By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 26: Harry

Notes:CW: somewhat dubious consent

The darkness was thick, almost tarlike, as if the shadows had gained substance and sewed themselves into long bands of rippling black over Harry's eyes. He could taste a cold, sharp blade of fury, the metallic tang of it, and only once the salt began to burn did he realize he'd bitten through his tongue. His head throbbed, pulsing with white-hot waves of pain, and if he could have opened his mouth, he would have screamed and screamed. Harry had known injury and illness, had walked right up to the edge of death and knocked on the door, but this was an agony unlike any he'd experienced, as if his skull might crack open, as if his brain were burning in blood-red flames.

Harry.

The voice was familiar but he couldn't place the deep richness of it—not while his head was on fire, not while his mouth was filled with blood and his eyes were sewn shut. Was he thrashing, or was someone shaking him? Or perhaps someone had cast a Cruciatus curse upon him, and he was vibrating with the exquisite torture of the spell.

HARRY.

Hands were holding him down now, pushing him into the earth, attempting to plunge him deeper and deeper until he reached the core of the planet, and then the rest of him would burn—

Cold water crashed over his face, breaking through the dream. Harry felt himself return to his head, his eyes peeling back as he coughed up blood and water. Draco was straddling him, his wand still pointed at his face, one hand clutching his shoulder. His eyes were wide, his breaths coming fast. He looked so pale, like a ghost, his skin and eyes a beam of moonlight cutting through the darkness. As Harry continued to cough, Draco leaned over the side of the bed and snatched up his shirt, using it to wipe the red-stained water from Harry's chest and face. He pushed himself off of Harry's lap but remained kneeling beside him, pulling him into a sitting position as his breathing slowly returned to normal.

"What— happened?" Harry asked, his voice rough and tongue throbbing.

"I don't know," Draco said, peering at Harry with anxious eyes. He grabbed an empty glass from the nightstand and used his wand to fill it, helping Harry take slow, careful sips. The water stung Harry's tongue, but soothed the burning in his throat, and he gulped it down greedily. "You were thrashing and— and choking, like someone was strangling you. I couldn't get you to wake up. I had to cast a Silencing charm cause you were screaming so much."

Harry rubbed at his head, the pain no longer a cacophony but a dull prickle. His bones felt hollow, and his limbs ached, as if he had a fever. "It was just a nightmare," he said, but he knew that wasn't true. It was Voldemort, always him and that insidious connection between them like a scalding whip. Voldemort was getting closer and closer to discovering the destruction of the Horcruxes—had possibly already realized it, if the icy stab of rage had been a harbinger. Harry sensed that any humanity Voldemort may have possessed was a thin string, pulled taught and so frayed, it had likely snapped.

"I've never seen someone have a nightmare like that," Draco said, placing the glass on the nightstand. His face was turned away, but Harry could see the tension lining his shoulders, the pulse beating in his long neck. "I've never seen a nightmare nearly kill someone."

"Consider yourself lucky then," Harry said flatly. He threw back the covers, heat crashing through his body in waves of agitation. He wanted to pace, to run, to let the cool wind whip the pain off his skin. The warmth and shadows of the bedroom were stifling, and Draco was sitting too close, all anxious limbs and worried hands.

Draco's eyes narrowed, and he leaned back, throwing the bloody, wet t-shirt to the floor. "You're really not going to tell me what that was all about?"

Harry stood up, his vision tunneling for a moment, and he stumbled forward. Draco was at his side in an instant, gripping his elbow and steadying him. Harry shut his eyes, pushing back the visions from Voldemort that were scratching at the doors of Harry's mind, focusing instead on the warmth of Draco's fingers where they curved around his arm. His own fingers rose to his head again, scrubbing at his scar as if he could wipe it away. When he opened his eyes again, Draco was staring at his forehead, his own eyes still narrowed. "It's your scar, isn't it?" he asked, voice low. "The bloody thing gives you nightmares."