Chapter Text
Draco dreamed, and he would never tell.
He dreamed during class, he dreamed during study. He dreamed during meals, he dreamed during Quidditch. Yes; high over the pitch, seeing everything stretching away below him, his mind drifted, caught in tides, streaming through the memories as he fluttered on the breeze, thin and wind-worn as a tattered leaf. He saw the snitch go by, and he followed it, weaving amongst the clouds, and it felt like he was dreaming again. Peculiar, he thought. There was a war. Death and pain and unimaginable hexes. So peculiar they’re all back here again for their eighth year, pretending nothing happened. Studying for the tests and reading books and getting in trouble for not wearing the uniform neatly. It just seemed...
...Not right.
A distant roar.
That was all he could hear, a faint roar filling his ears, and that was all he could see, a mistiness before his eyes.
He fell.
“Did you slip?”
“Did you feel ill or dizzy?”
“You shouldn’t have been flying so high, you know the brooms can go all funny at high altitudes...”
“Did you get hit by a bludger?”
Draco gazed blankly into the worried expressions of Pansy and Blaise. They stood by his bed in the infirmary, crowding him. They meant well, he knew, but he wanted to be alone.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes to which one?” They looked at him, wanting answers, simple answers.
“Everything,” he said, and turned away to sleep again.
The dreams came back. They stopped after the Quidditch incident for a bit, as though they knew they had pushed him too far. But then they came back.
He saw things all the time.
Oh, not those things. Not Seeing. He didn’t have Potter’s visions, or Firenze’s knowledge of the futures and stars. No. A different kind of seeing, a different kind of life.
He would be sitting there, in Potions, stirring a tincture. Seven times clockwise, seven times anti-clockwise. He liked the number seven. Seven colours in a rainbow. Seven players in a Quidditch team. Seven years at Hogwarts. Seven days of the week. Seven Weasley children. Draco had always wanted siblings, always yearned for company in his lonely childhood, and he secretly begrudged Ron Weasley for it. As though the Weasley family had stolen Draco’s unborn sisters and brothers.
One, two, three. Keep stirring. Four, five, six.
Seven.
And he’d look up and see his mother walking across the classroom. Fifteen-year-old Narcissa Malfoy, her hair carefully braided, balancing various phials, smiling over Draco’s shoulder. He’d turn and see an awkward Slytherin boy behind him, smiling shyly and ducking his head.
Coming out of these – daydreams, he’d call them – was like walking through water. He would emerge slowly, dragging himself through the fogginess around him, struggling to make out the faces, until they eventually sharpened into definition.
Professor Slughorn.
“Are you alright, Mr Malfoy?”
“Yes.”
Narcissa Malfoy faded away.
Professor Slughorn gave him a curious look and wandered away to congratulate another student on his potion.
Draco sighed and closed his eyes, a little afraid to open them again.
He knew they weren’t daydreams, not like other people had them. Other people seemed to snap out of them as easily as cutting a thread. And they daydreamed over stupid things, like unsent letters or homework or whether someone was thinking about them.
But Draco dreamed about things that could have been, or might have been, or things that had happened to somebody else a long time ago.
“Draco,” Pansy said, in a tone that made Draco think she had been trying to get his attention for some time, “please pass the butter.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, Draco, Potter didn’t really push you off your broom, did he?” Blaise wanted to know. Draco shrugged.
“Only, he’s looking at you funny.”
Draco looked up. The Gryffindor table was filled with unfamiliar faces and old-fashioned uniforms. One of those dreams again, he thought absently, and he turned away.
“What’s wrong?” Pansy whispered to him. “You’re acting...odd.”
“I’m fine.”
Pansy hesitated. “Is everything alright at home?”
Draco laughed, startling even himself. It seemed an automatic reaction. Home! His father was imprisoned and his mother broken with grief. The manor was searched, the rooms ransacked, ‘evidence’ taken, things confiscated. Family portraits were removed for ‘questioning’, vases and urns cracked open, floorboards wrenched up. He had stood, watching, as the special Ministry man carefully went along all the surfaces, with spells caught to notice several things. He took out his wand, ran it across everything.
“It picks up sites where blood is, or has been,” the man told him. When he entered the drawing room, the wand lit everything up with a violent red. The table, the walls, the chairs.
“I could have told you that,” Draco said, but his voice broke halfway through the sentence and the man ignored him.
It was strange, watching his home being dissected. It felt like they were carefully picking up his memories, hopes, and dreams, carefully placing them in little numbered bags, writing little labels on them to file them away forever. He imagined what they did with everything. The remains of Draco Malfoy’s life. Yes. Remains was a good word. A shred of dignity, perhaps, a few scraps of a half-remembered song. Some remnants of childhood, some escaped memories. Leftovers, bits and pieces from what he once was.
Nothing was all right, he thought, and his home was gone.
He felt tired all the time, which was especially troublesome during Potions. He had the misfortune of being paired with Harry Potter during a lesson on a finicky healing potion.
“Not the deadly nightshade!”
Draco rubbed a hand loosely across his face, as though he could smooth away everything; his past, his memories, his identity.
“Not the dung-beetles either! Merlin, what’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know,” Draco said, because he was too tired to lie.
Now everybody was staring.
“I don’t want to work with you,” Harry said in an edgy tone. “Professor, can I switch partners?” He managed to catch Slughorn’s eye.
“Yes, alright, I don’t want any conflict,” Slughorn said generously, as Blaise volunteered to swap himself with Harry.
Slughorn was quite wrong; conflict wasn’t the reason. You could hear it in Harry’s voice: I don’t want to work with him, he’s being odd, something’s not right in there...
“...you’ve got to pull yourself together, Draco. I mean, first Potter corrects you in Potions, then you just stand there looking stupid? For Merlin’s sake, wake up!” Blaise slapped his hand down on the desk.
Draco wished he could.
At least Draco wasn’t alone in his sleepiness during History of Magic, when Professor Binns lulled half the class to sleep. Draco rested his head on his forearms, watching dust motes slowly drift through the afternoon sunlight, and considered a brief nap.
“Is it true about your brother?”
Draco jerked his head upwards. A troubled-looking boy was looking sadly at a young girl.
“Yes.”
“Merlin. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” The girl pushed her hair behind her ears. “Shall we move through the steps again?”
“Yes. Only let’s stop at midnight, I’m tired.”
Draco glanced outside. A moon hung in the midday air.
When he glanced back, the desks had been pushed back, all except his. The couple moved through dances, practising steps, moving through his solitary desk like ghosts.
“...a very fine essay, Mr Malfoy, although I’m afraid some points were historically incorrect...” Binns handed the essay to Draco, then drifted away. The room was empty; apparently class had been dismissed.
The midday moon had vanished.
“Over here, Draco!” Pansy waved as Draco edged into the Charms classroom. “Late again. I suppose Binns ran overtime? Why you even bother doing NEWT level History of Magic is beyond me...”
Draco slumped into his seat, pulling out his History notes to examine them. There were a few words here and there, plenty of doodles. Mostly little spirals or meandering patterns, although one of them was a moon shrouded in clouds.
“I’m going mad,” he said softly.
He promised himself not to dream again.
It was cold, dark and raining, he was dressed in formal robes and had no memory.
He was walking, quickly, holding a pair of tattered boots in one hand. That was the first thing he noticed, the silver drizzle in front of him. He looked down at his bare feet, walking along the rain-slicked cobblestones beneath him. It was night, a beautifully dark night with a thin crescent moon, and it made the rain stand out more, glittering against the darkness.
He wasn’t cold, he realised. He had been cold for months, as though it had crept into his bones and would settle there forever. Yes; despite the rain, it was a tepid, mild night. He was wearing dress robes, slightly too long, tattered a little. He was wandless, but he was not afraid. The darkness felt like an old friend.
Lights twinkled in the darkness; he could see the dark outline of houses, the occasional front room emanating a welcoming glow. His pace quickened. The rain lightened.
His feet lead the way. He could see a soft glow in the distance, and he knew that was where he was going. He kept walking, expecting the dream to end, but now he was at a door, he was opening it, and –
He woke.
“Everything alright?”
“Yes.”
Pansy paused halfway through packing up her books, readying to leave the common room and head to class. “It doesn’t seem all right.”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh. Only...you seem a bit...”
“A bit what?” snapped Draco. “Mad? Odd? Peculiar? Take your pick!”
“Alright, well, I’ll pick all of them!” Pansy said angrily. “I was just trying to be nice! Do you have to be so sensitive?”
“You just want me the way I used to be,” Draco retorted, a pink flush creeping up his face. It had been ages since he had felt anger. “You just want everything to go back to normal, don’t you?” Before the war. The words remained unspoken, yet they hung heavily in the air.
“Of course I do, I miss you!”
“I’m right here!”
They stood, furious, facing each other, Pansy’s knuckles white as she clutched her books, Draco’s cheeks an unbecoming red. They were both suddenly aware of a growing audience; their fellow Slytherins were staring at them.
“Look,” Pansy said, forcing her voice to be level, “you know what I mean.”
“It’s true,” Blaise said, standing from his armchair to stand opposite Draco. “You’re not yourself. Come on, let’s go. You’re just embarrassing yourselves.”
Blaise led Pansy away; the crowd began to disperse, hurrying to their classes. Draco was left alone in the common room, his shoulders slumped.
“How am I not myself?” he said, and his voice echoed, lonely and desperate.
How am I not myself?
Lucius Malfoy was daydreaming, his face cupped in his hand, staring out the window. Sun streamed into the dusty Runes classroom, illuminating his white-blond hair.
A piece of chalk whizzed past his nose.
“Malfoy! Pay attention!” A short, stout woman waved her hands around in annoyance.“What does this rune mean?”
In front of him, Narcissa turned around and smiled, before mouthing something.
“Serve, professor. It translates as ‘serve’,” Lucius said smoothly.
“Close, but not correct, I’m afraid. ‘Save’ is the answer. Malfoy, you must –“
“ – pay attention!” Professor Flitwick squeaked. “Mr Malfoy, I’m yet to see a single correctly-done Calming Charm from you!”
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Draco said in a low voice. In front of his eyes, Lucius Malfoy dissipated, wavering like an oasis. Like a ghost.
“Well, I think some practice tonight will do you good. And I think that can apply to Mr Potter and Mr Weasley.”
In the corner, the boys groaned miserably.
That night, Draco dreamed again.
He was on a beach. The shore was smoothed clean by the tides. The moon shone high above calm seas.
There was a bonfire, bright and lovely in the night. People were gathered around it, singing happily, sweetly, the lovely half-songs of the tipsy reveller. Later, the songs would become sadder, quieter, until strangers wept.
Somebody was standing, knee-deep, in the sea, letting the water soak their clothes. As Draco approached them, the silhouette became clearer. They turned their head, smiling at him.
“Draco, look at the moon.”
“Theo?”
“Look at it. Don’t you want it?”
Draco gazed at him in bewilderment, then looked up at the round moon. “The moon?”
Theo reached up and for a moment, the illusion seemed to crumble. It wasn’t the moon at all, it was small, and it was a smooth white stone that now rested in Theo’s hand.
“How did you do that?” Draco asked, reaching out and accepting the stone.
Theo looked at him in surprise. “Don’t you remember? You taught me.”
Theodore Nott.
Cold and alone, buried not six months ago. Draco did not attend the funeral.
He didn’t own any suitable robes, anyway, though he didn’t know what to wear in any case. Formal? Informal? Did it matter if they weren’t black, could you wear gray or brown or olive?
He wondered why people were supposed to wear formal robes. For respect, he supposed, although Theodore Nott had never worn formal robes in his life (he’d attended the Yule Ball in the Quidditch robes of his favourite team, much to the amusement of students and chagrin of teachers) and it made Draco wince to think of them dressing his cold body, stuffing his arms into stiff, starched robes, like a mannequin. Draco thought he’d probably end up laughing or throwing up anyway, or doing something equally hideous at the funeral.
Pansy, however, failed to see this logic and had never forgiven him for his absence.
He sighed as a teenaged Lucius Malfoy laughed in front of him, playing a card game with a cheerful Slytherin.
Draco stared at him until he dissolved.