Archive of Our Own

“It’s impossible to overdose on Dreamless Sleep.”

The only response Harry can think of is you don’t know Draco Malfoy, because time and time again, Draco has done the impossible– he’s repaired a Vanishing Cabinet using nothing but a school boy’s wits, survived lodging with the Dark Lord himself for almost a year, and at the end of it all, managed to win the heart of his sworn rival. Draco Malfoy is brilliant. They were all fools for thinking he couldn’t.

Harry was a fool for thinking he couldn't.

Instead of saying that, he summons his Ministry ID card and holds it up to the healer with shaking hands and a serious look. “I know what I saw.”

The healer regards his ID for a minute, obviously recognising him, before looking back at the battered old clipboard. “I see. And you found him… in his home?”

“We’re roommates.” Harry says quickly, but he can't maintain eye contact. It's not an outright lie, Draco did move into Grimmauld Place around the time the nightmares started. He thought it would help, not to be trapped in that mansion any longer.

Harry should have helped more.

“Well, the poison ward has him now, Mr. Potter. You might want to take a seat downstairs, this is… an unprecedented case.”

Harry can only nod, his throat too tight to reply. His pants have no pockets, he realises, he’s still in his pyjamas and has nowhere to put his wand. He doesn't know what else to do with his hands, silently sending his Ministry ID away before he accidentally destroys it with his restless fidgeting.

Saint Mungo’s waiting room is relatively empty at 4 o’clock in the morning, and most of the visitors slumped over the broken-in chairs are too tired to spare a glance his way. He sits off to the side, making sure his bangs are still covering his scar. He doesn't want to be seen. He doesn't want to be spoken to.

What he wants is a drink. Water, soda pop, fire whisky– anything to wash the sickeningly sweet scent of lavender out of the back of his throat.

It's impossible to overdose on Dreamless Sleep. It's the same with Sleeping Draught, it is just not physically possible to get enough into your system before passing out. Even if somebody wanted to force you to drink more unconsciously, there are simply far more potent, easy to obtain poisons out there that would get the job done in a fraction of the dose. Nobody has ever overdosed on Dreamless Sleep.

He was a fool to think Draco couldn't.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

12 Grimmauld Place is deceptively large. Despite the narrow layout, it has five stories and a basement, clearly suitable for a full family to inhabit. Harry never quite felt comfortable living there alone. Perhaps it was the way he grew up in the Dursley household, trying to take up as little space as possible, but he found that he simply couldn't fill enough area to make its halls feel truly lived in after graduation.

When Draco decided to move in, it finally started to feel like a proper home.

He wanted his own room for a while, and Harry didn't object. He was probably used to that kind of separation after growing up in such a spacious home, and considering he didn't sleep very well most nights, giving him his own room felt like the most logical thing to do.

The first time they shared a bed, Harry woke up at about 4 o’clock to Draco trembling like a leaf. That was how Harry learned about the nightmares.

“I thought it would stop, if I was… somewhere else.” Draco mumbled into his tea about two hours later. “It's not always the same one, but… I wake up, or I think I do, because I heard someone break into the manor. And I hear them, wandering around, taking their time, because– because they're looking for something. They're looking for me. And I… I’m terrified. All I can do is lay in bed and play dead, because if they hear me, if they find me… I don't know what they'll do to me.”

“Who’s looking for you? Voldemort?” Harry had asked. Draco was quiet for a long minute. He hadn't looked Harry in the eyes once the entire time.

“… I don't know.”

Harry sighed. If he didn’t know what was causing that kind of dream, he didn't know how he was supposed to help him stop having it.

“Draco, if it's been going on for this long, perhaps you should see a healer.”

“Right, and what do you suppose that will accomplish?” He sneered as he glared into his half-empty teacup.

“I don't know, but it would be more than I could.” Harry had said. “Best I can suggest is a Sleeping Drought.”

Draco finally looked up at him.

☆・・・・・・☆・・・・・・☆・・・・・・☆

Harry’s alarm went off at 6 o’clock on the dot. He shut it off and rolled over to smile softly at Draco’s peaceful expression. He laid on his back, hands folded across his middle, the same position he fell asleep in after he took the Sleeping Draught. It worked.

But Draco awoke with a violent flinch, gasping and gripping his night shirt like he was in pain.

“Draco?” Harry bolted upright, as if that woke him up a second time like his alarm clock, scared out of his wits and desperate to help. He tried to pull Draco’s hands off of his shirt. “Draco, hey, breathe, are you alright?”

“S… stop…” Draco leaned away from him, but his weak protests were easily overpowered. “… ‘m bleeding… I-I’m still bleeding…”

As soon as he said that, Harry had a horrible feeling he knew exactly what he was dreaming about. Which was fine. He could deal with the nightmares about their big fight in the bathroom. He could lay there and hold him until the panic stopped, until reality set in and he could properly apologise over and over until he absolutely had to get up and get changed for work.

It hadn't worked. The Sleeping Draught, it seemed, merely trapped Draco in the nightmare, unable to wake up when it got bad, and forced him to endure it for the full eight hours of the potion’s effect. Harry was afraid to leave him alone after that, but Draco practically shoved him out the door.

“Like hell you're taking time off to babysit me.” He’d hissed as he pulled Harry's tie a bit too tight. “I’d bore you to death with potions books, anyway. One of us might as well be a productive member of society.”

Harry cleared his throat, loosening his tie with his finger. “You could work. You don't need the money, but maybe having something to do with your day would help tire you out a bit more at night.”

Draco’s upper lip twitched in annoyance, but he restrained any outwardly annoyed or disgusted expressions, replacing it with something dull and blank.

“You know that's not possible for someone like me.” He said in a flat, even tone as he dropped his arms to his side. Harry didn't miss the subtle way he shook his left hand, making sure the sleeve fell all the way down.

Of course. Nobody wanted an ex-Death Eater.

☆・・・・・・☆・・・・・・☆・・・・・・☆

Dreamless Sleep is in the same potion family as Sleeping Draught, with most of the same ingredients in different quantities. The biggest difference is the lavender; while Sleeping Draught requires a small number of powdered sprigs, Dreamless Sleep needs them fresh.

Harry smelled the potion from the ground floor before he'd even made it down the basement stairs. It was gentle and calming, unlike the strange, slightly bitter scent of the wormwood that dominated the previous potion– although it was still noticeable under the lavender.

6 o'clock on the dot, and Harry’s alarm went off. He sat up to hover over Draco. They’d timed it so the potion would wear off around the same time again. Harry waited for tortuously-long minutes until Draco finally stirred. He squinted up at Harry, eyes only half-open.

“Harry…? Why're you… did I do something weird?”

Harry shook his head as he grinned. “Quite the opposite, actually. I think it worked.”

Draco took a minute to let it sink in, that indeed, he had slept completely calmly through the night. Slowly, he smiled back.

Draco took it every night for about a week, up until he collapsed trying to make it down the stairs for supper one evening.

Harry took him to see a healer against his will. Draco complained, but he was too tired to do much more than whinge a little. He seemed exhausted, actually, like he was constantly out of breath. But why? He was actually sleeping through the night, Harry was there to watch him wake up every morning!

As it turned out, it was a common side effect of Dreamless Sleep– he collapsed because his blood pressure was low. Not dangerously so, but his body was clearly not used to it, and the number of floors between the master bedroom and underground kitchen of Grimmauld Place might have been a little too much to handle. Draco either needed to take less potion, or take fewer stairs, the healer insisted.

“Do you understand how Dreamless Sleep truly works?” The healer had then asked, which forced Draco to sit back down in his seat and pay attention. “It completely inhibits rapid eye movement, or REM sleep. Taken too many days in a row, the potion may actually lead to worsened sleep patterns. You may find yourself becoming more irritable and forgetful, or begin falling asleep during the day.” Draco scowled at the idea of sleeping even more. The healer continued, “This is a short-term solution at best, and at worst, might aggravate the symptoms further. Sleep deprivation can be dangerous, you could end up hurting yourself. If the situation is as bad as you say it is, perhaps you should consider long-term psychiatric care with us–”

“I’m not loony.” Draco cut in.

“I never said you were.”

“I don't need to be checked into a loony bin.”

“That's not what this is.”

“But you think I’m a danger to myself.”

“Mr. Malfoy–”

“Draco.” Harry interrupted. Draco turned to glare at him, and Harry held that glare with a piercing gaze. It was a dance they did constantly, the unstoppable force of Harry’s Legilimency at odds against the immovable will of Draco’s Occlumency.

You just want to leave me here, was the only feeling Draco allowed him to read.

Harry sighed. “Thank you for the offer, but that won’t be necessary. He’ll be more careful with the potions, right?”

“Right.” Draco insisted, but he wouldn't look at either of them.

☆・・・・・・☆・・・・・・☆・・・・・・☆

Draco didn't always talk about his nightmares, but a few of them were recurring. The break-in was the most common, but the easiest to deal with were the ones about the Fiendfyre, or the ones where he was still bleeding, because Harry could prove to him that he’s still safe. He could hold him in his arms until his breathing evened out, and one or both of them fell back asleep. Harry found himself to be much more useful during those times.

It slowly became more common for Harry to wake up alone, however. His alarm would wake him at 6 o’clock on the dot, and the bed beside him would either have Draco, sleeping peacefully under the effect of Dreamless Sleep, or it would be cold.

Draco at least found new hobbies to help him cope. It seemed like every day, there would be a new book in the house, as Draco taught himself to garden, and when Grimmauld Place had no room for potted plants left, he started to cook. Harry began to look forward to the way the house smelled when he woke up in the morning and returned from work, as the ever-present smell of lavender was starting to become nauseating. Draco always seemed proud of his creations, too.

“They’re not pancakes, they're drop scones.” He corrected, much to Harry’s amusement.

“They are, they're Scotch pancakes. Scones have to be dry and crumbly, ‘s what the jam’s for.”

“They're drop scones, can't you read?” Draco insisted, pushing the recipe book across the table.

“Nah.” Harry joked as he readjusted his glasses.

“Maybe your prescription’s bad.” Draco fired back and flicked Harry’s forehead just above the bridge of his glasses.

“Ow.”

“That didn't hurt.”

“Your nail’s sharp!”

“They're short!”

“Tip’s cut square, there's a tiny edge on the front and it hurt.” Harry pouted. Draco snorted, but he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss between his eyes.

“Better?”

Harry broke out into a grin, unable to even pretend he was upset anymore. “Yes. I forgive you.”

“Good. Now eat your scones.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine. Pass the jam then, would you?”

“It's not jam.”

Harry wheezed. “Well what the hell is it?”

“It’s a strawberry reduction.” He answered. Harry stared at him, then gestured dramatically to the jar when he didn't immediately explain. Draco was clearly as amused by the whole exchange as Harry was. “It starts as a purée, but you cook it in a saucepan to boil out the water. Started with two whole cups, now that’s only about half of one.”

Harry nodded. The room did smell much more like strawberries than pancakes, thick in the air, so that would explain it. He spread the reduction on one of his drop scones.

“Hm. That is definitely… the most strawberry thing I think I've ever had.” He finally said with a thoughtful expression, unsure of how else to describe it.

Draco grinned. “Good, right?”

“A bit tart, could’ve used more sugar.”

“I went light on the sugar, figured the syrup would balance it out.”

“Ah, good call. After all, syrup belongs on pancakes.”

☆・・・・・・☆・・・・・・☆・・・・・・☆

Sometime around 2:30 in the morning, movement woke Harry up. It wasn't very uncommon, he knew Draco’s disastrous sleep schedule fairly well by then. He sleepily groaned, reached out and weakly hooked his fingers on the side of Draco’s night shirt. He was hardly awake enough to tell, but he thought Draco might've been trembling. Draco hesitated, but pulled away like usual, and after the door creaked partly closed Harry fell back to sleep.

☆・・・・・・☆・・・・・・☆・・・・・・☆

4 o’clock in the morning. Just a few minutes before, Harry reawoke to the sound of glass breaking. For some reason, his first thought was that someone had broken in.

The much more rational answer was that one of Grimmauld Place’s ancient light fixtures must have blown, since they were getting so much usage due to Draco’s early morning studies.

He fumbled with his glasses. He didn't hear Draco swearing like he’d dropped something, so that was probably it. Even wizards hadn’t figured out how to un-burn a lightbulb yet.

He shuffled down the hall. Did Draco even know how to change a light bulb? The thought amused Harry. Once again, his muggle knowledge could be used to one-up the pureblood.

The first floor was empty. He rubbed his eyes and continued down the stairs, Lumos guiding his way.

Maybe Draco understood the concept, but simply never needed to because he grew up in a big fancy mansion with house elves who probably did those sorts of things. Unless the house elves’ magic can…? He could never wrap his head around their ways, he suspected if any magic could–

A cold wave of adrenaline shot through his chest. He hurried down the rest of the ground floor’s stairs.

Draco had collapsed again, clearly coming up from the basement. Unlike last time, he wasn't found sitting against the hallway wall, struggling to catch his breath. No, instead, Harry was the one who struggled to breathe.

The scent of lavender was overwhelming, thick and dense. It clung to the back of his throat and left the bitter, unpleasant aftertaste of wormwood in his mouth.

Dreamless Sleep.

Harry pointed his illuminated wand at the floor before he took any steps off of the stairs. That sound must have been a potion bottle shattering.

Only he didn't find a bottle.

He found a jar.

Harry used his foot to sweep away the pieces of the jar. The glass was thick enough to puncture the sole of his slipper if he wasn't careful. The remnants of the purple potion that clung to them was thick and syrupy. He knelt by Draco to roll him onto his back. He was out cold. Harry checked his pulse. He felt cold.

It took Harry too long to find it. Milliseconds, probably, but even that was too long. Draco’s heart was racing, but beat nowhere near as strongly as it should have been.

It was so obvious what had happened. And yet, Harry had a difficult time wrapping his head around it. He tried to rationalise it as he scooped Draco into his arms. All his years as an Auror had helped train him to remain calm in stressful situations, but he was struggling to remain grounded this time. What was Draco thinking? Was he really willing to die?

Harry folded Draco’s arms across his chest, trying to keep his ankles crossed too. He only had one shot at Apparating to Saint Mungo’s emergency room. He’d splinch Draco if he wasn't careful. He’d hurt him further, and it would be his fault. He should have realised he would do something like this. Could he have realised he would do something like this…? This kind of magic took too much planning and intent, there must have been hints. There are always hints, Harry was probably not paying close enough attention. It was likely his fault that he missed them. Perhaps things wouldn't have gotten this bad if he was better at comforting Draco, too. Even now, all he could do was hold him close and whisper apologies for something he should or shouldn't have done. He was a terrible boyfriend. Draco was going to die, and it would be entirely his fault.

Vulnera Sanentur.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. No. It's not his fault. Not like it had been back then.

Vulnera Sanentur.

He could still fix this. As long as Draco kept breathing, he could fix this.

Vulnera Sanentur.

Harry could only imagine that incantation spoken by one voice. Snape was always calm, even while fixing the unthinkable, doing the unthinkable. Even during one of Harry’s worst acts, the clearest thing he remembered from that moment– the thing that stuck out to him even more than all that blood– was Snape's voice, almost like a song.

He would have been proud of the potion Draco brewed this morning. Harry will have to tell him that when he wakes up.

When he wakes up in Saint Mungo's.

He clung to that thought, and then that’s where they were.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

“For Malfoy?” Someone calls into the lobby. Harry’s head jerks up. Had he nodded off…? The clock says 5:24. He follows the healer, a different one from before, back up to the third floor. His left slipper makes a slightly different sound than the right one as he walks, there’s probably a small piece of glass embedded in it.

“He’s stable. We’ve extracted a lethal amount of wormwood oil from his body, and we got his blood pressure over 50 before he went into shock. He’s still a little under 60, but it's going up. There won’t be any permanent damage to his organs, should he wake up.”

Harry looks up from the floor. “You don't think he could…?”

The healer stops just outside of Draco’s room. There are four different-coloured flags near the top of the doorframe; the small green flag is sticking out, which probably signals that the patient inside is stable and doesn't need active monitoring. Still, the colours remind him of Hogwarts, of Slytherin pride. The healer hesitates to open the door.

“… This is an unprecedented medical anomaly, sir. We've been recording all our findings, but it appears Mr. Malfoy somehow managed to ingest an impossible amount of Dreamless Sleep.”

Harry nods, unable to look away from the little green flag. “Yeah, he… he planned to, apparently. He… what's it called, he cooked it, not in a cauldron, to boil the water away. What's it… not compote. Reduction. He–” He swallows, his throat beginning to tighten again. “– he reduced it. Two cups turn to about half a cup, he said, I-I don't know how much he actually ended up taking…”

The healer nods, allowing Harry to work his way through what happened. “That seems consistent with our findings. Do you understand how Dreamless Sleep works?”

Harry nods. “Stops him from dreaming, but the sleep’s not satisfying.”

“Right, it inhibits REM sleep. But with how much he’s taken, it's also inhibiting more of his mind.”

Harry’s heart sinks.

“If we cannot stimulate those parts of the brain soon, he will wake with permanent processing damage, if he chooses to wake up at all.”

Harry just nods numbly.

“We’ve contacted a professional Legilimens, but have not heard word back yet.”

“I’ll–” Harry’s voice cracks horribly. He clears his throat, trying to focus, keep calm. Just look at the little green flag, think about that and nothing else. “I’ll have a go.” He finally looks at the healer, fumbling with his wand before he summons his Ministry ID again. “I’m licensed. I’m your best bet at this hour.”

“… Of course, Mr. Potter.” The healer says, opening the door.

Draco Malfoy already looks dead. His pallor is ashy, and his breathing is so shallow Harry only sees it because he’s looking for it. He takes a moment to sit beside him, holding on to one of his icy hands.

At least his expression is peaceful.

“Are you two… close?” The healer asks. Harry doesn't answer. He never does. His reluctance to be honest about their relationship around others is just another reason why he was a terrible boyfriend. Maybe Draco never believed he truly loved him.

“… I need some water.” He finally says, and while it's true, he doesn't wait for the healer to return to hold the tip of his wand to Draco’s forehead.

He’s never tried to use Legilimency on Draco while he was sleeping. Draco’s defences were always incredibly high during the day, always emotionally guarding himself, even in moments where Harry thought he was comfortable. He could only read his thoughts if Draco permitted him to. The thought of trying at night had occurred to him multiple times, but truth be told, he was afraid of breaking his trust, and perhaps more selfishly, afraid of what he might see about himself.

Now, though, this could be the last time he ever gets to see him.

✮・・・・・・✮・・・・・・✮・・・・・・✮

Legilimency is not for the weak-willed. It's an act of wedging oneself between the folds of another’s mind, becoming overwhelmed by their emotions, their thoughts, their memories pressing in from all sides as the intrusion is maintained. It's not something anyone ever truly gets used to, merely prepared for.

Draco’s mind had always been difficult to breach. Occlumency came easily to him, rendering it more like a wall that occasionally has gaps between the bricks barely big enough to peek through. He would only let Harry look through on his own terms, and even then he’d often only feel a single thought.

Not this time. Draco’s mind is unguarded, and the feelings surrounding Harry are very, very wrong. His mind is an explosion of memories expanding from a central point, all completely frozen in time. No, frozen implies a level of calm, perhaps even a bit of organisation to the place. These memories are all arrested in time, prevented from being formed at all.

The healer was right, Draco’s mind isn’t processing properly.

Malfoy Manor looms ominously in the centre, the most complete structure present, although the front has a large hole in it like a gaping maw.

Harry steps through the hole. Glass crunches beneath his slippers. Of course. If this is from Draco’s most recurring nightmare, that must mean someone has broken in. He has no wand here, but if he clenches his fist hard enough he can still feel it in his real hand.

If he can find the intruder, maybe this will all end. Draco will realise he’s safe, and… he’ll want to wake up.

Harry doesn't know the manor’s layout well, so he’ll have to do a whole floor sweep. If everything else is stuck in place, perhaps the intruder will be, too. Most of the ground floor is filled with shadows, half-formed silhouettes of house elves, his parents and other family members, their pieces scattered across many memories that have yet to materialise. The most clear figure he sees is of the man at the head of the long dining room table. Harry doesn't have to look to know who must have sat there. He does find one door he's familiar with– the dungeon. He braces himself, opening the door to check it.

He nearly falls in. There are no stairs. There's nothing but a sheer drop into a mountain of flaming rubbish, the jaws of a fiendish serpent extending towards him, arrested in motion but flickering subtly as if the fire is still alive underneath its invisible scales. Harry slams the door.

This place has a lot more doors.

✮・・・・・・✮・・・・・・✮・・・・・・✮

Harry grows less and less sure of what he’s searching for by the time he’s cleared the entire ground floor. How will he know when he’s found this mysterious intruder? It’s becoming more and more difficult to determine what does and doesn't belong in the fake manor.

A Hogwarts bathroom clearly doesn’t belong on the manor’s first floor, for example.

Harry slowly steps inside, hearing the way his heart pounds in his ears rather than feeling it in his chest. Everything's fine, he reassures himself. He can leave as soon as he checks the row of stalls. He doesn't need to set foot any closer to the octagonal sink setup. He doesn't even need to look that way. There’s nothing there, but he doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see how much Draco remembers the little details better than Harry, who can only remember the water on the floor dyed red, the sound of Snape’s voice, the panic he felt of being betrayed by that book–

Something moves. In the corner of his eye, Harry sees something move in the reflection of the broken mirrors and whips around, pointing the fist that should be holding his wand outwards in a blind threat.

There's nothing there.

He turns back around, finally facing the mirrors head-on. They aren't broken; his reflection is. Harry stares at his fractured face a moment too long, checks the last few stalls and leaves as fast as he can. The floor is dry, but his footsteps sound sopping wet.

What is he looking for again? Draco isn't on the first floor either. He needs to find him, make sure he's safe. Then they can wake up and be out of this nightmare together. Draco just needs to see that this isn't real, that he needs to wake up so maybe Harry can finally cry about this with someone.

He makes it to the second floor. The manor only has three stories, with an extra room above each side wing and a central attic space. Draco must be here.

He’s been searching for what feels like hours, this place is so big yet feels so claustrophobic. The rooms at least seem a bit more normal up here. This floor is calmer, more under control with fewer fragments of people stuck in place.

When Harry finds Draco’s room, he hardly realises it until he’s standing in the doorway, hand on the knob. His panic slowly resides, looking around Draco’s childhood bedroom. Like the rest of the manor, it's black and grey with elegant stone and ironwork. Yet, despite how spoiled Draco grew up, this room hardly feels very personalised. Sure there are Slytherin pennants hung on several surfaces, but besides an overflowing bookshelf and cluttered desk, the room feels like it was decorated by the real adults, from the curtains to the bedsheets–

Ah. There he is.

Draco lays in bed, curled up with his back to the door, only a shock of silvery-blond hair peeking out from under the blankets. Harry lets out a relieved breath, taking a step inside.

Only now does he notice Draco is trembling.

He stops in his tracks. Waves of emotion hit him, wavering and shaky like his body as they try to repel him from the room.

Leave me alone. Go away, leave me alone.

“Draco…?” Harry calls out, hoping that maybe he’ll recognise his voice and understand that he’s safe.

Don't come any closer. Please, just don't notice me. I'm asleep, you don't have to hurt me. Just leave me alone.

Harry’s eyes widen as the realisation hits him. Here he thought he came here to save Draco.

In reality, he’s been recreating Draco’s most recurring nightmare; he broke in and loudly searched the manor, all while Draco could only lie in bed and listen, hoping he would give up before finding him.

He’s the intruder.

“Draco, I…” His throat tightens. He swallows, taking another stiff step forward. “I’m here to help you. You're not… there's no one here to hurt you.”

“Liar.”

The word surrounds him, suffocating him. He almost doesn't notice Draco said it out loud. He nearly staggers back, but wills himself to keep his feet planted past the doorway. If he was speaking, he was listening.

“Draco, I’m not going to hurt you.” He tries again, taking a few small steps forward.

“Then why are you here?” Draco spits, trying to sound as angry and dangerous as possible despite how scared and small he is.

Harry takes a deep breath. It's okay, he's scared and clearly doesn't recognise him. He stops about a meter from the bed. It would probably freak him out if he sits with him, so he lowers himself to the floor, facing away from the bed. The hallway outside the door looks darker than when he was out there. 

“I’m not quite sure myself, to be honest.” He starts, waiting to see if he replies for a few seconds. “… Could we talk about that?”

He doesn't hear movement, but the big room feels a little less like it’s trying to eject him. At the very least, Draco is willing to listen.

Harry continues. “There's no one else here. It's just you and me. Who… who is looking for you?”

Who? Who? Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter.

“I don't know.” Draco finally says. Harry lets out a shaky breath, relieved to know he wasn't lying the first time he’d told him that all those months ago. Relieved to hear he didn't think it was him this entire time.

“Okay. That's a start.” He waits a few seconds again. “Do you have any guesses?”

It could be–

“Anyone.”

“Anyone…?”

Everyone hates me.

“Anyone.” Draco insists.

Harry bites the inside of his lip. The hallway outside is almost too dark to see. There may as well be nothing outside this room.

“That can't be true. There are– there are people who love you, Draco.”

Liar. Liar, everyone hates me.

“What about your parents?” Harry asks, and a light flickers on in the hallway for a brief second. “Your parents love you more than anything. Surely they aren't out to get you.”

The oppressive doubt eases, just enough to let Harry sit up straighter.

“… They wouldn’t.” He admits. Harry smiles They’re getting somewhere now.

“Right. So it can't be anyone.” He pauses again, and this time he hears a slight shuffle under the blankets. “What about your friends?”

“… My friends.” He sounds a bit disappointed. No… annoyed. “My friends would abandon me in an instant if they weren’t in the same pitiable situation I’m in. Children of Death Eaters? Society doesn't want us. I'm just here to prop them up.”

“But they're propping you up too, right?” Harry asks. Draco doesn't answer. “They wouldn't come after you.”

Why does it matter?

“… Guess not.” Draco mumbles. “But they'll still never really be my friends. Not like Hogwarts’ golden trio are friends.” He spits bitterly, jealous. Harry’s gut twists.

“Well, what about them? What about–” His throat tries to tighten again. “– what about Harry Potter…?”

Draco shifts in the bed behind him.

Stop talking.

Harry’s heart is pounding, his anxiety building as Draco’s mind starts to prickle with annoyance. He wonders if Draco can feel his heart too, or if Harry can only hear it echoing in his own ears.

“Because he loves you, you know that? H-he… he wouldn't do this. He wouldn't– not on purpose.”

Stop talking, it doesn't matter.

“He loves you, Draco, more than anything, even if he’s bloody awful at showing it–”

Shut up, shut up.

“– you must believe that, right?”

“It doesn't matter!” Draco finally shouts, and Harry flinches, because while the feelings are heavy, putting them into words sharpens them against him. “It doesn't matter who it is or isn’t! That's not the point!”

The small room falls silent. There’s nothing past the empty door frame anymore. If Harry is forced out there, he’ll lose Draco for good.

“… That's not the point, Harry.” Draco says again, so soft Harry hardly hears it over the pounding of his heart. Slowly, he turns around. Draco is sitting up in bed, hugging his knees with the blankets pooled around his ankles. His face is dull and blank, an expression that doesn't fit him much at all.

An expression, Harry recognises, he’s seen far too often lately.

Standing up is a Herculean task. Walking feels even worse, like he’s wading through an invisible bog that goes up to his neck. Draco says nothing, just watches as he approaches the bed. Yet, when he finally closes the meter-long distance that feels like a kilometer, he hesitates to sit.

“You're right. You're right, Draco, and I… I’ve been a fool.” He squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath like it even matters here. “It doesn't matter who it is. What matters is… that you don't feel safe.”

Draco stares at him, not saying anything for a while. When Harry finally opens his eyes again, he shifts over, silently inviting Harry to sit. Harry doesn't hesitate to join him, dropping like a stone with a deep sigh. The bed is soft, but doesn't bounce.

“… That’s what this nightmare’s really been about, huh?”

Draco shrugs, looking away. Harry thinks he’s looking at the doorway, but he can't be sure.

“… I’m sorry I didn't figure it out sooner.”

“It's not like I was any help.” Draco mumbles. “Couldn't explain it well, so I just… gave up trying to.”

Harry nods. “Yeah. I kept thinking about it too literally.” He hesitates, looking over at him. “Are the others the same way…?”

Draco nods, laying back down to curl up on his side. “It’s not as simple as… just being afraid you’d hurt me again. We were very different people, you and I. It was… complicated.” 

Harry tries to think back to their fight in the bathroom, tries to see it from Draco’s point of view.

“It's about failure.” He settles on. Draco doesn't correct him, so he continues. “It's about failure, because you still had to protect people.”

“… If I’d died,” His voice comes out a bit raspy, like he's trying not to cry. “Professor Snape, my parents… they would've died too. I was messy, I was– I wasn't good enough, a-and I probably shouldn't have survived–”

“Hey.” Harry interrupts, causing Draco to flinch. He bites his lip. “We needed you. As messed up as everything was… I wouldn't have been able to defeat Voldemort without you.”

“Why? Because I was scared of turning you in? Of being responsible for your death too?” He spits, the venom directed at himself this time. “… Honestly, what does a Gryffindor value in a coward like me anyway?”

Harry groans, leaning back on the bed a little. He doesn't feel like the atmosphere is too thick to move anymore, at least.

“Draco, do you honestly think I still care about the House stuff? I haven't since I was about fifteen, and I left all that behind entirely when we graduated.” He takes a second to rub his temple. It doesn't do anything to alleviate the headache. He never did get that drink of water. “And if it matters so much to you, my parents knew a Gryffindor twice the coward you are, so if you're going to blame the Sorting Hat, I won't believe it either.”

The room is quiet again. It doesn't feel as small. Harry turns to face Draco, crossing his legs on the bed.

“How long have you been holding on to something like that?”

Draco lays curled up on his side for several seconds, then shrugs. “I don't know. When something like that… bothers me, I just push it somewhere else, so I don't have to think about it. So I can still function like I always do.”

Harry nods, looking out across the room again. It's dark, but the hallway’s back.

“I think… this is “somewhere else,” Draco. This is where what bothers you goes. You feel alone and unsafe, and it stalks outside this room. You feel like a failure, and it's soaking the bathroom floor. You’ve been betrayed by a friend, and it's an inextinguishable fire. Isn't that right?”

Draco slowly nods. Harry starts to reach towards him, but hesitates. He doesn't know if he’s fully won Draco over yet.

“Can I ask you a different question now?”

Draco looks up at him from the corner of his eye, silently giving him permission. The air prickles with anxiety, but it's not overwhelming his thoughts yet.

“I understand why you did it. The potion. But, why were you trying to come upstairs…?”

Draco’s face morphs into confusion. He rolls over, propping himself up a bit. “What do you mean?”

Harry rubs the back of his neck. It's a tension headache, all right. “You brewed it in the kitchen downstairs. But when I found you, you were on the ground floor. It's actually why I heard you fall, the sound travelled up the main staircase.”

A look of recognition hits Draco’s eyes, immediately followed by horror, then… embarrassment. He sits up and hugs his knees again, looking down.

“I don't remember going upstairs, but I… I did… regret taking it.” Now Harry's eyes widen. Draco continues, “I-I’m a coward, Harry. I couldn't keep facing my mind like that, night after night. And I– I didn't want to die, Harry, I just… I was so tired, I needed a solution.” He looks at Harry, but not at his face. “I felt it take effect almost immediately. And I realised too late that I… I-I probably wouldn't wake up. I just wanted to be with you one more time. Maybe you'd… save me, I guess.”

Slowly, Draco reaches out, taking Harry’s hand. His hand isn't cold like it usually is, nor is it very solid. It feels exactly like the rest of the force his mind has been exerting on Harry, only more concentrated into the shape of a hand. Harry squeezes back anyway. Draco’s breath hitches, and he blinks away tears.

“I messed up. I'm sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Harry. I-I wish I could tell you that. I wish I could've told you all of this instead.”

Harry calmly smiles at him. It's not exactly award-winning– it’s tired and lopsided and filled with so much guilt and concern, yet Draco can't help the way it makes his heart flutter.

“You still can, Draco. And I’ll listen to all of it more openly. I promise. Do… do you want to get out of here with me?”

The light in the hallway flickers on. Slowly, Draco smiles back; just a little, but it's enough.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Draco wakes up at 6 o’clock on the dot.

Somewhere in London, Harry's alarm is going off, but nobody is home to reset it.