Disclaimer: I own nothing. Ever. At all.

A/N: Hokay. Hi. This is a short one-shot that goes along with another fic I'm writing. And by "writing," I mean I have yet to start it. But… that is of little to no importance. Anyway, there are a couple things that don't make perfect sense without the backstory, but for the most part this stands alone. Sorry for the confusing-ness, hope you can manage until I get around to writing the explanations and all that. Anyway, thanks to Liz and Lauren for demanding I post this even though it might get deleted for being too smutty. I tried to keep it tame, I swear!

Insomniac

Draco lay on his back, staring at the enchanted ceiling. There were no stars; it was stormy and overcast, much like his own mood. He squirmed, annoyed by the rustle of bed sheets that resulted. He was restless. There was no way he'd fall asleep anytime soon.

He sighed. Idly, he wondered how furious Madam Pomfrey would be if he disturbed her for a vial of Dreamless Sleep. Livid, probably. Not that he cared. He couldn't leave the room after hours anyway. He considered the force he would need to knock himself out by bashing his head on the headboard.

Sighing again, he paused in his squirming, taking in the deafening, stifling silence of the room, wishing he had a roommate, a fellow felon, even, to provide him with snoring or at least shallow breathing to listen to.

After taking a few more moments to pity himself, Draco sat up in his bed, resigning himself to another sleepless night.

Without a wand, he had no way to light the room. He was effectively trapped in the bed, trapped with whatever inane activities his sleep-deprived mind conjured up. Wearily, he accepted his fate.

He was not disappointed. You know, started the evil little voice that seemed to become extra mean at these times, you could always practice your Legilimency.

He sighed a third time, remembering a scared, bloodied Potter from a few nights prior. Guilt pooled in his chest. He was sure Potter knew he'd been spying on his dreams, nosing into his nightmares night after night. Not that Draco was bothered by the invasion of privacy; it was Potter's own damn fault he never practiced his Occlumency. The last thing he needed, however, was for his only sort-of ally to confront him with his behavior. Besides, if Potter had finally cottoned on, he'd have started clearing his mind before bed. Right?

Well, he thought, it couldn't hurt to find out.

He closed his eyes and cleared his own mind of other thoughts, as Snape had taught him. He focused all of his energy on Harry Potter, feeling for him in the dark of his mind, reaching across Hogwarts to find him. A glowing sort of orb came into view. He smirked. Potter would never learn.

Draco paused. This was his last chance to turn back. To the stuffy room and the insomnia, true, but also to a clearer conscience. Potter's thoughts hovered tantalizingly. Ah, well. His conscience was too dirty already for a little more guilt to matter.

He mentally reached for Potter, bracing himself for the initial onslaught of pure emotion before the thoughts became clearer and more tangible. He hoped, absently, that Potter wasn't having another nightmare.

Suddenly, he was hit with a barrage of heat and urgency and lust and ecstasy.

He opened his eyes, back in his own room. That had been… unexpected. He blinked, realizing what he'd walked into. Potter was having that kind of dream.

He grinned. Perfect Potter caught in the middle of a wet dream. It was priceless.

Draco hurriedly found Potter's dream again, and stepped in. He looked around. He was in a dark and inconspicuous Hogwarts corridor. He wondered if Potter had any weird kinks. He hoped nothing too disturbing would happen. If Weasley appeared in any state of undress, he told himself, he'd run for his life.

He heard what could only be described as a growl behind him. He turned, warily, and his jaw fell open.

There was Potter, shirt unbuttoned and falling off one shoulder, pinning someone against the wall.

And that someone was Draco.

Draco gaped, frozen. This was mortifying. Potter was having a dream about him. One one level, he was quite embarrassed that Potter, at least subconsciously, harbored those kinds of thoughts about him. Beneath that, however, he felt a sense of pride that he was, well, attractive to Potter. Potter didn't even like blokes, as far as Draco knew, and this was probably just random cruel synapses firing off in Potter's brain, but the fact remained that the Boy-Who-Lived would wake up the next morning with sticky sheets, and it would be thanks to Draco.

But just because the thought of Potter lusting over him wasn't so unpleasant, he reasoned, didn't mean he wanted Potter to like him. He was flattered, was all. He and Potter had hated each other for years, and though his animosity wasn't as acute as it had been a year ago, he was very far from … well, anything like this.

A low moan broke him from his reverie. His dream alter ego's hands weaved their way into Potter's unruly hair and pulled him in for a heated kiss. "Mmm, Harry," he hissed as they broke apart.

Heat rose to Draco's face. This was completely surreal. He was a voyeur on his own forbidden tryst with Harry-bleeding-Potter. He studied himself. It was like looking in a mirror, except that the image within the mirror was…otherwise occupied. Looking closer, however, Draco could detect several subtle differences between himself and Potter's dream version of him. For one, Potter seemingly envisioned his smoke-colored eyes as something more akin to molten silver. He was several inches shorter than in reality as well, Draco noticed smugly. He supposed Potter couldn't stand being so vertically challenged in comparison.

He also noted, somewhat indignantly, that Potter seemed to imagine him as a particularly vocal participant in this kind of activity. He kept moaning in a rather undignified and, frankly, girly manner. Damn that Potter.

"Draco," Potter murmured huskily. Draco felt something twist in his stomach. Potter had never called him Draco, especially not like that.

They kissed again, hungrily, mouths open as they tried, apparently, to devour each other. Draco watched, transfixed, as Potter's hands roved over his chest, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it carelessly aside. It vanished when it hit the floor, reminding Draco jarringly that this was all inside Potter's head; out of sight, out of existence. He saw that dream-Draco did not have a Dark Mark marring his left forearm, or the faint scar across his chest that Potter had given him in their sixth year.

Draco licked his lips apprehensively as Potter's hands moved lower, cupping his crotch. Dream-Draco moaned in a way that made Draco wonder if it was possible to die of embarrassment. Potter had a good imagination, he admitted grudgingly; it sort of sounded like him.

His dream incarnation flipped them around, pinning Potter to the wall behind them, and dropped to his knees. Draco groaned. Oh gods, NO. He couldn't watch this.

Yet, somehow, he couldn't look away. His dream self fumbled with the fastenings on Potter's trousers for a moment before pushing them down past his knees, along with his boxers.

Draco raised his eyebrows. He supposed it made sense, really, that the savior of the wizarding world was exceptionally well-endowed.

With an eerily familiar smirk, dream-Draco swallowed Potter whole. Potter gasped and clutched helplessly at his assailant's hair.

Draco's mouth went dry. The blood previously occupying his face and neck was suddenly rushing to altogether different areas. It was Potter's arousal, he assured himself, Potter's arousal was being channeled into him through the dream. He was not getting off watching himself give Harry Potter a blowjob. He groaned. Salazar, he was losing it.

He wondered idly if Potter had actually ever done this before. Hogwarts being the gossip mill that it was, he knew that Potter's brief stint with Ginny Weasley was his first and only ever relationship, not counting the even briefer one with that Ravenclaw whose name currently escaped him. From what he'd heard about Ginny Weasley, she probably wouldn't have objected to things like this, encouraged them even, but Potter didn't really seem the type. There was something eternally virginal about him. Which made the image of him hissing—was that Parseltongue?—with his head thrown back, breathing heavily, with a head of hair identical to Draco's between his legs all the more strange.

Potter's breathing was becoming erratic and his knees were buckling. "Oh, Draco, yes… oh gods…oh—" And with that, his muscles seized up and he came. In Draco's mouth. Draco privately felt that watching this, and experiencing the accompanying jolt of heat in his lower body, was ample reason to admit himself to St. Mungo's.

Draco felt the dream start to unravel, and he stepped out, back into his room. The darkness was as complete and overbearing as ever, though the quietude was now punctured by his own slightly ragged breathing.

He was painfully hard. He screwed his eyes shut, sighing. At this rate, he'd never sleep again.

Fin.

Hoo boy. Review, won't you? Quickly, though, this'll likely get taken off. Fucking FFN. I mean, not to offend or anything. Heh heh..

Oh, and while you're at it, you might try reading my other story, "Draco's Quite Large Dilemma." It has more of a plot. XD