suspected supporters of the Dark Lord of the war past, with few exceptions. I kept thinking: if I could see it, then others surely did as well. I itched to write to father about my suspicions but we were long past the point of that. Our letters were short and stilted. We were going through the motions, doing what was expected of us as father and son without much feeling. What little there was seethed between bitterness and disappointment.

I wasn't what he wanted. I had stopped trying to be him. In the beginning I felt I had to impress him in other ways to make up for failing him. There was a time of high grades and teachers' praise, but it petered away when I realised it didn't matter to him. I would have never been top of the class with Granger about anyway.

School seemed insignificant next to the lessons I learnt in the Dreaming. There was a beauty to Occlumency that drew me in. Legilimency was just a tool to me then, designed to steal and hurt. But Occlumency was the art of control, of discipline. I needed it to be better than what the loneliness, and the shame, made me.

I wanted to be a good man after all.

But I was the furthest I could be from good that night I gave up on my father. I trusted when I should've questioned. I fell into the trap of thinking someone infallible when they were not. I wish I had known what hate does to a person.

Maybe then I could've saved him.

xXx

1993

The words on the page blurred together no matter how much he concentrated on them. With a quiet sigh, Draco closed the book, giving up on reading it. It really was a delightful text prescribed by their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher for the coming school year – a Professor Remus Lupin, he'd heard his mother call him - and it was indicative of him being competent at the very least.

Well, no one could be worse than Lockhart. Their new professor wouldn't have to do much to be met with relief.

There was rain hammering against his windows. He could hear trees thrashing and the Manor groan and creak. The sounds were almost drowned out by the roar of the wind. Draco put his book on his bedside table, then slid further under the covers. On any other night, the crackling of the fire, now burning low, would've lulled him to sleep. But tonight his mind was intent on thinking loudly.

He supposed it could've been worse. He'd been surrounded by people on his birthday at least. Yes, it had been a strange evening of adults talking over him as if he weren't there, their children being equally polite but dismissive, navigating their way into their cliques throughout the night until he'd been left on the side-lines, twiddling his thumbs. He tried not to mind it, but the longer he stayed silent, the more the rawness of his hurt grew. Still, he hadn't been alone as he thought he would, thanks to his mother insisting on sending out those invitations. He had had all their talk of politics and gossip to fill his head until he could almost ignore the ache in his chest.

His birthday had gone better than predicted, but only by the smallest of margins.

He rolled over and shut his eyes. It was late and Albus was waiting.

It'd been slow going at first but with Occlumency he'd taught himself how to fall asleep on command. It hadn't always been this way, but he awoke in the Dreaming every night now. He used to dream like other people, consumed to the point that his mind forgot to remember anything other than flashes, but it had been long enough for him to almost forget what it was like.

He didn't know why he clung to those memories. He had something better. There were whole worlds out there in the Dreaming for him and Albus to explore. As many worlds as there were dreamers. Other people weren't like him. They weren't Dream Walkers. They'd never have what he did.

They lived half-lives.

He felt himself slip further towards sleep. There was always a moment when he wasn't quite gone yet when he could feel the dreaming minds near him. It was a familiar, comforting lull before slipping away and finding Albus waiting for him by the fire in the dark place.

But that night, he sensed something different, something wrong.

He followed it, tumbling after it into the Dreaming.

The change was jarring. The terror hit him first, then the smells: smoke, blood and death. He stumbled back, muddy ground squelching underfoot. Trees were aflame, cracking and collapsing in the darkness. The clearing was pockmarked with craters. There were bodies everywhere.

He was on a battlefield.

It took him longer than he liked to isolate himself from the nightmare's touch. The foreign emotions retreated, but didn't go far, pressing close, trying to find a way in again. There was only one person he knew in the Manor who suffered from nightmares such as these . . .

Father.

It felt wrong to be here, but not as wrong as what he sensed. It was here somewhere. He had to find it. Over trampled grass and broken bodies, he walked, desperately trying to ignore the certainty that this nightmare was a recreation of one of his father's memories. It was easy to forget that he had been through a war. But not now. Not when he'd felt an echo of what father had.

At the top of a rise, he came across a strange sight: a great luminescent plant, more seed still than anything else, taking root.

Found it.

It was awash with magic, one that was as familiar as his own. It was made from the same magic that coiled with the scar on his chest, with the mark that had kept him safe all these years. A figure rounded the seed, hand glowing as it traced its shell.

It was Brand.

'What are you doing here?' Draco burst out.

Brand looked at him, startled eyes wide. In the light of the plant's glow, Brand's eyes weren't black, but a deep green that was close. He lowered his hand, the light in his palm disappearing, leaving his silvery face half in shadow.

'It's wrong,' Draco said. Was that horror in his voice? 'That thing is wrong. Why is it here? Why father?'

'We need to leave.'

'No!' Draco yelled.

Brand looked away for a moment, his expression pained. 'Draco, please. I will explain, but not here.'

Draco stared back, most of him still screaming no, fear shivering down his body in waves. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. He glanced between Brand and the seed. 'Fine,' he bit out, anything to be away from that thing.

He withdrew into his own mind, knowing that Brand would be forced to follow. Even with the storm brewing in his heart, he couldn't help remembering what Albus had said to him:

Please don't anger them, Draco. They're powerful here.

Brand appeared between one blink and the next. He took a step forward, his eyes wandering. 'Such details . . .' he murmured. 'I'm impressed.'

He followed Brand's gaze as it swept over white walls, high ceilings and bay windows. There was a wall lined with shelves where his memories sat as books and a fire crackling in the hearth. Two pale blue armchairs faced it, a small tea-table between them, covered in a floral cloth. An unfinished piece of embroidery lay on it, a needle sticking out of it. It hadn't been a conscious decision to make the centre of his Occlumency shields his mother's parlour. It just happened.

It frightened Draco how easily Brand could slip through his defences. He hadn't felt anything.

'It just . . . had to be exact,' Draco replied. 'Otherwise it wouldn't feel right.'

Brand made a noise that could've been approving. The man ran a hand along the top of an armchair, then rubbed his fingers together, deep in thought. 'Do you trust me?' he asked.

Draco opened his mouth but found himself hesitating. Did he? Merlin knows why, after what he'd seen in his father's mind, but he did.

'I do,' he said, all in one breath, certain he'd like nothing that came after admitting something like that. 'What have you done to father?'

'It won't do much. It'll just put him to sleep for a while when it flowers.'

A terrifying epiphany struck him. 'You're . . . you're behind the Sleeping Sickness.'

Brand nodded.

The boy floundered, his head filling up with questions. So much of this didn't make sense. 'Why?' Draco asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

'Light, Red and I have been set with one task: to destroy the Dark Lord Voldemort.'

Draco frowned. 'But he died years ago.'

There was calm certainty in Brand's eyes. 'He will rise again.'

He waited for some sort of elaboration on this, but it didn't come. Just that eerie, measuring stare Brand seemed fond of giving him. 'How do you know that?' Draco pressed.

Brand was quiet for a moment, wearing the same look Albus did whenever he was deciding what to say, how to say it. He sighed, 'I can't tell you that, Draco. I wish I could, but I can't. It's a secret I've been asked to keep.'

From me, Draco thought to himself bitterly. 'What's my father got to do with your 'task' then?' he asked instead.

'Your father did terrible things for Voldemort during the war. He will do so again if called.'

A denial was on the tip of his tongue, but deep down Draco knew the truth. Brand was right. He hated it, but his father would become a Death Eater again if he had the chance. And if Draco's suspicions were correct, he'd get one soon. There'd been impromptu visits from 'old friends', a lot of talk of losing a diary and angry whispers as the Dark Mark blackened on their arms.

Lucius believed. Nothing could change that.

Just like his father couldn't change Draco into a replica of himself.

'Does Albus know all this?' Draco found himself asking. It seemed childish next to other questions he could've asked, but he needed to know.

'Yes,' Brand answered. 'He's always known. War is coming, Draco. And you're going to have to choose a side.'

'I don't want to. Please don't make me,' Draco whispered.

'I won't.'

xXx

When the Sleeping Sickness spread that year, I stood knowing and hurting, listening in behind closed doors as my parents fought. Every night I could feel the seed's roots sinking deeper into my father's mind. To the wider world, the Sleeping Sickness seemed to take people at random. But I knew the truth.

I didn't know it then, but I had chosen a side already. My silence, my indecision, assured that.