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CHAPTER 8
Nightmares
Draco snapped open his grey eyes, and tried to suck in a deep breath of air at the same time. The room was completely silent, and light was conspicuous by its absence. Only the greenish illumination from the lake, which penetrated through the narrow glass windows, prevented total darkness. The first thing he saw as his eyes became accustomed to the blackness was the canopy of his bed, with a large silver 'S' embroidered on it. His heart hammered in his chest like a galloping horse.
He awkwardly sat up and felt a shiver run through his body; the sheets were soaked with cold sweat and clung to his body, as did his pyjamas. He felt something clogging his throat, making him unpleasantly nauseous. He closed his eyes tightly, still breathing heavily. He had suffered a nightmare. He didn't even remember what happened in the dream, but it had been terrifying. And chillingly real. He had heard gut-wrenching screams that thundered harshly in his head, had seen black vaporous shadows envelop him, bars, and grey eyes staring lifelessly at him...
He was still barely able to breathe. The overwhelm grew inside him, and that caused nausea to rise in his throat almost uncontrollably, forcing him to clench his jaws until they ached. He pushed the sheets and quilt aside with trembling hands and climbed down from the bed. He stood up, paced the room with quick, barefoot steps, and yanked open the bathroom door, turning on the light at the same time with his other hand. He had barely closed the door behind him when he was forced to fall to his knees and vomit into the toilet. After several agonising and unpleasant seconds, he managed to calm down somewhat. Still with his eyes closed, he reached out a cold, shaking hand and flushed the toilet. Feeling more relaxed with the sound of running water, he rested both arms on the rim of the toilet, and buried his face in them. The retching still made him convulse, but he had nothing left to throw up. He hadn't had much dinner.
It wasn't the first time it had happened to him. For over a year now, ever since his father had been sentenced to Azkaban, Draco had been having nightmares relatively frequently. Almost every month, he would have a horrible nightmare about things he couldn't remember, and he would wake up in the early hours of the morning frightened, anxious and nauseous. The only thing he remembered from his dreams were his father's grey eyes, empty and lifeless. He had noticed that these nightmares were more recurrent when he was sick or stressed. Or both.
Like the other nights when this happened, he tried to take slow, deep breaths to control the urge to vomit, and tried to stop thinking. To let his mind go blank. Even if it was only for a few seconds. When he felt his heart begin to return to its normal rate, he moved away from the toilet and sat down on the floor with his back against the icy bathroom wall. His hands were still shaking, and he felt very cold, but he didn't feel so bad anymore. His stomach was slowly beginning to settle. He touched his forehead and felt it burn intensely against the frozen back of his hand. A throbbing pain settled in his temples.
On a sudden impulse, the fingers of his right hand — stiff from the cold he felt — lifted the left sleeve of his pyjamas clumsily. The sensitive, white skin of his forearm was exposed, and his fingers twitched over it. He leaned his head back, resting his neck against the cold wall, and closed his eyes. His father was in Azkaban. Life imprisonment. The Death Eaters had a vacancy, which he had to fill very soon. That was how it had been decided, her mother had told him at the end of the summer. He was to follow in his father's footsteps. He wanted to follow in his father's footsteps. And the time had come, it wouldn't be long before he would take his place. The next time he returned home, he would officially join their ranks, even though he had not yet finished his studies. Or, at least, so he had been told. Apparently, the Dark Lord was in a particular hurry to have him join their ranks. They needed him for some reason that was still beyond his knowledge, which certainly didn't exactly reassure him.
Draco took a breath and blew it out slowly. This time he did feel his lungs fill with air completely. Becoming a Death Eater would be a brave act, and he felt excited. He could be everything he had always dreamed of being. He could prove his worth. At last. Though his body and his dreams didn't seem to agree. But, that, he had forced himself to think, meant nothing. He was nervous; it had all happened so fast, sooner than he had imagined, that was all. It had caught him off guard. But he wanted to do it. He wanted to be a Death Eater. He wanted to avenge his father, and help the Dark Lord carry out his plans. Why would he not want to?
There were only a few days left before the Christmas holidays began. To return home. He wanted to.
"I am impatient to do so. Impatient to serve the Dark Lord."
Glad to have not found in himself doubts about it, he rose slowly to his feet, staggering slightly as his bare, icy feet barely supported him. He turned off the bathroom light and opened the door to return to the darkened room.
"Are you okay?" asked a sudden voice in the gloom, as soon as he stepped back onto his bedroom floor.
Draco would have been startled if he hadn't experienced the same thing several times. He already expected it. He managed to make out a figure sitting up in Nott's bed, looking at him carefully. The blond young man didn't say anything and just moved towards his own bed, lying back down on it, letting himself fall back down roughly. He didn't even bother to cover himself. He was exhausted. He raised one arm and covered his sleep-deprived eyes with it. Nott, who had watched him silently as he lay there, finally rose from his bed and sat down on the edge of his friend's.
"Are you okay?" he repeated, taking a quick glance to see if the rest of his roommates were still asleep. Crabbe's deafening snoring corroborated that they were. If the rest of them didn't wake up to those sounds typical of a dying elephant, they wouldn't wake up to their whispers.
"No," Draco growled hoarsely, still keeping his arm over his face.
"Do you want some water?" his friend offered, calmly. Although he couldn't quite make him out, Draco could see a discreet concern in his eyes.
"I think so," the blond muttered, making to sit up. There was a sour, unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Nott got up and walked over to the only desk in the room, which was placed between Zabini's bed and Goyle's. He picked up the decanter that sat there. He picked up the jug that sat there and filled one of the glasses next to it. Then he returned to his friend's bed.
Draco took it silently and finished it in a few gulps. He was beginning to feel better, but now he felt a painful emptiness in his stomach, as there was no more food left inside him. He lay back down on the bed and placed his forearm on his forehead.
"Another nightmare?" Nott inquired gently, as he set the empty glass on his friend's bedside table.
"Another nightmare."
"You have many," Nott murmured, his voice impersonal. "I still think, even if you don't listen to me, that you should go to the Hospital Wing and tell Madam Pomfrey about these nightmares. It's not normal. And you shouldn't consider it normal. Besides, you've been half-sick for several weeks now, and I think it's affecting you too..."
"Don't talk rubbish. It only happens to me from time to time, it's not a big deal. Everyone has nightmares. And I'm not sick," Draco muttered with emphasis, although his voice was muffled slightly by Crabbe's snoring, now joined by Goyle's. "Fuck, are they such animals that they can't breathe without making the room shake?" he added impatiently.
Nott ignored his comment, realising that he was in an obviously bad mood, and continued to look at him uneasily.
"I don't throw up when I have nightmares," he replied instead, undeterred. Draco didn't answer, and it didn't look like he was about to. Finally, the dark-haired boy let out a resigned sigh and added, quietly, "Can I do... something?"
Draco took a long few seconds to answer. He felt he should say something to reassure his friend, and thank him for his concern, but he didn't have the strength. He didn't have the strength for anything at the moment. He felt very tired and all he wanted to do was sleep for days. The headache was beginning to overtake him. But in spite of that, he was overcome with a wave of gratitude for Nott. He felt that he was the only friend he had, the only one who really cared about him.
And his way of thanking him was leaving him alone to go off with Crabbe, Goyle and Zabini.
Nott had also been promised the rank of Death Eater, as his father was also in Azkaban, and there was another vacancy to fill. He came from a family of Death Eaters, and it was his duty and responsibility. But he had not yet been told when it would happen, perhaps at the end of term, or even before. What was clear was that it would happen. When Lord Voldemort claimed you into his ranks, refusal was not an option, unless you fervently wished for a gruesome death. Nott seemed to understand that he had no choice, and had resigned himself to the fact that one day he would become an active Death Eater, even though his ideas were already far from being the same as Lord Voldemort's. But he had to pretend that he still believed in the cause, that he longed to become a Death Eater. For his own safety.
"No," Draco finally murmured, his eyes still covered by his forearm. "I'm sorry I woke you up," was all he managed to say, in the softest voice he could muster.
"Don't worry about it," Nott replied, in the same tone, shaking his head. "Cover up and try to sleep," he murmured, getting up and heading for his own bed. "Good night."
The young Malfoy did not answer. Not because he was trying to sleep, for he himself knew he wouldn't be able to sleep for the rest of the night, but because he wanted Nott to think so. It was the only way he could think of to get the dark-haired boy to fall asleep and not keep worrying about him.
Which Draco, even if he couldn't say or show it, was sincerely grateful for.
In the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, the strumming of quills was the only thing that broke the crushing silence. No one dared to utter so much as a faint whisper, and everyone tried their best to keep the throat clearing as quiet as possible. Snape's almost inaudible footsteps pacing the classroom sent nervous shivers down the spines of the students, and the hissing of his long black robes only added to the discomfort.
"Time's up," said Snape suddenly in his deep voice, making his students shudder. "Drop the quills immediately."
They all obeyed instantly; except for Hermione, who hastily tried to add the last few words to her little essay, twice as long as her neighbours'. The professor scanned the classroom with his deep black eyes, stopping at each of his students, seemingly enjoying the almost tangible tension in the atmosphere.
"Mr. Weasley," he called suddenly, caressing the syllables, causing Ron to flinch visibly, "come out here and read us what you've written," he said, nodding to the empty space to the side of the teacher's desk, in front of the class.
Ron grimaced and took a quick glance at his parchment. From his expression, his friends could tell he wasn't too pleased with the result.
"I don't want to… go out there," he muttered, even though he knew it wouldn't do him any good.
"Did I begin the sentence by saying 'if it pleases Your Majesty'?" Snape replied, unperturbed. "Come out here, Weasley."
Ron groaned under his breath and rose to his full length. He pushed his chair back with a gesture and strode like someone going to a slaughterhouse to the front of the class, parchment in hand.
"Read it," Snape ordered, standing with folded arms in the middle of one of the aisles between the rows of tables. At one of the desks to the professor's left, Malfoy, sitting next to Zabini, was whispering into the latter's ear.
Ron cleared his throat, looking at no one in particular, and began to read:
"One of the ways to —"
"Read the question first," Snape interrupted flatly.
The red-haired's ears turned an instant reddish hue. Ron seemed ready to point out to the professor that the question was written on the board immediately behind him, but he barely contained himself. He cleared his throat louder — again — and began again:
"'How to differentiate an Erumpent from a real rhinoceros?'" He raised his eyes to look at Snape, expecting him to criticise him again; but, seeing that he was silent, he continued, "One way to tell the difference is to look at the shape of the horn, for this one is —"
"I can't hear him," Zabini protested sardonically, rather loudly, from a table in the second row. Holding back his laughter, he added, with mock deference, "Speak louder, Weasley, please."
Malfoy covered his mouth with one hand, holding back a fit of laughter. Pansy let out a loud laugh. The rest of the Slytherins also laughed quietly but definitely audibly. The entire Gryffindor turned to look at the Slytherins with identical grudging expressions. Ron fell silent, reddening, and shifted his gaze to Zabini with deep hostility. Snape smiled cynically.
"Go on, Mr. Weasley."
Ron started again, in a considerably louder voice, bravely ignoring the laughter.
"One of the ways to tell the difference is to look at the shape of the horn, for this one is —" he narrowed his eyes and held the parchment up to his face, as if he couldn't see properly or didn't understand what he'd written, "— is... Ah, big, grey and spiral-shaped. Whereas the rhinoceroses' is rather white and smooth. ... And the tail is shaped like a rope, which the rhino's is not..." He lowered his voice as he finished the sentence, aware from the silence in the classroom, and Snape's smirk, that his exercise was not particularly brilliant. Still, he added bravely and decisively, "And I haven't written anything else."
"Mediocre, Weasley," Snape said, savouring the words. "Almost as mediocre as your penmanship. Sit down."
At this point, there was no telling where Ron's red hair ended and his ears began. Forcing himself to show a determined expression, he staggered back to his seat, amidst the mute jeers of the Slytherins. Hermione sensed that Harry was about to protest, indignant, but the girl put a hand on his arm and silenced him with a glare. They both knew it would only earn them a sure punishment from Snape.
"It is clear that not all students possess the same degree of understanding and the differences between these two creatures have not been made clear to them," Snape said with his eyebrows raised in an ironic grimace, as Ron slumped back in his seat. "Let's return our attention to the book Dreadful Denizens of the Deep which, as I assume everyone but Weasley knows by now, contains the answer to my question. Mr. Malfoy, read aloud from page one hundred and ninety-four."
Hermione felt a small piece of lead settle in her stomach just by hearing his name. She closed her eyes to fight the urge to pinch herself for being an idiot. She shouldn't get upset because of hearing his stupid name. She shouldn't feel anything at all.
After several seconds of expectation, Draco began to read aloud, not even hinting at how little he wanted to do so. Everyone realised that, had it not been Snape who asked him to, he would have refused to read at all.
"The Erumpent is a grey-coloured beast, native to Africa. It is of great size and power," he began, in his slurred, sneering voice. "It typically weighs over a ton and, from a distance, can be mistaken for a rhinoceros. Its thick hide repels most enchantments..."
Hermione tried to follow the reading in her own book, but, to her own frustration, every few seconds she caught herself staring blankly at the book, completely lost in the reading, and only aware of Malfoy's voice. Being the avid reader that she was, Hermione could spot a born reader from miles away, and Malfoy was one. He read really well. Despite his dull tone, he had very clear pronunciation, and you could tell he understood absolutely everything he read, even if it didn't interest him. His voice was... She liked it. In spite of herself, she liked listening to him read. But that didn't diminish the bitterness she felt at hearing his voice.
She felt very angry. Not just at Malfoy, but at herself. She had been thinking about it for days, and every time the possibility of spying on him again popped into her mind, the image of Draco hitting the lamp in the Changing Rooms materialised in front of her. And so did his face, heavy with bitterness and sadness. And his grey eyes, bright with frustration. She had realised that she couldn't do it. She couldn't blackmail him. She didn't want to spy on him anymore. She didn't want to play dirty. Her last forays had ended in the worst possible way, and she had realised that, even if she did find something against him, she would not be able to use it.
Hermione thought, with some embarrassment, that it wasn't the first time in her life that she had blackmailed someone. She remembered how, years ago, she had threatened journalist Rita Skeeter about revealing that she was an unregistered Animagus, so she would stop writing such false gossip and hogwash for Witch Weekly magazine. At the time, she didn't mind doing it in the slightest. She felt it was the right thing to do. Skeeter was an ambitious and unscrupulous woman, who profited from lies and the suffering of others. And, if she thought about it coldly, the truth was that Malfoy was not very different from her. He had just shown his lack of scruples, once again, with the trick they had just played on Ron. Except that she had discovered that Malfoy did have feelings. That he was capable of suffering for feeling alone. Excluded. Even if he didn't show it very often, especially not in public, he was capable of feeling that way. He felt that way. Hermione had seen it when she had caught him smashing the candle in a fit of frustration at having caused his team to lose a Quidditch match.
She didn't know what to do to stop his wanderings in Ancient Runes, but luckily she wouldn't have to worry about it for a short while. Christmas break would be starting soon, which meant a week without the stressful subject. And without Malfoy's face. She could forget about it for a few days at least.
When they returned to classes, if everything stayed the same in Ancient Runes, the war the two of them had set up would still be going on. There was no doubt about that. But until then, she could put anything to do with Malfoy out of her mind.
"There it is," Snape said suddenly, startling the girl out of her thoughts. She realised a second later that Malfoy had already finished reading. "You see, there are many more ways to differentiate these two creatures than Mr. Weasley has pointed out, such as the ability of their horn to detonate, and —"
A metallic sound filled the air. The bell had rung at last, and the long-awaited lunchtime had arrived. However, no one dared to move or start packing up until Snape had given them permission to do so. Past experience had shown them what happened if they expressed their eagerness to leave.
After making sure no one had moved from their spot, Snape added:
"For tomorrow, bring me an extensive exercise with all the differences between the rhinoceros and the Erumpent. Extensive," he pointed out, staring at Ron; then turned away, his robes billowing. "You can go."
The usual hubbub took over the room as everyone packed their books and belongings into their bags and headed out the door. Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn't say anything as they packed up, nor as they make their way to the exit. As they passed by where Malfoy sat, Hermione instinctively pressed the book in her hands tighter to her chest, as if to protect herself from something she didn't even know what it was. She straightened slightly, and walked more steadily. Suddenly, she was overcome with a sudden desire to look him in the eye, to stare at him fleetingly but directly, but fortunately, her sanity won out and she forced herself not to look him in the face at all. And she sensed that he didn't look at her either, for she had seemed to see that he was very busy listening to something Zabini was saying. When she passed him, Hermione felt, embarrassed, the lead in her stomach grow, as she realised that he hadn't looked at her at all. Not even out of inertia. She hadn't felt his grey gaze on her. How could it have bothered her that Draco Malfoy hadn't looked at her as she passed him? How could she have even noticed such a detail?
Once they were outside the classroom, Ron could no longer contain himself.
"Did you hear that? That my essay is not extensive! Bloody bat! If he doesn't know how to formulate questions, it's not my fault. Won't you tell me that in the question it was understood that he was talking about differentiating them ar a glance? If it wasn't like that I would have put more things too! Does he want me to go to the rhino and ask 'Excuse me for interrupting you while you're eating grass, but is your horn explosive?'!?"
"Relax, there's nothing to be done," Harry said, putting a hand on his shoulder as they walked down the corridor. "You know Snape; even if it had been perfect, he would have found something wrong with it."
"Yeah, but it makes me sick that he always takes us Gryffindors out to talk to offend us," Ron insisted, particularly grumpy. "And to make us available for the Slytherins to spit out a taunt. He could take a Slytherin out , for a change. But no, what does he ask them to do? Read! Anyone can do that!"
"Don't be so sure, Weasley," said a voice behind them suddenly, slurring its syllables. Hermione felt the piece of lead in her stomach do a pirouette, and she was the first of her friends to turn to find Malfoy standing behind them, accompanied by his pals, wearing a mischievous smile. They hadn't realised that they'd walked out the door seconds after them. "Not everyone can read, believe me. I almost fell asleep listening to you. I didn't think you could have any more flaws, but I see that besides being poor, ugly, lanky, and with big feet, you're half short-sighted."
Crabbe and Goyle, on either side of him, roared with laughter, though everyone present assumed they hadn't understood half of what Malfoy had said. Zabini, behind them, also let out a chuckle.
Ron's fingers twitched instantly.
"Hold this for me," he snapped at Harry, and slammed the bag across his chest, ready to have his hands free to strangle the Slytherin's pale neck with them. Harry hastily grabbed his robes, preventing him from doing so, for it was clear that Crabbe and Goyle would give him the beating of his life.
"Do our ears a favour and throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower, Malfoy," Harry snapped at him, still holding Ron.
Draco's smirk widened further. His eyes, of their own accord, focused on Granger, who hadn't said a word and just stared at him, her expression somewhat defensive, but definitely immune to his acidic comments. As always. Was it just him, or was Granger everywhere? He'd been seeing her everywhere lately. Every day. Or maybe it was just that he noticed her presence more easily than before. It was possible. And it was her fault, of course. Because she always had to meddle in his business, and she was always around him to tell him off. Unfortunately, he was almost getting used to the sight of that face, framed in that hideous brown hair. It was almost familiar. Goddamn shit...
"It must be that spending too much time with you, Potter, spoils anyone's eyesight," Malfoy continued, just as mischievously, directing the insult at Harry but not taking his eyes off Granger, wanting to see her reaction. She, however, deflected hers indifferently, grabbing Ron by the sleeve of his robes.
"Leave it, Ron, don't waste your breath on Malfoy," Hermione told him, unperturbed, turning around and pulling Ron away from the blond. "He's not worth it."
Draco narrowed his grey eyes. His wry smile was wiped from his face. Unbelievable. Now she was pretending she wanted to ignore him? After chasing and cornering him numerous times to tell him off about the Ancient Runes thing? Now he has seen everything. He couldn't believe she was such a hypocrite. No, absolutely not. That stupid brat had no right to ignore him now as if he was a nobody.
"If you keep spending time with Potter you'll end up the same way, Granger! Mudblood and also short-sighted!" Malfoy yelled viciously at her, as the girl stalked away, pulling Ron and Harry along, who were still glaring at him over their shoulders. But Granger didn't even turn around. "Or maybe Weasley's problem is his bad handwriting, like a kindergartner of his own mental age, and that's already rubbed off on you, Granger!"
Nothing, there was no way. It was undeniable that she was hearing him, but she was ignoring him. His words rolled right off her back, as if they didn't affect her in the slightest. He felt a furious burning in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't about to go after her, so he stood still in the middle of the hallway with his colleagues, watching her walk away. He wanted to yell something else at her, something really hurtful, but nothing came to mind anymore. He was too irritated. Too disappointed. Granger kept striding away, head held high, accompanied by those two jerks, until she was out of sight. Beside him, Crabbe and Goyle were still laughing at his jokes, but he was tempted to tell them to shut up.
Once Harry, Ron, and Hermione were far enough away from the Slytherins to no longer hear Malfoy, the girl allowed herself to take a deep breath. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her stomach felt hollow, but she felt pleased with herself. She had hit Malfoy where it hurt him the most, in his pride, and it felt so good. Although maybe not as good as it should feel. But the piece of lead that she felt in her stomach, curiously, had disappeared.
Although they were already several corridors away from Malfoy, Ron was still growling and complaining at the blond's words.
"How I would like to kick him all over his —"
"Calm down, Ron," Hermione advised quietly. "You know how Malfoy is. Forget what he said, you know he's not right."
"Hermione's right, let's forget about it. Don't let him ruin your day. Think of something else," Harry suggested, looking as angry as his friend was, but trying to hold it back. He hesitated for a moment, pondering some more pleasant subject, as they descended the great marble staircase. Suddenly he added, uncharacteristically jovial: "Think of the Christmas holidays, which are just around the corner. A holiday without Malfoy's face."
"That's true," Ron smiled, relaxing with a sigh and assuming a suddenly dreamy expression. "It will be great. Good thing you come to The Burrow, Harry."
"You bet," the dark-haired boy smiled gratefully as they passed through the double doors that led to the overcrowded Great Hall. He turned to his other friend, "You're going home eventually, aren't you, Hermione?"
"No, not in the end," replied the young woman, smiling resignedly. "I forgot to tell you. My parents have a denture convention for the whole Christmas week. In Edinburgh. So I'll have to stay at Hogwarts. I've already put my name on the list Professor McGonagall left ."
"What? You should have said it! Come to The Burrow then, woman!" Ron offered, his face lighting up at the prospect of the three of them being together in his house.
"We're not going to let you spend Christmas alone," Harry added, frowning and looking at her as if it were self-evident. "Absolutely not."
"You don't have room," Hermione objected gently, smiling. "Ginny told me that Charlie and Bill are coming for Christmas too, right?" she added, turning to Ron. "So with Harry you are already complete."
"Well, yeah," Ron hesitated, suddenly speechless. "But it doesn't matter, just come, we'll manage —"
"No, don't insist, I'll spend Christmas here. It won't be so bad, the castle is gorgeous at this time of year," Hermione commented, shrugging happily. "Besides, Neville told me that he's staying here too, so I'll be with him. I won't be alone. Don't worry, it was my fault for finding out about my parents at the last minute..."
Harry and Ron looked visibly sad, but they won't insist as Hermione seemed satisfied with that. They sat at their usual place at the Gryffindor table, in silence, both of them racking their brains to find some solution more favourable to their friend. But they had no bright ideas.
As she had said, The Burrow was full.