FIC: Just Like A Gryffindor (Harry/Draco, NC-17) (Part 1 of 4)

Title: Just Like A Gryffindor
Author: Anj (anjenue)
Pairing: Harry/Draco, hints of Snape/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~34,000 in four parts (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4)
Summary: Draco hasn't gotten over the war yet, but the real problem is that everyone else has. So when an old curse comes back to haunt him, maybe he doesn't resent it quite as much as he should.
A/N: Thank you so much to Di for the speedy and awesome beta job, and of course to gmth for running Merry Smutmas again. This fic was actually really hard for me to write, since the recipient asked for pretty much everything that I had written before for H/D or Snaco and trying to reinvent that threatened to break my brain. But I finally managed to come up with something, and I'm actually rather pleased with it. :D Also, though my recipient dropped out, I was very happy that glockgal got it, because I can't imagine anyone more deserving of a bonus gift. ♥


Draco Malfoy sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. His vision blurred as his eyes fought to adjust to the light, the moon-glow painting the room in shades of silver and blue, and his fingers twitched where they were curled tight in the bedspread. His skin was cold and clammy, and his chest felt tight, like he'd been crushed slowly in a vise.

After a few long, breathless moments, he scrabbled for the buttons on his silk pajama jacket, yanking them free with clumsy, sweat-slippery fingers, and then tugged the fabric off and dropped it over the side of the high bed to pool in shadow on the floor. He looked down at his chest, raising a hand to follow the silvery serpentine scars twisting their way across his otherwise-smooth skin. They were barely noticeable usually, unless you knew what you were looking for, but right now they looked angry, rose-red against lily white, and he hissed as a fingertip brushed against one, making his nerve endings scream with sharp pain.

He hated the reminder of what Harry Potter had done to him, less than two years ago now, hated the fact that he would always have that four-eyed prat's marks all over him, but he loved it at the same time because it reminded him of Snape, the spell Snape invented to deal with cocky bastards just like Potter, which had then been turned around and used on Draco, of all people. He hated that he'd let Potter get close enough to almost kill him, but he loved that he'd survived it. He hated that he'd never gotten a chance to pay Potter back for what he'd done, but - and this was the part he'd never share with anyone - he loved the fact that it had changed him. Not just his skin, though that was a definite, unfortunate modification that he could live without, but just the fact that he'd seen how powerful Potter was, what he would be dealing with if he committed to the Death Eaters, had helped sway him away from that path, and was quite possibly the reason he was still alive right now. For some people, it had been too late, he thought with a bitter curl of his lip, but for others, like himself, and, mercifully, his family, there had still been a chance.

Potter. The fucking saviour of the Wizarding World.

It wasn't that Draco wasn't glad Potter had won. Pureblood supremacy, it would seem, wasn't all it was cracked up to be, especially since the Dark Lord himself had been a Mudblood. Draco's ideas hadn't changed on that front necessarily, but he had learned that moral and social beliefs generally had no place in politics, save as a leg to prop up the political platform. No, what he was angry about there too was the constant reminder of what Potter had done. His name in the paper every day, the fixations of the gossip columns (not that Draco read them, but still), the dedication ceremonies, the state dinners, the fact that Potter was in line to become a fucking Auror - it was all too...sickeningly goody-two-shoes, and it made Draco want to vomit.

Right now, though, he hardly needed to think of Potter to feel that - the pain was doing a good enough job on his own. It didn't make any sense, the liquid burn under his flesh, the way his skin felt singed, the steady throb of blood through his temples that seemed to pulse white-hot along the snaking curvature of the old slash marks. The wounds were long since healed, Snape had promised him that, and yet...

Draco sighed, dropping back against the pillow and staring at the ceiling. As if the uproarious reminders of Potter every day weren't irritating enough, it seemed that now he was cursed to remember him at night too, in the most unpleasant way possible. He curled his hands into fists, wondering if this was in fact a curse, Weasley's idea of a joke, perhaps (though he was pretty well certain Weasley wasn't nearly clever enough for that), and then reached into his bedside drawer, pulling out a tiny phial of sleeping potion.

'Healing sleep,' he muttered, uncorking the phial and lifting his head just enough so he could drink it. 'I hope it works for this too, Professor.'

He was asleep in a matter of moments.

+

Draco spent the majority of the next day in a fit of paranoia that any moment, his skin would start burning again. His mother asked him, worriedly, what was the matter, and even his father seemed concerned (which, for Lucius, meant a lot of frowning and meaningful glaring), but he dodged their questions and escaped to the library at his earliest convenience. He spent the afternoon in there, looking for anything on unusual scar behaviour, but after three or four hours, his attention wandered to how far across the room he could chuck the books. He felt restless - the itch under his skin this time was psychological rather than physical, but no less intense, and no less painful to deal with. The fact remained that he was an adult now, but still lived at home with his parents, had no prospects of what to do with his life, and could no longer even stand the girl who was supposed to be his wife someday. Quite frankly, Draco Malfoy, who had once practically owned Hogwarts, was now a complete loser, and it was all thanks to...

And it was back to bloody Potter again. Some days, Draco wondered what life would have been like had Potter decided to be friends with him on that first day. It was likely good that he hadn't, since Draco gathered he'd grown more as a person being Potter's enemy than he would have being his friend (Weasley being a prime example of that), but it didn't make it any less annoying. Yes, he was glad he'd changed, but that meant that now he knew he was unhappy, that what he had wasn't enough for him, and at this point, it felt like he would rather not have known. Of course, that would likely have involved him being dead.

At the moment, though, that almost seemed like a better option.

Dinner was a tense affair, since Draco spent it picking at his food while his parents exchanged worried looks over his head, but when Lucius snapped at Draco to stop sulking, Draco simply said that he had a headache and was going to bed early, thanks very much. He almost expected his father to wallop him, since on one level he was aware he was being impossible, but he managed to escape to his room unscathed, and then flung himself down onto his belly across his mattress and glared at the wall in irritation.

'That sleeping draught you took last night does not have irritation as a side effect, Mister Malfoy. There is no reason for you to conduct yourself in such a sullen manner.'

Draco lifted his head. 'I know that,' he said sharply.

Snape raised a brow, oil-black eyes burning bright. 'You will cease your use of that insolent tone this instant.'

Draco sighed. 'Sorry,' he muttered, dropping his head forward against his folded hands. It seemed that now even the paintings were going to scold him. Fantastic.

After a moment, Draco heard the faint rustle of painted fabric, and then Snape said, 'You are far superior to this life you are leading. Why do you persist in idleness?'

'I'm rich,' Draco replied without lifting his head. 'I'm supposed to live a lazy lifestyle.'

A snort. 'So you may end up like your father, all entitlement and little intelligence? I think not, Draco. I know quite well that you do not ever wish to be backed into a corner with no way out, the way Lucius was, and to avoid that, you must choose your own path. Why do you refuse to attend university as your mother suggested?'

Draco sat up in barely veiled frustration. 'Because she wants me to be a model little academic, and that's not me. You know that.'

'I do indeed,' Snape replied dryly. 'But the fact remains that you can have academic pursuits without being an academic. Rothenburg has an excellent school of potions arts where you may--'

'I don't want to move to Germany,' Draco grumbled. 'I may be going stir-crazy here, but it's still my home.'

'Is it?' Snape's other brow went up. 'Or is it your shelter from the outside world?'

Draco said nothing, glaring daggers at the bedspread.

'You will have to face it eventually, Draco.'

'I thought you said,' Draco bit out, 'that I had to choose my own path.'

'Yes,' Snape replied, equally acerbic, 'but that means choosing a path, not simply saying "I don't want to become a Potter disciple". Negation is not the same as directionality.'

'But you chose your path because you didn't want that woman to die. Isn't that a negation?'

Snape's nostrils flared. 'Her name,' he said evenly, 'was Lily. And yes. It was a negation.'

'Then?'

Snape pressed his lips together. 'You're stronger than I was,' he murmured, and sounded almost sad. 'You can do better than I did.'

It's not too late for you.

For the assertions Snape made, Draco might have come up with an argument, but it was what Snape hadn't said that stopped his mouth.

+

By the time Draco finally changed into his pajamas, Snape had disappeared, presumably to go check in at Hogwarts again. Draco had gotten used to falling asleep with an empty frame next to his bed much more quickly than he had initially gotten used to falling asleep under his former Head of House's watchful eye - it had, of course, been his choice to have the painting moved into his room from the portrait hall in the East Wing, but that hadn't prepared him for the very odd sensation of being watched while he slept. Especially by Snape, who had the most piercing gaze Draco had ever experienced.

That he got to experience his former mentor's gaze at all, though, was a luxury, but again, another pleasure he would never admit to. Having Snape around reminded him of things he needed to be reminded of. He didn't want to remember them - didn't at all enjoy the memory of being saved by Potter, of watching Crabbe die because he was too stupid to listen, or to understand subtlety, of being surrounded by death and hatred and realising that was what he'd stood for his whole life, of feeling so out of place that it was almost preferable to have died rather than to be pitied, of hearing of Snape's death, and then of having to sit there while Potter spoke about what an amazing man Snape was, which Draco had known all along (granted, he hadn't known amazing in what sense, or just how Slytherin Snape had been, but at least he'd respected him from the get-go)... They were all memories he would much rather be without. But he'd found, within the first few weeks following that final battle, that remembering what had happened to him was far preferable to pretending it never existed, like his mother and, to some extent, his father were insisting on.

He could certainly understand the reason his parents would want to forget about it, to move past it and start afresh, and he appreciated that mindset, but starting afresh without processing the old wasn't going to get them anywhere either. What he was doing wasn't much better - fixating on the past was a waste of time, and he knew it. But he didn't know how to move beyond it, not yet, and just shoving it to the shadowed recesses of his mind and forgetting it was there would only come back to haunt him in the end. He knew that, because that was what had happened with the doubts he'd had about the Dark Lord, the bitter rejection-turned-hatred caused by Potter, and so forth. No, Draco learned his lessons.

Snape had seen to that.

I wish you were still here, he thought in the general direction of the portrait frame, even though Snape wouldn't be there to hear the words were they to be spoken aloud. Draco didn't know if he'd ever be able to say them aloud, but then he also knew that Snape didn't need him to.

+

'Don't kill him! Don't kill him!'

'Expelliarmus!'

'Avada Kedavra!'

'It's somewhere here--'

'Like it hot, scum?'

'The door, get to the door!'

'...C-Crabbe...'

'He's dead.'

Draco jerked awake, sheet-tangled, sweat-chilled, scars burning in throbbing waves beneath his skin. His hands shook, his head pounded, and a sudden wave of nausea hit him and he retched, bending over the side of the mattress and taking deep breaths in an attempt not to throw up. Crabbe's face, white with terror, was burned across the insides of his eyelids, and every time he blinked he could see it, the horror slicing through the ever-present dull stare until his face lit with life in a way it never had when he'd actually been alive.

Once the worst of the sickness had passed, Draco sat up again, taking deep, cooling breaths and trying to calm his thoughts. What had happened to Crabbe had never hit him this hard before - he'd gone through a period of shock, and then it had sunk in and he'd been upset to have lost his childhood friend, but never like this. He'd never felt it so...viscerally, like his entire being was protesting the fact that it had happened.

Goyle still didn't understand. He would never get why Draco was upset about Crabbe - that he hadn't been able to do anything, because he knew better than the both of them but had had no influence anymore. "It was his own fault," Goyle had replied offhandedly when Draco had brought it up. "He should have listened to you like we always did."

Draco couldn't tell if that made him smarter or stupider than Crabbe.

He sighed and reached for another phial of sleeping potion. He hadn't had to use it much over the past several months, as he'd adjusted to what had happened and the feelings of abject terror had ebbed away, but it seemed that his reprieve was now coming back to bite him in the ass.

+

Two similarly traumatic nights later, Draco was starting to wonder if something was seriously wrong with him. The possibility that it might be a curse seemed more plausible now, though he didn't know of any nightmare curses that could be cast from a distance like that, and since he only ever saw his parents (and Snape), the likelihood of it being one of the nightmare curses he did know about seemed minuscule at best.

A few more hours in the library turned up very little, save a book on vodou that he almost considered before laughing at himself for his ridiculous paranoia and flinging the book across the room to join the steadily-growing pile of rejects. He didn't want to ask his parents about this, since they would only fuss, and that was the last thing he wanted. He did know, however, that he wouldn't be able to keep up a façade for long though, since even glamours were starting to prove inadequate to cover the pasty-whiteness of his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the bloodlessness of his lips, and they certainly did nothing for the way he was shuffling around like one of those zombies mentioned in the vodou reading. On top of that, he only had two more phials of sleeping potion left, and so he was going to have to venture out for more ingredients. Even he wasn't about to deceive himself into thinking the nightmares would stop on their own.

Three quarters of an hour later, he Apparated into Diagon Alley, upsetting a canoodling young couple, who gave him dirty looks as he scowled at them for inconveniencing him and then stalked off with a dramatic swirl of his robes. (At least he could still manage that.) People moved out of the way for him, either because they recognised him as one of those Malfoys or because they knew when someone was their better, Draco didn't care which. His stride was purposeful - he wanted to get in, get out, and get home as quickly as possible, before he ran into someone he knew who would start asking him--

'I'm so sorry, I didn't see you comi-- Malfoy?'

Draco froze. The urge to run away screaming was as strong as it had been when he was a boy, perhaps stronger now after all was said and done, but he made himself stand taller, transforming his expression from horror to appropriate disdain before turning to look down at the man who never seemed to get the fuck out of his life.

'Potter,' he replied, with (paradoxical) hostile neutrality.

Years of being a Slytherin had taught him to conceal his reactions, but his first thought upon seeing Harry Potter was wow, he looks like shit. He hadn't even tried to glamour away the circles under his eyes, and he was, if possible, even paler than Draco. Not that Draco had any desire to compare himself to Potter, thanks very much. Besides that, Potter had always been a shabby dresser, but this was even worse - he looked like he'd inherited Lupin's wardrobe. His hair was even more of a rat's nest than usual, and Draco was fairly well certain that was a smudge of chocolate on his glasses.

When Potter said nothing for a moment, Draco added, 'Is that meant to be your disguise to conceal your whereabouts from your rabid horde of fangirls?'

Potter sighed, running a hand through his hair and making it stand more on end. 'Shut up, Malfoy,' he said wearily. The challenge was gone from his voice, and really, he just sounded like he wanted nothing more than to drop this and be on his way.

This, inevitably, made Draco furious.

'What's the matter, Potter? Too good for old schoolmates now that you're famous, eh?' The vitriol in Draco's voice was only somewhat assumed - it held up strongly on a base of bitterness and frustration.

'Malfoy, you're making a scene.' Potter was still speaking evenly, voice quiet and gaze sliding about as if he was afraid of being noticed. 'Look, I'm sorry I knocked you, all right? Let's just...leave it.'

'Giving up so soon?' Draco felt a bit better already, finally getting to lash out at the person who'd made him who he was now instead of sitting around at home thinking about things that only served to make him feel miserable and frustrated and helpless; he didn't know where the words themselves were coming from - old habit, he assumed - but they kept coming, and he didn't even consider checking them. 'Well, well, Potter, and I thought you had a competitive streak, yet here you are conceding defeat already. Tired of fighting?'

Potter's eyes flashed behind his glasses, and Draco took an involuntary step back as Potter almost seemed to swell, the static electricity of his hair crackling as he drew himself up until he was almost equal height with Draco and glared at him like he was casting Avada Kedavra with his eyes. 'Yes,' he spat, coldly, and that single word made Draco flinch.

So this is the most powerful Wizard we have, Draco thought, and might have felt a bit awed were he not so simultaneously scared and infuriated. That was a bad combination when it came to Draco, and even he knew it, but he wasn't thinking about that at the moment. All he was thinking about was the way this confrontation was making him feel alive somehow, the way the tension of so many weeks and months of torture by solitary confinement was pouring out of him in waves, the way he felt better just falling back into his old patterns of behaviour, from before any of this happened, before his father went to Azkaban and the Dark Lord took over their lives completely and everything started to go to shit. And as a result, instead of listening to the terrified part of his brain, he grabbed onto the anger and went with it.

'Then you've certainly chosen the wrong fucking profession, haven't you, Boy Wonder?'

'Malfoy.'

Draco shut his mouth, staring at Potter in open, morbid fascination. This wasn't the Potter who failed his Potions exams or shrank away from the crowds or committed public indecency with the Weaslette. This was the Potter who'd defeated the Dark Lord without once backing down or giving in. This was the textbook Potter that Draco'd learned about as a child. This was the Potter that Draco had always admired.

This was the Potter you didn't want to cross.

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments, and then finally, Draco gave. 'Fine,' he said, shrugging. 'Your loss. You know how to find me should you ever grow a spine.'

Potter glared at him, but said nothing else, the apparent exhaustion taking hold again. He pulled off his glasses, raising a hand to rub his eyes, and Draco noted absently how young Potter looked without them. Bare-faced like this, Potter could almost be a mere mortal, like the rest of them.

'Oh, and Potter? A friendly word of advice. The beauty sleep isn't working.'

Potter snorted, passing his hand over his face before perching his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. 'You should fix your regimen first before you start offering advice to others,' he retorted, but in such a halfhearted manner that Draco couldn't even summon up the energy to be properly offended.

'Hey -- it's Harry Potter!!!'

Besides, Draco thought as Potter's expression turned frantic and he fumbled for his wand. There was something satisfying about seeing Potter so discombobulated without him having to do any of the work. And really, watching him get mobbed by fangirls before he could Apparate made Draco's week a whole lot brighter.

+

'Your stirring has gotten sloppy, Mister Malfoy.'

Draco added the hibiscus root to the swampy green slurry, watching as it turned a bright red before starting to stir again. Snape made a sound of disapproval, but Draco ignored him. Or at least, he pretended to. Really, he could have made this potion just about anywhere else, but the reason he was doing it in his bedroom was so Snape could watch him and make disapproving sounds. It was comforting, familiar, and it made him more confident because it felt like being back at school again, being the top student in the class, instead of just some nameless faceless Death Eater wannabe.

'Do pay attention, Draco - you must add the foxglove blossoms now or else--'

'--or else it'll explode and turn my skin bright purple for a week, I know.' Draco raised a sardonic brow as he stirred in the flowers. 'I did actually learn something in your class, you know.'

'Wonders never cease,' Snape snorted, folding his arms, but watched in silence as Draco finished the stirs - fourteen times counter-clockwise - and then set the rod down, letting the potion steep over the heat. Draco preempted his your workstation, Mister Malfoy by beginning to clean up as soon as the potion could be safely left to its own devices, and earned for his trouble another snort and a grudging, 'At least you're better at this than Longbottom was,' which was Snape's way of giving a compliment.

Draco smiled, then hid it by biting his lip. 'Only marginally though, I'm sure,' he countered.

'Mm.'

'At least you aren't asking me to move your frame to a different county, so I suppose that must be an improvement.'

That earned him a chuckle. 'I suppose so,' Snape replied. 'A very slight improvement.'

They fell silent as Draco put away his equipment with great care and then wiped down the surface of the table. The potion wasn't quite ready yet, so Draco flopped down onto his chair and stared into the swirling liquid. It was hypnotic, the alternating bands of sky and royal blue that spiralled toward the centre of the potion - it would eventually be a uniform teal colour, but until then, Draco was content to stare into its depths and zone out, the almost-sleepless nights taking their toll.

'For what purpose is this potion to be used?'

Draco looked up, blinking heavy eyelids, and then smirked. 'For sleeping.'

'Brat,' Snape replied, acidulous tone tinged with a hint of fondness. 'Why do you require a potion to sleep?'

Draco shrugged, smirk falling from his face, and turned back to look into the cauldron. 'Been having nightmares again,' he mumbled, barely audible.

Of course, it was Snape, so naturally he heard. 'What sort of nightmares?'

'About...about that night. About Crabbe.'

Snape fell silent for a moment, and Draco could hear his frown. 'But you did not experience such dreams before?'

'No. There were some that were disturbing, but in a very abstract sort of way.'

'Hm.' Snape pursed his lips. 'It would seem that you are just now able to process the events in a more rooted manner. If that is the case, then it would seem this is a healthy, if unpleasant, stage of your growth.'

Draco scowled, folding his arms on the table. 'I've grown enough, thanks.'

'Draco.'

The note of real displeasure in Snape's voice eased Draco's frown slightly, but he continued to stare into the cauldron instead of looking over at Snape. Snape, too, was silent for a long moment, and then finally, Draco heard him exhale.

'Is it helping, at least?'

'I don't know.' Draco sighed too, tracing a whorl in the wood with a fingertip. 'Obviously it's putting me back to sleep after I wake up, but it's the very same thing the next night - horrible dreams, cold sweat, breathlessness, pain so severe it makes my eyeballs hurt--'

'You are experiencing pain as well?' Snape sounded surprised and, much to Draco's equal satisfaction and concern, worried. 'What sort of pain?'

'My scars,' Draco replied, quietly. He didn't have to specify which ones - it was a sore point for both of them. 'It's like...the wounds have been opened up again, only they hurt under the skin, as if they're being cauterised from within somehow.'

'And this happens every night?'

Draco nodded. 'I go to bed feeling fine and then wake up in absolute, blood-curdling agony.'

Snape ignored the hyperbole and began pacing his frame. 'Why did you not mention this before?'

'You're never around at night to mention it to,' Draco snapped, and then leaned forward onto the table again, suddenly weary. 'And I hoped that I'd be able to figure out how to fix it so nobody would have to know. But nothing's worked yet.'

'And it is only at night?'

'Yes.' Draco shut his eyes. 'Fortunately. I don't know that I'd be able to handle it all the time.'

'Nobody can,' Snape muttered. Draco was under the impression the words were not meant for his ears, but Snape was a bloody painting, and Draco's painting at that, so Draco wasn't about to just pretend he hadn't heard them.

'What do you mean "nobody can"? This is normal?'

'Hardly.' Snape grimaced. 'I have only heard of one other case, yet it was pervasive enough to affect others as well.'

'What are you talking about? Stop being cryptic and...'

Draco trailed off as he saw Snape's hand go to his left arm.

'...the Mark?'

Snape nodded grimly.

'You're joking.'

'I wish I were, Mister Malfoy.' Snape's voice was threaded through with regret. 'Unfortunately, that is the only widely documented study of one wizard affecting another via cursed scars.'

Draco shuddered, fingers going to his unmarred forearm. Had he succeeded at the mission he'd been assigned, he would have received the Mark, with all the pomp and circumstance (and screaming) of a proper initiation ceremony. Had he not, though, he would have been dead. Draco considered himself lucky for having escaped mostly unscathed, but never had he felt it so strongly as he did right now, hearing Snape explain the true power of the Mark.

'He could control....?'

'Yes,' Snape replied. 'You know of course about the summoning properties of the Mark. However, there is also...mind control, manipulation by pain, direct imbuing of spells via the curse-connection, even forced Apparation to a location other than the Dark Lord's, should he so require it.'

'But...' Draco flexed his fingers, then folded his arms again, tight against his chest. '...but I don't understand. That was deliberate on his part, to be able to do that, was it not? What does that have to do with me?'

A scowl. 'The remainder of that story, Mister Malfoy, is the part that is not documented. The one person who was not deliberately branded by the Dark Lord, but was branded nonetheless, was subject to the Dark Lord's whims as well. However, in that case, it was involuntary, connected to strong emotion such as rage or frustration or even happiness, and was manifested in the form of debilitating nightmares.'

Draco froze, and slowly looked back up at Snape. 'You mean Potter.'

'I mean Potter,' Snape confirmed. 'His scar was the unknown variable, and while the Dark Lord could use his rage to punish the individuals who had taken the Mark freely, anything Potter experienced was merely...leakage. It was not until later that the Dark Lord learnt of this connection and used it to his advantage.'

'His...'

Draco was starting to feel sick. His clothes were stifling him, and his breath was coming shorter, and he wanted to get away from this conversation, take a phial of potion, and sleep for a week, preferably two.

'So at first, Potter was having nightmares because the Dark Lord did not make the effort to control the connection, because he did not know better, but then the nightmares came because the Dark Lord orchestrated them?'

'Correct.' Snape nodded. 'Curse scars are strong, and even Occlumency does not always protect one fully from the onslaught.'

'So...the reason I'm having nightmares is because of my curse scars?'

Snape scowled. 'It would seem so, yes.'

'And there is no cure.'

'Short of learning to control it, no.'

'I do know Occlumency,' Draco thought aloud. 'I could practise that, work on closing my mind unconsciously so it will happen automatically when I am asleep, and...' He trailed off at Snape's piercing stare, and raised a brow in a silent what?!

'It must be controlled by both sides,' Snape clarified. 'With the Mark, we were only subject to the Dark Lord's mood swings when he wished us to be, as he had learned to control that aspect and could turn it on and off like a faucet. However, since your affliction is presumably involuntary...'

'Bugger,' Draco grumbled. 'You mean I have to go track this person down and explain to him what is going on? It's like finding a Knut in a pile of Galleons. That is the most--what now?'

Snape was still staring at him, pointedly. He said nothing for several long moments, and then, when Draco didn't fill in the blank, he sighed and shook his head. 'Draco. The Mark, and Potter's scar, were both results of the Dark Lord casting a spell, deliberately.'

'Yes....' Draco replied. 'And?'

'And the Dark Lord was the only one who could control the Mark fully.'

'What's your point?'

As soon as the words were out of Draco's mouth, he got it. His mouth dropped open, and he stared at Snape in shock and absolute disgust. 'Please tell me you're joking.'

'I assure you, Mister Malfoy, I wish it were so.'

'Great,' Draco groaned, slumping back against the table again. As if it weren't enough that his week was rapidly turning into an exercise in insomnia, now he was faced with the possibility that the cause of it, yet again, was one Harry Potter.

+

'This is stupid,' Draco muttered to himself as he eyed the terrace suspiciously. For the fourth time since Apparating to the (very Muggle) neighbourhood, he considered Apparating straight back home and just dealing with it, but the memory of the nightmares he'd had to deal with the night before steeled his resolve. They were getting worse by the day, it seemed, and they were going to have to fix this now or else Draco might never regain his youthful good looks.

Sighing, he raised a gloved hand to the little brass knocker. Three taps, and then a voice called, 'Just a second!'

Draco took a step back just in time for Potter to yank the door open, poking his rumpled head out and blinking owlishly in the dim evening light. 'Can I help--'

Potter's eyes widened in recognition, and then narrowed and he took a step forward, blocking the doorway. 'What do you want, Malfoy?'

'I see your manners have not improved from the other day,' Draco retorted, lifting a brow, but when Potter made to step back and slam the door in Draco's face, he changed tactics. 'That is, I simply wanted to talk.'

'Talk.' Potter's brows went up in incredulity. 'You want to talk to me. Is that rich-boy code for "hexing"?'

Draco snorted. 'No, that's "having a tea party",' he retorted, deadpan.

Potter's lips twitched noticeably before he jerked them flat, dialing his glare up a notch. 'So you don't want to hex me. What do you want then? I refuse to believe you just want to have a nice little chat, catch up on the old days, reminisce about that time you turned into a ferret....'

Draco clenched his jaw, taking a deep breath. It was tempting to hex Potter's lights out and leave it at that, but there was no guarantee that that would stop his nightmares. Though it would feel very, very good.

'That is all I require, Potter. A simple, civilised conversation, if that's not too difficult for you to manage.'

Potter sighed, running a hand through his hair. Draco thought he was about to get another weary brush-off, but then Potter took a step forward, pulling the door half-shut behind him, and folded his arms. 'Fine,' he said. 'You wanted to talk, so talk.'

Draco looked around in disgust. 'Here?'

Potter gave him a Look.

Draco sighed. 'Fine,' he said, pulling his cloak a bit tighter around himself. 'I assume the front step is glamoured?'

'Disillusionment charm.'

'Of course.' Draco rolled his eyes. 'You never did have--' He caught himself before he could insult Potter again, since while Potter was all Gryffindor-y, he did not, as Draco had learned, have infinite patience, and Draco really needed to get this out.

'So.'

'So...?'

Draco sighed, folding his arms as well. 'I was wondering...you look like you haven't been sleeping much lately. Is there a reason for that?'

Potter drew himself up taller, expression turning cold. 'What's it to you?'

'I have no desire to hear about your strange sordid fantasies about the Weaslette,' Draco replied, pulling his spine straight as well. 'This is not an attempt to pry into your personal life, because frankly, I could care less.'

'Good,' Potter replied, but he didn't relax, still eyeing Draco warily.

'I ask because...I haven't been sleeping very well lately either, and I am inclined to believe there is a connection.'

Potter snorted. 'Oh, that's rich,' he scoffed. 'The world does not revolve around you, Malfoy. Just because you're having nightmares doesn't--'

'I never said I was having nightmares.'

Potter shut up, face turning pasty white, and Draco coughed to hide his smirk.

After a moment, Potter took a deep breath. 'All right. So I've been having nightmares. What does that have to do with you?'

Draco stared at Potter for a beat, and then unfolded his arms, fingers moving to the fastening of his cloak, and then the buttons of his coat.

'What are you doing?'

Draco didn't reply, simply unfastening the buttons one at a time, graceful even with gloved fingers, and not looking away from the increasing discombobulation on Potter's face. The jacket finally fell open, and Draco reached for the buttons on his shirt, before--

'Malfoy, stop.'

Draco arched a brow. 'I thought you wanted to know what your nightmares had to do with me,' he said pointedly.

Potter's forehead creased. 'What, are they being caused by the frightening whiteness of your chest?'

Draco snorted. 'You're almost as pale as I am,' he said with a smirk. 'That attempted insult doesn't have quite the same effect.'

Potter rolled his eyes, but fell silent, a faint hint of pink tingeing his cheeks. Interesting. Draco hadn't taken Potter for the modest type, though obviously he was a total prude - anyone who spent that much time with the youngest Weasleys and Granger would have to be. Though Draco had heard some stories about the eldest...

He finished with the buttons on his shirt, and let it fall open, baring his chest. He'd left his undershirt off in a preemptive attempt to maximise the drama of his demonstration, which it seemed was a good idea as Potter's eyes widened and he took an involuntary step forward, corners of his mouth turning down.

'Is that...'

'Yes, Potter.' Draco sighed in a long-suffering manner. 'Those are the scars from that lovely curse you decided to acquaint me with. And yes, they are red. Very red. Very painful too, so don't you dare touch.'

Potter looked up, and Draco almost sucked in a breath at how honestly contrite Potter looked. Guilt was a good expression for him, Draco was finding, and he'd be interested in seeing if he could coax that look out of Potter more often, only that would require seeing him more often, and Draco really wanted nothing more than to fix this and move on with his life, Potter-free.

'Your scars have been...'

'They've been hurting,' Draco confirmed. 'Burning, every time I wake up. I spoke to Snape and he mentioned that you...'

Potter's eyes went a bit glassy at the mention of Snape's name, and then he dropped his head, staring listlessly at the ground. 'He told you that.'

It wasn't a question, but Draco answered anyway. 'Of course he did. He is my mentor, after all. He only wants what's best for me.'

Potter grunted wordlessly, scuffing his toe against the stone step. 'Mine hasn't hurt me since Voldemort--'

'Bully for you,' Draco interrupted him in an attempt to counter the chill he knew was coming at the mere mention of the Dark Lord's name. 'That's because he's long gone, no? You, however, are not.'

'You think I'm causing your nightmares?' Potter finally lifted his head, looking incredulous. 'Bollocks.'

'Not at all - it makes perfect sense,' Draco countered. 'The Dark Lord--'

'Voldemort.'

Draco shuddered. 'Whatever. He left you with a curse scar, which proceeded to hurt whenever he was experiencing strong flashes of emotion, right? Well you left me with several curse scars, so I can only assume they hurt when you experience strong bursts of emotion. Such as, oh, I don't know, nightmares, perhaps?'

Potter scowled. 'But we're not linked the way Voldemort and I were. It's not like I put some of my soul into you--'

Draco gave Potter a Look.

Potter winced. 'You've got to be bloody joking.'

'I wish I were,' Draco replied in a scarily accurate echo of Snape's tone from the night before. 'But that's the only feasible explanation. Snape did say that the spell was Dark magic, and so while it might not be on the same level as the Unforgivables, it's pretty damn close, so I wouldn't be surprised if--'

'But that's not possible.' Potter was starting to get hysterical now. 'I wasn't in the process of making Horcruxes; there wasn't a death involved; it doesn't make sense that you would...'

'Yes it does,' Draco replied with faux patience. 'Honestly, Potter. Rudimentary magical theory. Every spell a wizard casts contains a minuscule fragment of his soul. The weaker or simpler or, in Gryffindor terms, whiter the spell, the tinier the particle, until it's barely noticeable, and in fact in many cases may strengthen the wizard via a simple energy exchange. The more powerful or darker spells have more of a trade-off, or in other words, a larger sacrificial fragment. It's not anything like making a Horcrux, because it's magic exchange instead of magical displacement, but the principles are in effect the same - balance, conservation, et cetera. Surely you didn't believe you could get something out of nothing?'

From the way Potter blinked, it was clear that he had. Or at the very least, he'd never bothered to consider it before. Unsurprisingly.

Draco sighed. 'That's part of why Bellatrix went insane,' he said briskly. 'Too much casting of hyper-powerful spells without recuperation or appropriate penance, as some wizards like to call it, will take its toll on the mind.'

Potter blinked some more, stupidly. 'I'd never thought of it like that,' he said, slowly.

'Obviously,' Draco snorted. 'Well that's the way it works, anyway. The spell you used might as well have been an Unforgivable, and the Unforgivables are the most powerful of all - the Cruciatus and Imperius curses both cycle, so any energy or soul expended is returned immediately, often times twofold, if the target is weak enough. The exchange in the Killing Curse is even more pronounced, though I wouldn't consider it an exchange so much as a leaching. This one though...it wasn't of the same ilk as the Unforgivables, for all that it was on the same level of power expenditure, so it didn't have the same sort of loop. Shame, really - I should see if there's a possible modification that might make it--'

'Shut up.' Potter looked almost green, eyes blazing as he stared at Draco as if he wanted to burn him alive. 'You disgust me, Malfoy. The way you speak about Unforgivables, it's like you think they're...'

'Useful?' Draco shrugged, studying his fingernails. 'They can be. All spells have their uses, Potter, including the ones that blast bunions off a hobgoblin's arse. You just have to know when and where to use them.'

'I can't believe you just compared--' Potter cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head. 'No, you know what? Yes I can. You haven't changed at all, Malfoy.' He took a step back, slipping half behind the doorframe. 'We're done here.'

'You haven't told me how you're going to fix your little problem.' Draco stepped forward as well, putting a hand on the door so Potter couldn't slam it shut. 'I need my beauty sleep, you know.'

'Even sleeping for a hundred years wouldn't make you beautiful, Malfoy,' Potter spat. 'You're just an ugly person.'

'Excuse me?' Draco's expression slipped back into the familiar I-Hate-You moue of disgust as he glared at Potter, taking full advantage of the three inches he had on him.

'You heard me.' Potter's voice was harsh, unforgiving. 'I think you're making this shit up to garner you pity votes, Malfoy. Pathetic, if you ask me. Haven't you felt enough pity from your once-adoring public?'

Draco saw red. 'My life does not fucking exist to provide you with personalised torture and other forms of endless entertainment,' he snarled. 'You always were an egomaniacal--'

'Look who's talking!' Potter growled. 'You want to talk about ego!'

'There is a difference between confidence and arrogance,' Draco snapped. 'I have the former. You have the latter in spades, Boy Wonder.'

'Get out.' Potter's voice lost all heat and his eyes flashed green fire behind his glasses. 'Get the fuck off my property, Malfoy. I don't want to see you here again.'

'Good,' said Draco. 'I don't want to see your hideous face ever again.'

'Good.'

'Good.'

They glared at each other, white-faced with rage and standing about two inches apart, Draco in a position that could only prove dangerous should Potter decide to shut the door all of a sudden. Potter didn't though, choosing instead to stare Draco down, waiting for him to concede, but Potter would be waiting for that until the day he died, so instead, Draco simply smirked, lip curling in a pleasantly familiar sort of way.

'On that note, I suppose I shall take my leave,' he said, sweeping a mock-obsequious bow. 'Best of luck with your wet dreams - oh, sorry, nightmares. Do try not to scare yourself to death.'

Potter bared his teeth in a poor approximation of a grin. 'And you,' he returned. 'You had better get started on that beauty sleep right away - you'll need all the time you can get.'

And with that, Potter did slam the door in Draco's face, though with more of a quiet click than a massive bang, and with surprisingly little damage to Draco's person. Mostly, it was just his pride. And also his nipples, because fucking hell, it was cold outside, and his shirt was hanging open about his shoulders.

'A very bad idea,' Draco muttered, and tugged his robes tightly around his body before Apparating with a soft pop.

+

'That's my wand you're holding, Potter.'

'Not anymore. Winners, keepers.'

'No! If you wreck the room you might bury this diadem thing! Potter came in here to get it so that must mean--'

'Must mean? Who cares what you think?'

'If we die for them, I'll kill you, Harry!'

'What are you doing?! The door's that way!!'

'That's the second time we've saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!'

Draco jerked awake as he hit the floor, sheets tangled around his legs, pajama jacket half-off and twisting his arm behind his back. His heart raced, and he swallowed hard in an attempt to soothe his parched throat. When he was able to move again, he struggled out of the tangle of fabric and reached for the glass on his bedside table, spilling water into it and taking a deep, cooling draught, not stopping until he'd drunk it all.

Then he slumped back against the side of the bed, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. That had been the worst one yet, and he had the feeling that even a sleeping potion wouldn't let him rest again tonight.

'Did you not speak with Mister Potter this afternoon?'

Draco cracked one eyelid, then twisted around to look up at Snape's painting, which Snape was, unusually for this time of night, still in. 'I did.'

'To no avail?'

Draco shrugged. 'He seemed disinclined to believe I was being truthful.'

Snape scowled. 'Were he not Potter, I might commend him for his unwillingness to trust so easily, but instead I am simply disgusted by his--'

'--utter stupidity?'

A snort. 'I was going to say naiveté, but stupidity will suffice.'

Draco snorted as well, and leaned back against the bed again. He was exhausted, bone-weary to the point where his teeth ached, and if he didn't get some sleep soon he was going to start picking off Muggles with crotch-itch curses just to cheer himself up. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a second, then he would...

'So how come you three aren't with Voldemort?'

'We're gonna be rewarded. Decided to bring you to 'im.'

'I don't take your orders no more, Draco. You an' your dad are finished.'

'Like it hot, scum?'

'Draco.'

Draco jerked awake. His hands were clenched into fists, and he was trembling, though he managed to stop himself as soon as he became aware that he was doing it. Snape had already noticed though, and was eyeing him with mingled concern and sternness.

'You cannot continue like this,' he said, unnecessarily. 'If Potter is unable to see reason, you must simply make it plain to him that there is no reason involved.'

Draco rolled his eyes. 'And how do you suggest I do that? Show up in his bedroom, point at my face, and say, "oi, golden boy, you woke me up again"?'

Snape shrugged. 'If that is what it takes.'

'You have got to be kidding me.'

+

Ten minutes later, re-clad in his pajamas, wrapped in a velveteen robe, and wearing lambskin-lined slippers, Draco Apparated on Potter's front step again, arms wrapped tightly around himself to shield his body from the cold. Had he been smart, he would have worn something warmer, or at least cast a warming charm, but he just wanted to get this done with and get back to bed, which right now meant knocking until Potter got his arse out of bed and answered the door.

Unfortunately, after two minutes of near-continuous knocking, there was still no sign of Potter, and Draco was in danger of freezing off parts of himself that he'd be loath to part with. Since his choices at this point were to go back home and not sleep, or find a way in, he decided it was time to go back to Slytherin 101.

Exactly nineteen seconds later, he had managed to get Potter's wards down and his door unlocked. 'Very naive, Potter,' he muttered as he slipped through the door and cast a dim Lumos. Potter's home was sparse but...homey, in a disgustingly Gryffindor manner, and Draco picked his way past giant sacks that looked like they were maybe supposed to be chairs, a wall covered in framed photographs, a tiny kitchen, and a sitting room with a single sofa before finding what he assumed was Potter's bedroom. His suspicions were confirmed a moment later when he heard Potter moan, low and loud and ragged, like he'd been doing it for the better part of the evening, and Draco very deliberately dragged his mind back out of the gutter before he could follow that line of thought through to its inevitable conclusion, because he really didn't want to be thinking about Potter and...inevitable conclusions in even the same vicinity as each other.

The very unwelcome idea that perhaps Potter didn't answer the door because he was in fact engaged in sinful endeavours occurred to him, and he was on the verge of aborting his mission and coming back when Potter was no longer horizontal, but then he remembered that he'd been awoken by bad dreams, which meant that if Potter was being shameful with some unfortunate fan, then by going in there, Draco would be saving him from being scarred for life by Really Bad Sex.

Then he remembered that it was Potter and he didn't give a shit whether Potter was happy with this situation anyway, and pushed open the door without a second thought.

Potter was thrashing around (alone) on the bed, head rolling back and forth on the pillow, limbs fidgeting beneath the thin cotton sheets. In the slice of moonlight spilling through the window, Potter's glasses-free face was illuminated in a way that made him look like a young boy, but the furrow in his brow made absolutely clear the troubled nature of his dreams, as did the continual moans and mutterings of 'no, not Fred'. This was the Boy Wonder as few people ever got to see him, and for a moment, Draco's long-held fascination won out over his general hatred of Potter, and he just watched him, studying the lines of his face, made lean and angular with the years and the battles he'd fought, the sharp jut of his collarbones peeking out of the neck of his t-shirt, the wild mop of hair tangled on the pillow as his head flopped to one side, then the other, hopelessly knotting the thick strands...

Potter threw an arm out, grasping for an invisible assailant, and Draco snapped back to the present, reminded that he was tired and he wanted to go home and get into his own bed rather than looking longingly at Potter's (which he wasn't doing - he was simply observing). Another half-moan half-whimper made him take a step forward, and he reached out a hand and poked Potter in the shoulder.

Potter didn't wake.

'Oi, Potter,' Draco said, and then again, louder. 'Wake up, you speccy git.'

Potter still didn't wake, and Draco found that it was infinitely less satisfying to insult someone who wasn't aware he was being insulted. This entire endeavour was starting to wear on his nerves.

He sighed, and climbed up onto the bed for better leverage. Potter started thrashing some more, one hand smacking Draco in the stomach, and Draco gritted his teeth, rolling Potter over onto his back with a well-placed shove and pinning him in place by sitting on him. Then, in the most satisfying act of the day, he smacked Potter across the face.

'Potter. Wake up.'

Potter woke up.

In fact, Potter bolted upright, wildly, eyes wide and myopic, hands curled into defensive claws, and as Draco wasn't prepared for the sudden jolt of movement, Potter unbalanced him, knocking him back until he nearly tipped over backward; he leaned forward to compensate, throwing out a hand, and that was how, a few moments later, he found himself sprawled out atop Potter, face buried against Potter's throat, their bodies pressed together in what could very soon prove to be a dangerous and potentially embarrassing way. Not because Draco wanted anything to do with Potter, especially not in that way, but because Potter had yet to stop squirming.

'What the fuck are you doing in my room? Who are you? What do you want?'

Draco cleared his throat, taking a moment to curb his reactions, and then sat up, face arranged into a careless smirk, and brightened his Lumos until the room was washed with proper illumination.

'Malfoy?!' Potter blinked, stilling. 'What are you...'

'You were having a nightmare,' Draco replied flatly, sparing Potter's attempts to formulate a coherent question. 'I came to wake you up.'

Potter propped himself up on his elbows. 'Why?'

Draco rolled his eyes. 'Do you need me to show you again?' he asked sharply. 'Could you even see if I did show you?'

Potter stared at Draco in open-mouthed shock and confusion for a moment, and then his face twisted into a furious frown. 'Malfoy, what the fuck do you want?'

'I want you to stop having nightmares,' Draco retorted. 'I need to sleep. You are making it impossible. Fix it.'

Potter's expression didn't change. 'I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.'

'You did,' Draco replied with relative unconcern. 'But the fact remains that every time you have a nightmare, I suffer, and since you seem to have chosen the path of ignorance as so many of your little Godric disciples have done, I have no choice but to continue to harass you until you either see reason or, much more likely, get sick of me and do what I say just to get me to shut up.'

'Why does everything always have to be about you?' Potter exploded, and that quickly, Draco found himself being thrown off and to the side where he landed in an ungainly sprawl, limbs splayed out all directions and face smushed against Potter's (very scratchy) bedspread.

'About me?' Draco asked, voice muffled, and pushed himself up, deliberately, throwing a blazing gaze over his shoulder. 'The fuck it's all about me. You're the one who thinks the sun shines out of your arse so you can't possibly have done any lasting damage to anyone. Wake up, Potter. Magic is magic, no matter how "good" the wizard - and there is no such thing as "good" or "evil", or "white" or "black" magic; everything is just different shades of grey - and no matter who is wielding the power, if that person casts a powerful curse, there will be consequences.'

'But I didn't know,' Potter spat. 'It's not like I was trying to--'

'What? Trying to kill me?' Draco lashed out, shoving Potter back against the mattress again. 'Well you sure did a damn fine job of it, since I almost did end up dead, and I'm still feeling it two years later. It doesn't matter what your intent was. So if you're so horrified that you've managed to tarnish your perfect little record there, then instead of pretending it didn't happen, bloody do something about it!'

'What do you want me to do? Go back in time?' Potter's eyes flashed with fury, and he lunged, flipping Draco over, knocking his breath out of him as he pinned him flat. 'I said I'm sorry, okay, Malfoy? There isn't anything else I can do. I can't control my nightmares any more than you can.'

'Yes, you can.' Draco's eyes narrowed, and he glared. 'It's simple Occlumency, Potter - you learn involuntary control, so you keep your nightmares to yourself, then you're not affected, I'm not affected, and we can go on our merry fucking ways and forget this ever happened. Well, you can, anyway - I'll have these--' He nodded at his chest. "--for the rest of my life.'

'The passive-aggressive bullshit won't get you anywhere with me, Malfoy.' Potter's eyes narrowed as well, and he shoved Draco harder into the mattress until Draco's breath came faster and shallower. 'Fine, I scarred you for life. I'm sorry. Only I'm not really, because you're not perfect and you've been a whole lot less idiotic since you figured that out. Maybe it was because you don't look perfect anymore, or maybe it was getting left out of the Slug Club, or having to deal with your daddy in prison - I don't really care why. But at least now you're not trailing in your father's footsteps and you've grown something resembling a brain.'

'Excuse me?' Draco went very still. 'You're telling me that I have something resembling a brain? If you had even an atom of intelligence, you would acknowledge that this is a problem that needs to be fixed, and that even if you loathe me, it's not going to go away on its own so you have to suck it up and deal with it. That's what a real hero does.'

'And you would know so much about being a real hero,' Potter spat bitterly.

Draco pressed his lips together until they were almost white; when he finally spoke again, his voice was so soft that even he could hardly hear it.

'It would seem, judging by your behaviour, that at least I know more than you.'

Potter's eyes went wide, face white with mingled shock and fury, and Draco took advantage of his discombobulation to flip him over again, coming up astride Potter's hips and shoving him down with a hand hooked around his throat.

'Don't you dare lecture me,' Draco breathed, low and dangerous. 'I may not be perfect, but neither are you, and you're the one in this room who's not willing to acknowledge that he made a mistake.'

For a long moment, neither of them said anything, glaring at each other, breaths coming hard and fast, eyes wide and wild, hands clutching at throat and wrist and shirt and hair, neither one willing to concede. And then, all of a sudden, Potter relaxed, went still beneath Draco's hands, eyes sliding half-shut and out of focus.

'I'm sorry,' he mumbled; it was barely audible, and not exactly the formal sort of apology Draco might expect of someone who had tried to kill him, but it was so unexpected, and sounded so honest, that his grip slackened automatically and he straightened, studying Potter's face with a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

'You're sorry,' he repeated dubiously.

Potter's eyes slid open, and Draco realised in that instant just how exhausted Potter really looked. It was even more pronounced now than it had been the last two times he'd seen Potter - the circles under his eyes were almost black, his eyelids red-rimmed, his face pale and sickly-looking, especially in contrast to the pitch-black of his hair. Even his eyes, usually bright green, were a dull sort of moss colour, muted even without his glasses to hide behind. Potter looked...defeated in a way the Dark Lord had never managed to cause, not even with Dumbledore's death or the casualties in the Battle of Hogwarts, and just looking at it made Draco exhausted as well.

'Fine,' he said, trying to shoot Potter a glare that said this isn't over, but he couldn't manage a decently caustic tone, and he spoilt it anyway by yawning.

'Can we fight about this in the morning?' Potter slurred. 'I haven't slept much in a long time, and all that choking you just did kind of wore me out.'

'Fine,' Draco said again. 'I'll just be on my way then. Please, don't get up.'

Potter snorted, closing his eyes and settling back against the pillows. Draco looked at him for a long moment, wondering how he could be so relaxed all of a sudden when he was still half-pinned under someone else's body, when his house had just been broken into by someone who could easily have been there to pick him off - he didn't know whether it was just sheer idiocy or some sort of misplaced yet oddly beautiful faith in the world, and no, he didn't just think that. Clearly he was in desperate need of sleep as well.

'I'm leaving now,' Draco stressed.

Potter grunted without opening his eyes. 'Have a nice trip,' he mumbled.

Draco blinked in incredulity at Potter's lack of reaction. Then he blinked again. The second time, his eyes took a good second and a half to open again.

'This isn't over,' he said, aloud, but Potter's only acknowledgment was a deep, sleepy breath that made Draco's eyelids feel like they had weights on.

'I'm really going.'

Potter said nothing. Upon closer inspection, Draco found that he was already asleep.

It figured.

I should really get up, he told himself in the sternest mental voice possible, but a few long moments passed, and the only movement he made during that time was to blink, heavily, and to yawn, so it seemed that that mission was a spectacular failure.

Well, he amended, it'd be pointless to go home and try to sleep again if Potter still hasn't gotten it through his thick skull that I can't sleep well if he doesn't, so maybe I should just check to make sure he doesn't end up having any more nightmares. I'll just... He rolled off of Potter, settling onto the mattress beside him, and then folded his arms behind his head. 'I'll just watch him for a few minutes before I decide to go....'

He was asleep before he managed to finish the sentence.


On to Part 2