To Catch A Sunrise DNI FINISHED

5 am - the merlin dorms

Draven had plotted his escape from the Merlin Dorms in a muddied haze. Sleep hadn't come, and he'd been grateful for it. Up till the very moment he'd pushed himself to a sitting position and felt the world tilt. It stretched in front of him, blending together in a mish-mash of colors and ugly sounds. His stomach revolted as he forced himself up. His throat, which tasted like something had died in it, hurt. In a moment of blinding stupidity, Draven's fingers stretched the collar of his hoodie in an attempt to massage away the pain. But the feeling lay somewhere behind his tongue. To massage it away reach past it and rip out whatever it was that made swallowing a chore.

He didn't have the medical skills for that. In his current condition, he doubted he'd be able to hold a pen. There was no pen to hold either way, though he wished he'd brought one. If muggles did one thing very well, it was pens. Steady and reliable, easy to carry and cheap. Draven had marveled at the invention when his eyes had first settled on them. They were wasteful, it was true. But if he ever had the money, he'd promised himself he'd get a pen commissioned. Made out of some sort of heavy metal, fit perfectly to the curves of his hand. With ink cartridges that could be replaced. Perhaps he'd buy different colored inks as well, and swap them out whenever he needed a change.

Reaching across the bed, Draven's fingers groped through the near darkness for the straps of his bag. It lay nestled against his pillow, the pins gleaming silently in what little light came from underneath the lake. When things weren't as bad, Draven could get away with setting the bag beside his bed, or simply unpacking the things from it. He'd laid curled up around it tonight. The weight of it was reassuring against his chest, the straps tangled in his fingers. Uncomfortable as it was, he preferred to have an anchor.

Straining his eyes, the boy clambered to his feet. Having the steady wooden posts of the bed there made it easier, though guilt blossomed in his stomach as he felt a few of Deimos' webs catch in his fingers. The spider had covered the entire top of his bed with black silk, and started working on the sides. Carefully untangling the silk from his fingers, Draven attempted to clumsily put it back in the spot he'd disturbed. Deimos gave an annoyed chirp, batting his hands away and crawling up his arm. '

Yeah. He should have known better. Draven took his first unsteady step away from his bed. It had become, as ridiculous as it sounded, a source of comfort. But the center of the room, and the vast emptiness pressing around him as he advanced was anything but. He felt at the ground with the tips of his feet, trying to not stumble and cause a kerfuffle. He could have taken his wand. Whispered a Lumos. But light meant the possibility of the other boys waking up, and he couldn't handle that right then.

Slowly (and a little clumsily), he made his way across the dorm. Perhaps he'd hallucinated the muffled cries coming from near the door just a few hours before. Grief and longing were lonely emotions. Draven's face twisted in something that almost resembled sympathy. Fingers travelled along the smooth wood, looking for the handle. After a few minutes of standing up, the nausea had nearly retreated. He no longer felt like throwing up, at least, and that had to be worth something.

Quietly, the door swung open. Draven whispered a thank you to whoever was listening and slipped out, bag and spider in tow.

6 am - boys lavatory

The boy's bathroom was nicer than he'd grown used to. There were no patches of mold growing near the showers, or dubious stains that clumped up the drains. The floor was clean, and the mirror was whole. If it had ever been cracked, there was no evidence of that now, the sinks underneath it clean of glass dust.

Draven's hands pressed up against the side of the glass, enjoying the way it dug in the flesh of his palm. It was cool and clear, a shock after the night of uncomfortable heat and dizziness he'd experienced. Outside, the first rays of sunlight had begun creeping across the horizon, painting the marbled tiles in playful oranges and pinks.

He wanted to push the window open. He eyed it. Eyed up the frame and the old, weather stained glass. He carefully followed the place where the latch had been nailed in, imaging himself lifting it and allowing fresh air to tumble into the room.

Then he imagined the latch breaking apart in his hands. The hingers squeaking. The glass shattering.

Draven swallowed, returning his attention back to the sink. Perhaps on a day he had a bit more nerve, he could push the window open. Now, he just needed to focus on washing up.

He reached for the soap in his bag.

The tap was absurdly loud. Water splashed against marble, a deep rumble upsetting the old pipes. They'd been there for at least a century, and they were well taken care off. But the water flowing from them was still a dubious at best.

Not dubious enough to stop Draven from bending over the sink to wash his face. In that position, the nausea came back. Maybe it was the sudden movement, or the change in temperature, or the way water flowed before his eyes. But his stomach turned.

Biting on the inside of his cheek, the boy focused on the coolness stabbing into his stiff hands, promising himself he wouldn't be sick. He couldn't be sick, he hadn't eaten anything since before he'd gotten on the Hogwarts Express. The worst that would happen was him kneeling on the bathroom floor dry heaving above a toilet bowl. He wasn't sure he could stand that particular humiliation so early in the morning.

He washed. Methodically. Carefully. Under his nails and between his fingers. His face, his neck. He wanted to take a shower, but that would have required peeling off his clothes. Instead, he focused on the parts of himself he could reach. The boy staring back at him in the mirror was a stranger. Draven barely recognized that it was him, even after he was clean.

His hair was gone, replaced by a buzz cut that had taken less than 10 minutes, and made him feel less than human. The dark circles had always been underneath his eyes. But now they were forced to share the space with a dusting of acne and freckles. He'd left scars across his cheeks a few weeks before, trying to dig his fingers in the painful red spots and make them disappear faster. They made him look dirty. But touching them made them worse. So really, all he could do was wash his face and hope they would vanish.

His face had grown sharper, cheeks sinking in and losing the childish fat. He was 13 now. The first bit of peach fuzz had started to show across his chin and jaw, but he didn't know how to get rid of it without hurting himself. He'd left it, after an unfortunate incident with a muggle razor and a cut that had required a box of bandaids.

He ran his fingers over it now, wishing it gone. It also made him look dirty. It was part of the reason for the mask curled up against his throat, a silent companion. At least when he wore it, he could pretend he was still put together.

Though there was no pretending that for long. He was about to walk in a first-year classroom and be two years older than everyone there. Put together.

Funny joke.

Draven's lips pressed together in a thin white line as he pulled the mask over his nose.