someone to watch me die. [drarry]

i'm losing by your side

"You don't need a gateway to hell, you have already arrived. Have you not seen the horrors that occurred in your very manor? Have you not seen the hell an increasing amount of humanity and creation call home? You can change this. You can save this world and one another, are you ready for this, Draco?"

I woke up upright with a growing map of sweat staining my satin pyjamas.

My skin was wet as if I'd just pulled myself from a lake, yet there was no water around.

It feels as though my lungs were not there as I tried to bring air in, I could feel my muscles straining and the thoughts in my head turn from fear to a dizzy confusion.

My nightmares were slowly becoming more cryptic and confusing, it was like somebody was speaking directly to me - trying to reach out to me.

Being scared is a tough, tough emotion.

"Malfoy? You alright?" Potter asked me quietly, my brain stutters for a moment and my eyes take in more light than I expected as I lock onto his bed, every part of me freezes while my thoughts catch up.

After a wash of cold air I gather the courage to reply, feeling a new chill to the night.

I place one hand over my mouth as I cleared my throat.

"I'll be alright in a moment." I whispered, so quietly I doubted he even heard at first. There was no reply.

I loudly sighed and ripped my duvet off myself, wiping the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve as I lay back down.

"I used to get a lot of nightmares too." Potter suddenly reassured, I could just about make out the shadow of his figure sitting up to face my bed.

"It was not a nightmare. I am not twelve." I lied, facing the wall and planning to ignore the 'Golden Boy' until I drifted back to sleep.

A cold hand suddenly pressed against my forehead, causing me to yelp as I abruptly sat up and slapped the hand away.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I hissed, hoping Potter could see, or at least feel, my raging glare.

"Not a nightmare? You're drenched." Potter scoffed, walking back to his bed and jumping on it, the creaks of the floorboards echoing across the room.

"It is bloody boiling in this room." I defended myself, angrily drawing the curtains around my bed.

I never liked drawing the curtains of the beds in Hogwarts, it was incredibly claustrophobic and lonely.

"It's actually freezing in here, someone left the window open." Potter argued back.

I did not respond, hoping he would shut up for good - I did not look forward to waking up to Potter gossiping about me to that ginger freak.

"Whatever. Night." Potter mumbled, noisily closing his curtains around his bed.

That boy is so dramatic.

My insomnia is at times a form of PTSD, when fears ignite the ghost I have otherwise laid to rest.

It can come of excitement, of thoughts that want to keep dancing and not surrender their stage to the dreamscape (or rather nightmare-scape).

The time of it being caused by real fear, is gone, thankfully.

Because he's dead.

We grow, we move on, we learn what is present, what is a shadow of the past and what is good.

But still, it was the kind of sleep deprivation that is painful.

I would sleep for not very long and then awake as if I was breathing for the first time, as if my body was deprived of oxygen.