Draco dreams in black and white and grey because dreams are merely shadows of life, and shadows aren't supposed to contain colour. He thinks of things in terms of should and shouldn't, disregarding truths that falsify his beliefs. Mornings, he finds some of the more vapid girls in the Slytherin common room discussing the previous night's romp about the subconscious, usually involving one or more of the fifth and sixth years, each more insipid than the last. He tries to stay in the dorm as long as he can without being late for breakfast, just so he can avoid this.

He dreams with clinical precision: they're sharp things, with plots and dialogue and contrivances and plausible events, things that could actually happen. They aren't half-formed ideas that shift entirely when prodded, because he gets enough of that in the waking world, though the occasional one slips through.

He isn't aware that they're happening until moments before he wakes up, and instead of muted tones of grey beneath his eyelids, there are brilliant spots of green. He feels disembodied and dizzy and there are sharp pricks along his temples, and it's not until the flood of colour is overwhelming that he wakes up. His pyjamas cling to the line of perspiration down his spine, his hands are fisted damply in his blankets. He sits up and his hips hurt; he doesn't need to trace a shaking hand over his thigh to know that his pants are damp, too.

He reaches blearily for his wand and whispers fervent drying spells. Even when he lies down again, calmed, he can't sleep for the green flitting just beyond his reach. In daylight, he finds it hard to look at Harry, because now Draco can't be sure if he falls under monochrome or colour.

 

next
home