iii
As expected, the Dreamless Sleep doesn’t exactly live up to its name, doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to; has long since lost that effect for Draco. Really, Draco could have told that Madam Pomfrey himself, but then again, it’s probably not very wise to tell your school nurse that you’d been addicted to the damned potion for two years while the Dark Lord himself resided in your house, and that you’ve only managed to get yourself sober when the side-effects were getting too strong to make up for the little use it still had; when two hours a night weren’t enough, because of course you were expected to be alert at all times, to be ready for a ‘lesson’ in the Dark Arts whenever the respective Death Eater pleased, and that a failure of this lesson meant Cruciatus or worse. Not that it really made a difference later, because being sober from the Sleeping Potion didn’t mean that Draco was any better at torturing Muggles or whatever other hellish games the Death Eaters came up with, but yeah, no, Draco wasn’t about to get into any of that, so he made sure to keep his mouth shut and swallow the potion when Madam Pomfrey held it out for him. Irrationally, he’d still hoped, in that small part of his mind that had refused to die no matter what the Dark Lord came up with, had hoped beyond hope that maybe this time, it’d actually work again.
Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t.
It just manages to pull him under, to keep him asleep for two or three hours while the nightmares make a mess of his remaining sanity, and when he eventually manages to pull himself out of the potion’s grasp, it’s only to jerk awake with a scream still fresh on his lips, and to Madam Pomfrey standing beside his bed in slippers and a pink nightgown, a bedpan raised above her head as though ready to slam it down on whomever is causing harm to her patient, and there’s a confused, sleep-addled look on her face when there is no one.
Draco feels the urge to tell her that she’s a witch, surely a wand would be handier in defense than a bedpan, but his heart is still pounding in his chest, chased by fire and death and Potter, and there’s not enough air in his lungs to let him form the words.
Instead, he just huffs out a breath, a muttered apology of “sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you”, rubs at his eyes and wants to turn over onto his side, hide himself away from Madam Pomfrey’s wide-eyed look and just forget, but alas, that turns out to be impossible when the bed dips on one side and the nurse rests her hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving.
Draco sighs and stares up at the ceiling, not daring to meet her eyes, fearing the pity he’d surely find there. “A Malfoy is above pity and sympathy, Draco,” he hears his father’s voice. “You mustn’t ever rely on other people’s good faith”.
And that has helped them so much in the end, Draco can’t help thinking, bitterly. A bit of pity, the one or other open ear to Draco’s woes, and maybe they wouldn’t ever have landed themselves in this damned situation. Hell, Dumbledore had even offered help, it’s just been that damned Malfoy pride that hadn’t let Draco accept the offer. But maybe there’d been quite a bit of his own cowardliness that had been responsible for that, too. Cowardliness and fear and so, so many mistakes and wrong choices.
“This time, I really gave you the correct dosage, I’m sure of that” Draco hears Madam Pomfrey saying, as though from a distance. He opens his eyes and finds that he’s closed them, that the nurse is leaning over him now, looking down at him with that wrinkle between her eyebrows and a measuring look in her kind eyes. Draco also finds that the pity is absent from her gaze. Maybe she doesn’t think him worthy of it. After all, it’s only his own mistake that eventually landed him here, his and his family’s and there’s really no excuse and no reason for why she should pity him for that.
Draco nods slightly, the only acknowledgement to this that he’ll give, and then he presses his lips together and looks away before the understanding blooms on Madam Pomfrey’s face. Her hand tightens on his shoulder, squeezing, and she tuts quietly, thinking.
“I don’t want to give you any more of it, darling, but you really ought to sleep now. Your body needs the rest, and I’m sure your mind could do with a bit of that, too.” Her hand strokes down his arm, comfortingly, and Draco’s mind is stuck on the term of endearment, and he wonders if maybe he’s still dreaming, because surely she wouldn’t—
“Have you ever tried it with valerian, Mr. Malfoy?” the nurse continues, as though there’s nothing out of the ordinary. “It’s not a magical potion, but the Muggles use it, too, and they swear it’s good for calming your nerves, getting a good night’s sleep. Maybe that’s what you need; some break from all the magic here, good and bad. It does put a strain on the body, after all.”
Draco’s so tired and so very confused, it’s all he can do to nod, and open his mouth when Madam Pomfrey returns from a potions shelf in her office, holding a small glass phial from which she drips a few drops onto his tongue.
The effect isn’t immediate, but she stays by his bed until his eyes falls closed, rubbing soothing circles into the skin of his arm, the only place that doesn’t hurt other than the all-present, aching burn that comes with the Mark. He has half a mind to pull his arm away, not wanting to sully her with it, but his muscles are heavy and his body exhausted, and so he lets her presence and touch comfort him, just for tonight.