What Else Can We Do?

Part 2:

The Dream Walker

Chapter 20:

'The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.'

-'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' by Robert Frost

2000

I had a moment today. I was sitting on the floor, my notes and rolls of parchment scattered around me, rolling a quill between my fingers, musing over the ink smudges that had transplanted themselves onto my tea cup. I had no inclination to shower and it was noon already. I was barefoot, still in my pyjamas. It had been a morning of slow indulgence. I had nothing to do but lean forward and write. In that patch of sunlight, on those creaking wooden floor boards with King nestled on the rug nearby, I realised that it was the closest I'd been to content in a long time.

I never considered myself much of a writer. But now that I'm nearing the end of my tale, I think I shall miss it.

I will miss the smell of ink, the scratch of my quill, the hours spent staring into space, deep in thought, waiting for the right words to surface. I will miss this feeling of purpose, the free-falling stomach-drop as I let the words and memories take me where they will. Time has been my healer, but writing has played its part too.

As I write this, you are sleeping by the hearth, belly to floor, your arms your pillow. I wonder what you'll think of me one day when you find this and read these words, Albus. I hope it helps you understand why.

You have so many questions and I can never hope to answer them all. I can only do my best to prepare you for our world that'll met you with distrust and less love than you've known, than you deserve.

I suppose it is a terrifying fact every parent must face.

xXx

1996

There was no end to it.

Draco tried to peer through the gaps between the stacks, but the room went on and on, precarious piles in the distance nothing more than hazy silhouettes blending into the dark. He felt a stab of despair. How in Merlin's name was he going to find anything here? Its name should've been indication enough – what fool thought they could find one secret amongst many in the Room of Hidden Things?

He wound his way further in. The Room was made up of great tunnels of arches, all of which seemed to slip off the ceiling and drip down to the floor. Somehow the objects had a presence that grew and loomed, their shadows a swallowing dark. He felt as he were in a crowd and didn't like how it made him a child again, clutching at his mother's hand as they wove their way through Diagon Alley, humanity suffocating them from all sides, the din getting louder the tighter they were pressed.

He shook his head and forced his hands to unclench.

Draco couldn't help staring as he walked. He wondered how those stacks of books balanced on one another in that impossible way. The tomes were so ancient that he could smell them from here where he could barely see their yellowed pages. White marble statues peeked out from avalanches that nearly snowed them under. He skirted the base of mountains of chairs, of cabinets and bookcases. A flock of floating lanterns drifted aimlessly above. Great fading tapestries hung across frames, depicting long ago battles between dragons and knights. He came across enough goblets to cater ten banquets easily. There was even a beautiful set of bone carved cutlery scattered on the floor, having fallen from its leather and satin box. Why would someone want to hide it? There were so many stories within these walls, lost under dust and cobwebs.

There was a feeling of being stared at, as well as the weight of history baring down on him. A sense of the objects begging to be acknowledged after their abandonment, hoping to be useful one last time. He wasn't sure if it was the blood loss that was making him think this way, but the feeling was there all the same, like a hand hovering over his shoulder.

Every movement tugged at his wound on his chest and there were moments when he felt so lightheaded he didn't know where he was, only that his heart seemed intent on beating its way out of his chest. Sometimes when he stopped to catch his breath, he wondered if he'd find the strength again to take another step. It wouldn't be long now. The limit of the vessel – his limit - would soon be reached.

He felt it before he saw it. The glass case and the diadem inside seemed innocuous at first, no different from anything else left in the Room of Hidden Things. But as he neared it, he wanted to gag, to recoil. He took a step back, unwilling to go near it, let alone touch it.

It needs to be done, they whispered.

Draco bit the back of his hand, kept the skin between his teeth as he let out a shaky breath. He nodded once, twice, trembling. As he reached out, golden tendrils of light rose from his skin and blended together, covering his hand like a gauntlet. Black smoke spat out of the case as he opened the latch, the light purifying it before it dispersed. When he touched the diadem, an oil like substance bubbled off it, hissing, spitting, burning like wet wood. Draco quickly stuffed the horcrux into the pocket of his robe.

He wanted to run, but his body had other plans. He stumbled through and out the Room, pushing himself off a chair here, a hat stand there, barely hearing the clatter behind him. Just as he entered the seventh floor and closed the door to the Room of Requirement behind him, he heard a noise that sounded like a footstep. One of his arms moved on its own and grabbed at something in front of him. He felt material under his fingers and pulled at it. Draco heard a short gasp and suddenly there was a face, a body, where there hadn't been before.

It was Potter, blinking owlishly at him behind his glasses, holding what looked like a map.

Draco curbed the urge to swear. He should've known. He'd made himself ignore it, of course. What else could he have done? This Potter in front of him had never given him the benefit of the doubt. For some reason, which Draco was not going to even attempt to divine, Potter had gotten it into his head after the summer to start following him. He, and his posse, weren't even subtle about it. It was like second year all over again. . . They somehow always managed to find a table next to his in the library. There were also the deeply suspicious stares he got whenever he left the Great Hall, and the inevitable set of footsteps trying to match his afterwards, the ones he had to shake.

He had told himself there was nothing he could do – his plate was already overflowing. There were eyes everywhere in Slytherin, marking the progress he made with the Dark Lord's task: a way into Hogwarts through a set of vanishing cabinets. He did what he could to make them believe he was fixing it, but time was running out. They're alive, he'd think every time he saw his mother's script, gripping each letter from home like it was a lifeline. At night, he began to wander the castle, checking for flaws in the defences, fixing any he found, terrified that the Death Eaters would find a way in without him and kill his parents for his failure.

You can feel it, can't you?

The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he hissed through gritted teeth. He's a horcrux, he answered, the word rippling with loathing in his mind.

You know what you have to do.

Draco wavered, terror shuddering up his spine. What they asked of him was to lay himself bare to a stranger. The possession had destroyed his Occlumency shields. Who knew what Potter would see when he established a Legilimency link with him? This – this was too much. They'd asked enough of him. Surely he'd done what they'd asked already?

All of a sudden, there were white spots in his vision. His legs lost their strength and he was on the floor, groping uselessly at the wall, bile at the back of his throat. There wasn't time. He had minutes at most. The horcrux was waking up at his side. It was vibrating, beginning to roar, like a beast shaking its hide, waking from its hibernation. When had Potter gotten there? It was so strange to see him kneeling at Draco's side, wand in shaking hands, wearing an expression of alarm he recognised but had seen on another's face - Al's face. He stared up at that face, not hearing the words that mouth was saying, added brown eyes, some freckles, and thought this must be what Al would look like one day. Not bad, he thought and very nearly smiled.

He reached out and placed his hands on either side of Potter's face, which finally shut him up. 'I'm sorry,' he managed, before looking straight into Potter's eyes and delving into his mind.

The rush was like nothing he'd experienced before. Potter hadn't even heard of the mind arts, but yet he was fighting back, blindly and with tooth and claw. Draco tried to dive out of the way, but he hit a wall of pure determination and it took all he had to hold on. There was a moment when a torrent of rage nearly pulled him under, almost kicked him out of Potter's mind, but a golden light – his magic, he realised – surrounded him. Draco expanded, became like the wind, searching, searching for the blight hiding in Potter's soul. He found it cocooned in hate and anger, nestled deep in despair and pain, tainting everything it touched. Draco reached out and dragged them both into the Dreaming.

Entering the Dreaming was like slipping under the covers, knowing that there'd be inexorable relief, the promise of warmth, oblivion if he so chose. The discomfort of his physical body faded away as time stretched and retracted, making it seem like he'd been awake aeons ago. Albus was there the moment he opened his eyes, jumping into Draco's arms.

'I didn't know what to do. I tried to find you,' Albus said into his shoulder, his voice raw, close to breaking. 'But you're alive. You're alive.' His relief was palpable, infectious and all Draco could do was stare, his heart full.

Just as Draco set Albus on his feet and took his hand, he saw Potter trying to look everywhere at once as if the deep dark would pop if he strained his neck enough. The sight sobered him. Potter was frightened, set to react, not think. He didn't know what to do – he had never dragged a person into the Dreaming before. Was that why Potter was cognizant? He felt a stab of empathy, knowing how confusing, how terrifying the change from the Waking to the Dreaming was, that first taste of horror as the mind remembered. He reached out to Potter, not entirely sure what he was going to do, only sure he would try something because no one should face the Dreaming alone. He was but a breath away when the darkness rose up and swallowed Potter whole.

It's trying to weaken him.

Working on an instinct that felt both old and new, he drew upon his magic, weaving a lantern out of golden light. Albus glanced up at him, looking for all the world like he'd do anything to stay. Instead he nodded, his smile as tight as the squeeze he gave Draco's hand before he left Potter's mind for another. The lantern shone bright, banishing the living shadows that hissed and writhed from its glow, revealing a stone path beneath his feet. Draco set off down it at a pace, holding the lantern high. He could feel them – the nightmares convalescing, taking form all around him, looming silhouettes growing taller, moving closer. Draco stopped mid-step when the ground frosted over. He followed its path to a dementor hovering over a man, sucking out his soul. Draco hurled his lantern at it, sending it shrieking off into the dark, aflame. Scrambling to his knees, he snatched the man's soul out of the air and guided it back into his mouth. There was a moment of absolute silence, with not even a breath or a blink, before a choked gasp erupted from the man. Draco frowned down at him, realising that he knew him: it was Sirius Black, escapee from Azkaban Prison. The scene faded away like smoke, like a memory viewed in a Pensieve. Memories that weren't his edged towards an answer, but his questions would have to wait.

He mourned the loss of his lantern, afraid and uncertain now how he would navigate his way through the mire the horcrux had made. It was then he looked down and saw that his hands still glowed from within, the light frenetic, feverish like a new flame. Ghostly hands overlapped his, following his movements disconcertingly. He rolled his hand into a fist, looked up and faced the dark. A smile slid onto his face, assured, sharp and ready. His quarry could try to hide in Potter's nightmares like a coward, could fling whatever darkness it could muster at him, but it didn't see the Dreaming like Draco did.

It was stuck in the labyrinth when Draco had risen above it.

The horcrux howled and the nightmares came at him then, fast and heavy. Draco jumped out of the way of a basilisk's tail, the slither of its scales terrifyingly close. He weaved a blade of light out of his magic, drawing upon Brand's memory of Gryffindor's sword. He spun round and brought his blade down with a yell, cutting the beast in half. He felt an unbearable heat behind him and he spun on his heel. He stumbled back when saw a man burning from within, his skin crumbling slowly from ember to ash, an arm stretched out towards Draco, his face contorted in agony. Draco reached out and placed a finger on the man's forehead, extinguishing the fire inside, replacing it with light. With a hollow sigh, the man became dust, freed at last. All he had time to do before the Killing Curse hit him was allow himself an entirely rational moment of dread. But the curse hit a wall of light and it dispersed, becoming a flock of winged keys that a ghostly form of a boy whooped at and shot after on a broom. Draco grinned, because for the first time in his life, he knew what it meant to be light, inside and out, burning away the darkness. He could hear the horcrux's screams as he did it and nothing had sounded as sweet.

I can do this. I can save him.

The darkness retreated further, relinquishing Potter. He was in a crouch, his head between his knees, tearing at his hair. A cacophony of noise exploded, deafening them both: a crying child, overlaid with raw sobs and a woman screaming her last over and over again. Draco put his hands over Potter's ears and the sounds died away bit by bit. He kissed Potter's hair, humming softly, waiting for his shaking to subside. He closed his eyes and rested his head on Potter's. When he opened them again, they were in a cupboard under a flight of stairs and Potter was child, no older than Albus. He was crying softly, stuffing a fist under steamed up and snotty glasses to rub away the tears. Draco picked him up and kicked the cupboard door open. He cradled the boy in his arms as they got out of there, murmuring many times, 'I'm here. I'm here.'

When the boy quietened, he felt Brand, Light and Red pull away, taking form as one in front of him. They held out their arms for Potter, their expression solemn, proud. He handed the boy to them reluctantly, feeling strangely protective. He watched with an odd sort of longing as they stroked his hair, rubbed his back and whispered into his ear, somehow getting a weak laugh out of Potter. They stared at Draco all the while, before nodding towards a tumultuous cloud of shadow, the last bit of nightmares left. Draco returned the nod. He pulled the curtain back, marvelling at how the darkness disintegrated at his touch, and froze when he heard a whimper below. A horrid sight greeted him: a bloody baby, all limbs and red-eyed, squirming on the ground. He stared at it, his mind blank with shock. Afterwards, he would be so sure that it wasn't him who leant down, who wrapped their hands around the baby's neck, who twisted it until it broke. He simply wasn't the kind of person who could do such a thing. He wasn't.

Thank you.

Draco gasped in a breath of air and it daggered into his chest. He lay there panting on the seventh floor, Potter at his side, curled up and fast asleep, a faint smile on his face. Draco's body ached with a dangerous cold. He hoped to never feel this fragile ever again. With shaking and bloodless hands, he fumbled for his wand in his pocket. It seemed like a monumental effort to find it, to get it out, to hold it upright.

'Diffindo,' he whispered, then slashed the rune on his chest.