Sleeping With Ghosts

Sleeping With Ghosts

Chapter One - Hidden Cries

You think that I can't see right through your eyes

Scared to death to face reality

No one seems to hear your hidden cries

You're left to face yourself alone

But I, I know who you really are

You're the one who cries when you're alone

~~Evanescence/Where Will You Go~~

October 1997

Moonlight cast its beams on the dark and quiet grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The pale light shone brightly through the small, solitary window of the North Tower, yet the boy perched on the windowsill cast no shadow. The silken cloth of his invisibility cloak brushed against his bare arms as he sat, waiting. Draco leaned his head back against the stone wall and stared up at the stars that littered the sky. He could feel his mood darkening, as if he were sinking underwater. Almost a month, and still the problem remained. It was all Potter's fault. So typical. Trust that fucker to change the rules and screw everything up.

Everything had changed over the last couple of years, slowly at first, until finally it seemed as if nothing was the same as the simplicity of just a few years earlier. War raged beyond the safe and secure walls of the castle. The Wizarding world was split; there were those who supported Voldemort, and those who supported....well, he imagined Dumbledore was in some way heading the Resistance Movement, but how would he know? He was Lucius Malfoy's son after all. A mere Deatheater-in-training.

His father was Voldemort's "right-hand-man". Right...what a joke. His father could only dream of being in Voldemort's inner circle. Instead, he groveled at the Dark Lord's feet, trying to win his way back into Voldemort's good graces. The Dark lord didn't forgive easily. Years of denying him meant years of making up for that lack of loyalty. Draco shivered at the thought.

Despite Dumbledore's attempts to keep the school running as usual, the horrors of the war could not be kept out. Already, reports of casualties were flooding in; bland manila envelopes clutched tightly by the official owls of the Ministry. They never missed a day. The atmosphere was tense, depressed and frightened. Things were changing at a frightening pace.

Even Potter. Potter wasn't supposed to change. He was a Gryffindor - obnoxiously upbeat in all circumstances with a holier than thou attitude to fit. He wasn't supposed to be moody, despondent, dull as dishwater, a shadow of his former self. The Potter he had grown to know and hate had disappeared, and in his place was a pale imitation. Imitation Potter had not only given up his position as captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, he had also given up food, by the looks of him. Not that Draco was looking. Because he most certainly was not.

Bloody annoying Potter. Where were the flashing green eyes? Where were the fists clenched in anger? Where was the light laughter? There hadn't been any kind of emotion from Potter since..., was it really since the beginning of the year? Draco leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve the pressure that was starting to build. Too many changes at once. Quidditch sucked. Winning was great but without Potter there was no challenge. Mealtimes were boring without his regular sneer and smirk at the Gryffindor table. Potter was rarely there and Weasley just wasn't worth the trouble.

Even Snape couldn't push Potter's buttons the way he used to. Oh, Snape didn't hold back. He handed out sarcastic comments and detention as fast a Potter could screw up whatever potion he was trying to concoct. Imitation Potter was worse than that Longbottom character had ever been. But, no matter what scathing comment Snape threw at him, he remained passive and unfazed. Nodding and mumbling "Yes, professor." Where was that flash of hatred Snape used to provoke? Hell, he'd bet next year's allowance that Snape also wondered where it was. After all, clever sarcastic comments just weren't as much fun without a reaction.

"Yes, Professor." Draco tensed at the memory. That deadened voice really grated on his nerves. Occasionally he would even feel a desire to help the blundering fool. Disgusted by the weakness this showed, Draco would refocus on Snape's lecture and firmly cork the part of him that wished to help Potter out. He wasn't supposed to want to help Potter. He was supposed to gleefully mock and berate Potter while he was at his weakest.

Unfortunately, Potter had ruined that too. Taunting Potter and taking delight in his reactions had lost its appeal. Before, Draco never had a shortage of reasons to hate Potter. Potter had everything and undeservedly so. The sod had the love and respect of the Wizarding world. He had adoring fans everywhere simply for being an extraordinarily lucky brat who had bumbled his way out of death a couple of times. He'd also managed to stumble into true friendship. It appeared that the Mudblood and the Weasel truly cared for Potter; very different from the obsequious friends that trailed in Draco's shadow. Friends who, even by Slytherin standards, were more like leeches, seeking to latch onto the Malfoy name. Now, Draco was having difficulty hating Potter for the usual faults. He no longer seemed the perfect hero who lived the picture perfect life.

Potter had bloody well fucked everything up. He wasn't supposed to go and change everything without telling him first. Draco had a role to play, and he couldn't play that role effectively if the rules were going to change without notice.

Much to Draco's irritation, no one seemed to be doing anything about it either. It was as if everyone was afraid of snapping that last thread, sending Potter careening off the edge. They treated him with a quiet delicacy as if he were a cherished doll made of fine, uncharmable porcelain. He was their last hope. He had offered them a miracle once, and they were all hoping and praying that he could do it again. It was in the way they looked at him. In the way they counted down the months until he was finished his schooling. In the way that he was given extra assignments to better prepare for his inevitable confrontation with the Dark Lord. Potter saw it too.

And so, Draco watched Potter withdraw. Withdraw from human contact. Withdraw from their watchful eyes. Withdraw from his two sidekicks. Granger might be permanently glued to Potter's side but even she didn't know everything that went on with him. She didn't know that Potter got up in the middle of the night and wandered the dark and deserted corridors. She didn't know that he perched himself on this very same cold stone windowsill.

It was simple, really. Draco had to fix Potter. He had to stop Potter's wallowing so that he could regain a school rival that was worthy of his time. He had to fix whatever it was that was making Potter so pathetic and unresponsive. Then life could go back to normal and they could get back to their mutually beneficial hate-hate relationship.

But, as wont to happen when it came to Potter, the plan wasn't going exactly as planned. Over the past couple of weeks, he had come to an unsettling realization. Potter's situation wasn't all that different from his own; thrown into a war that he obviously wasn't ready for, and didn't want any part of. No choice in the matter. Although, Potter's way of handling it was quite pathetic and melodramatic.

Draco wasn't even entirely sure himself why the Dark Lord had such a vendetta against the boy, but he imagined it had something to do with proving his manliness. Potter had escaped him four times already; if Voldemort didn't produce the boy's head on a silver platter very shortly then his followers might start to question their allegiance.

Draco dismissed the whole matter with a derisive snort. What did he care? Hopefully the two would finish each other off and make life a lot simpler. A life without Voldemort or Potter. Draco relished the thought, and pushed back the nagging voice that wondered if that was what he really wanted. He tried not to think about why he was sitting on a cold stone slab in the middle of the night when he could be wrapped in his nice warm blankets. The air was quite cold, despite his heavy cloak. October was coming to a close, and before long, snow would drift from the sky and settle on the ground.

Draco glanced at his watch. Potter was late. Perhaps he wasn't coming. Draco smiled at the thought. If he were truly lucky, Potter might have actually drowned in his own depression. Could it truly kill him? He could only hope.

A shuffling noise brought Draco from his thoughts. He glanced at the landing at the top of the stairs. Potter was standing there, staring at him...no...through him. Pulling his invisibility cloak tighter, Draco quietly stepped down from the windowsill.

Potter hadn't bothered with his own invisibility cloak for a couple of weeks now, almost as if he didn't care if he got caught, or perhaps daring someone to catch him. Maybe he wanted to be caught. Maybe he wanted someone to catch him and ask him what he was doing and what was wrong. But no one ever did, certainly not Draco. Draco hadn't said one word to the boy on any of their nights together, hadn't revealed his presence. Draco vowed that this would be the last time he'd go on such a ridiculous venture. He wasn't Potter's keeper, far from it actually. He could not understand why he kept coming up here to watch the daft Gryffindor sulk.

This was ludicrous. He should be in bed, curled up and dreaming about Celestina Warbeck, or that sexy sixth year Slytherin boy who had been eyeing him up at lunch. Not sitting on a dirty floor watching someone he couldn't stand.

Harry moved to the windowsill, and peered at the grounds below. He leaned so far over the edge that Draco thought he might be contemplating jumping. But he came back inside and sat on the sill, pulling his knees up in front of him, with his head resting against the stone window frame. He pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and glanced at it. A faint smile graced his features for what seemed like the first time in weeks. He folded the parchment carefully and put it back in his pocket.

Draco leaned against the wall, watching Potter watch the stars, and darkness tugged at the edge of his vision. He yawned deeply and shook his head. I really need to get a full night's sleep. This is the absolute last time, he thought as he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

~/~/~

Draco slowly became aware of a dull pain in his neck and along his back. As his eyes flickered open, the brilliant morning sunlight forced him to squint.

Shit, what time was it?

He looked around and immediately wished he hadn't as a sharp pain lanced through his neck. Stretching carefully, he eased his stiff back and aching butt.

He reached up to massage his neck and noted that he was definitely alone. And--

His invisibility cloak was missing!

His heart leaped, but then he noticed it folded neatly on the windowsill. Still feeling something was amiss, he struggled to clear his sleep fogged mind. There was a warm winter cloak draped over him, and it wasn't his. He leapt up, drawing his wand and tossing the foreign cloak to the floor. He approached the cloak tentatively until he thought about how silly he must look. Tucking away his wand, he bent down and retrieved the cloak. It smelled familiar somehow. Folding back the collar, he looked at the tag stitched inside.

H. Potter