requirement | dramione

0.29

That Monday night, it felt almost impossible for Draco to find his way back to Slytherin. He was sure that everyone in the castle was already fast asleep. It made him feel more lonely than ever.

The Slytherin common room was empty, tinged with the dull green flames of a fire that was dying. Draco stared at it, blankly, for only a minute before he willed himself through the boys corridor, feet aimlessly leading him to his bed.

Inside their dormitory, Blaise was on his stomach, humming a small snore through his nose. Theo had one arm hanging off the bed, mouth wide open as if he were planning to gurgle his mouthwash before drowning in it. Next to Theo, Carbbe was drooling against his sheets. On the far side of the room, closest to Draco's four-poster bed, Goyle seemed to be the most peaceful of them all. 

Draco wasn't sure exactly when he and Goyle had lost their closeness. It happened slowly, as Draco's presence in Slytherin and attitude all together had deteriorated. Watching Goyle so tranquil made him feel lighter. Lighter and jealous. 

Draco sunk into his bed, stripping his clothes off lazily. When his fingers finally made it through his final buttons, he pulled the dress shirt down each of his arms, dropping it to the floor below him. Even in the dark Draco could make out the thick black lines of ink on his forearm, surrounded by the bright red scratches that his fingernails had dug.

He held his breath as he dared to brush his fingers over the scabbing wounds and blackened skin. He watched, through the dark, and felt the tenderness of the skull on his arm, tracing the body of the curling snake down to his wrist. The exposed skin burnt when he touched it, but he wasn't opposed to the pain. He would rather feel the pain he had brought to himself than see the thing that someone else had forced upon him.

He pulled his night shirt over his head, long sleeves to cover the monstrosity of ink and scapes. Before falling against his pillow, he pulled at the top drawer of his bedside table and reached for a small bottle with a stopper.

Laying down, unable to think of anything besides the darkness of the room around him and Crabbe snoring far too loudly on the other side, Draco undid the bottle. His nose filled with lavender and chamomile, smells that were supposed to be calming, but seemed to do the exact opposite. He pulled the bottle from his nose, alarmed by the familiar scent. 

He stared at the vial for a long, unblinking moment. He'd won it in Advanced Potions Making, awarded a tiny vial for perfecting a single potion. He lifted it to his nose again. Chamomile and honeysuckle and vellichor.  

Had it always smelt like her?

He wasn't sure anymore. Wasn't sure of anything.

He twitched, capping the bottle, nearly spilling the shimmering potion over his dark green bedding. His heart was thumping against his chest without his permission, racing through the memories of  the Gryffindor, dropping the back into it's drawer.

He wouldn't be sleeping tonight. He couldn't. Not while the smell of her was all over him when he knew, more than anything, that it should not have been. Like sin sunk into his skin. 

Draco clamped his hand against his mouth.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. He wasn't supposed to feel this way or make these decisions. 

He reached back into his nightstand and pulled out another small vial, this one Sleeping Draught. He glanced over the dark room, listening to the boys around him sleep without trouble, without nightmares, without a potion that hardly even worked. He heard their peaceful snores and knew that he was alone.

Tuesday morning.

Draco wasn't sure how many hours had passed, but pale green light was now seeping though his eyelids. There was dull noise drifting in an out of the dormitory, a hum of bodies moving through their morning routine. Draco kept his eyes shut, forever sleepless and yet still closed, too busy sifting through his own thoughts to be concerned with the outside world.