Insomnia

Insomnia makes everything seem bigger, brighter. The trees are too green. The leaves a three-D invasion on my senses. Everything's louder and silent at the same time. Even the cold stone-hewn walls of the dungeon are too loudly grey. That's why I'm glad it's night. I can just lie in bed. Darkness my refuge. Thoughts my company. Feigning sleep.

I've been awake for four days. I think.

The mind does strange things when it doesn't rest. It plots and schemes. Runs, trips, falls over thoughts and images; flickers of a larger picture that don't make sense on their own. Then it'll go blank. Maddeningly blank. So blank and empty that I think I've gone mad, or perhaps I've died. But you can't die from lack of sleep, you'll eventually pass out. I always do.

Now my mind is in slow motion, reeling from the blankness.

A flash of red fabric slices through my thoughts. Echoing footsteps. Too loud, too far away to be real. I can still see the darkness, taste it, so I know I'm not dreaming. Just thinking of this person walking the deserted corridors. I know who it is. He's been on my mind for at least the past hour. Though time passes differently when you don't sleep. Routine is what tells time. Actions.

He stops and talks to me. Smiling as only a Gryffindor can. It's a memory. He looks me in the eyes, brave boy. Mentions something about Quidditch. Cuffs me on the shoulder, a friendly gesture.

"Good game, Flint. I'm looking forward to this weeks match. You won't win so easily against us this year." Wood chuckled lightly. I had looked at his hand, still on my shoulder. Gave him a bit of a scowl. What was he getting at? He loathed me. Why was he chatting me up like we were best mates? I pushed his hand off my shoulder.

Instead I ended up holding his hand. He'd laced his fingers between mine.

I thought to snatch my hand back. My hand didn't like that idea.

"Is this a joke, Wood?" My hopeful tone betrayed my outraged grimace. He smirked at this.

"Scared, Flint?"

"Not of a crazy fucker like you..."

"You don't have to get so defensive, Flint. It's not like I'm kissing you."

Yet. He didn't say it, but it was implied. I looked down at our hands. Tightly clasped, no sign of letting go. We must've looked like complete gits.

"You've gone mental, Wood. No idiot in his right mind would -."

"Kiss you? Is that what you're worried about?"

"That's...That's not what I was going to say!" I spat out the words almost too quickly. Gripped his hand too tightly. I had an advantage, my hand was bigger.

"Look. Flint. I've seen the way you look at me." I tried to look astonished at this information. "You practically follow me around. At first I thought you were just trying to eavesdrop on my Quidditch strategies." I nodded dumbly. "I don't think so. That doesn't account for your staring at me at meals. I can feel you looking at me, you know."

His pale eyes were boring into my dark ones. I felt like he was trying to read my soul. What if he could? What if he did? He'd not be surprised to find that I dreamt about him. Fantasized about him. And here he was, holding my hand, running his Quidditch calloused fingers over the back of my hand.

"What do you want with me?" I asked out loud. Shit. The darkness didn't respond. Gentle snores from a few of my roommates.

Maybe it wasn't a memory. Maybe I made it up. What would a guy like Wood want with me aside from beating the snot out of me at Quidditch? Before I could finish my inner dialogue the answer came to me. Lilting through the darkness, spoken with a Scottish accent.

"Just you."

I looked around. Darkness. Blackness. Complete and utter nothing. I couldn't hear anything. I could hear everything. The silence deafening, ringing in my sleep deprived ears. I strained to hear that voice again. To hear movement. Anything at all!

Nothing. Not even the soft breathing of my fellow Slytherins. Everything had gone, fallen away from me.

"Oliver!" I called out. I heard my voice, strangled, weak, cracking. A name I'd said thousands of times in my head sounded so strange in my tired voice.

Yet there he was, face dark in the gloom of my sleeplessness. Features washed in a cold bath of worry. Suddenly glowing and golden. Candle-lit. He looked perfect, too real. I closed my eyes.

"Marcus, look at me."

That wasn't a memory. He'd never called me by my name before. Always Flint. Surnames. Ridiculous formality brought on by supposed hatred. I opened my eyes, painfully, slowly. He was there. He was still there. Oliver. Looking down on me. He looked scared. But not scared of me. Maybe he was scared for me?

"What are you doing in here?" I demand, weakly, throat dry. After all, he is a Gryffindor. This Oliver.

"Visiting a sick friend." His voice was calm, measured. He was hiding something. The emotion in his voice was so surreal. It was definitely imagined. He was pretending to care. Like he did in the corridor. When his hand was in mine. But that had been a dream. No an illusion. Insomnia related illusion.

"Well, you've got your own dormitory you know." My tone wasn't nearly as condescending as I'd hoped.

"So do you. But we're in the infirmary, so don't worry." He half smiled. That crooked smile. I knew he wasn't joking. My head felt very fuzzy. I was getting sleepy. Sleep! Yes!

His warm hand crept into mine. I didn't really feel like resisting. I was awfully cold. Odd. Very odd. I tried to look up at his glowing visage with question in my eyes.

"Madame Pomfrey's given you a pain potion, but she says you need natural sleep. You blacked out while we were talking earlier, busted your head open on the floor. Would've been a brilliant Quidditch injury." Wood's face was soft, gentle. The flickering candlelight danced across his face. Mesmerizing. My eyelids growing heavier. A weight shifting on the bed, warmth engulfing my left side. Oliver sighing into my neck. Oliver.