Knots In Our Heartstrings [Dramione]

Hot Chocolate

Draco could not recall the last time he'd rested peacefully in the manor. His most recent memories of nights there were few and far between, clouded by years of desperately trying not to recall the hours of grieving.

He figured, that he must have still been a child the last time he'd slept soundly through the night in this house – a young child, at that. The walls whispered and echoed when night drew in. Trapping and tormenting him in his own thoughts.

Hours upon hours he'd spend tossing and turning in bed, before taking to pacing the length of his bedroom. From wall to wall, he'd walk, long strides carrying him briskly across the room. Even on the worst of nights, he could never quite bring himself to move about the manor at night. Not on his own. So the young Malfoy would take to pacing, crossing the length of his room at greater and greater speeds.

Hours of the night he'd spend treading over the same polished floors, wearing down patches of thinned fabric in his socks. As the hours passed, he'd slow – eventually. Only the last few laps of the room would be met with stumbled feet, as he'd persist in the ritualistic race to see just how many times he could cross in front of the foot of his bed. Racing the sunrise. Racing his own willpower to stay awake. Never could he recall crawling back into bed. Never could he recall tucking himself neatly under the covers. Yet that was how he'd always wake whenever he didn't quite beat the sunrise.

Those nights when he would lose the race, Draco would always find himself tucked neatly into bed in the morning, as if peaceful rest was never a question of if, merely when.

He'd always wake with the cover pulled neatly around him, the throw pillows stored away carefully under the window seat, the floors freshly polished at the foot of his bed, and his socks repaired neatly – practically new.

His years at Hogwarts had offered an unfamiliar sense of shelter at night. In his dorms, surrounded by the other Slytherin boys, restful slumber found him kinder. No longer was rest an exclusive right earned solely through physical and mental exhaustion. Young Draco could tuck himself into bed, after his days of classes, squabbling and gossiping with his peers, and actually sleep.

Sleep. Such a peculiar comfort he'd treasured from his early years at Hogwarts. Perhaps sleep was what made his return there after the war so cruel.

As the years passed by at Hogwarts, his Slytherin dorms lost their sense of safety, some. And he'd find himself tossing and turning under the covers once more. For hours he tossed and turned. Crumpling the bedsheets. Rolling knots and mats into his blankets. The feathers in his pillows would part, before he'd furiously pump and fluff them back into place. But he'd never pace. Not even one night. He couldn't face waking his peers. Not over his incessant battle to seek sleep. Pacing the dorms would not have been... Proper.

The September return after the war was cruel. If the dungeon dorms had been quiet at night before the war, upon his return they felt devoid of any and all sound. The stone walls muffled even the breaths of his fellow students at night. Sometimes he feared someone may set off fireworks within the walls and the only warning they'd have would be the bright lights bursting around them.

Never – not once – had he been stuck somewhere so silent.

Once night drew in and the sconces were dimmed, the weight of his bedsheets sat like slabs of stone on his chest. He could not move. He could not breathe. And still, he could not sleep.

Mercy of morning came only when the sconces shone brightly once more. He'd have an hour to visit the Hospital Wing, join the lines of students being dossed with various potions just to keep them sentient enough to move about the castle according to schedule, and find his way to the Great Hall in time for breakfast.