It was a slow process, lowering himself to the point between wakefulness and sleep, especially with how stressful the day had been, but he managed it. He was faintly aware of Draco’s body under his, but the majority of his concentration was fixed on the point where his and Voldemort’s minds met. He kept a metaphorical finger on the pulse of the connection between them, waiting for the moment where, when Voldemort fell asleep, crossing the thin barrier between them would be as easy as sinking a hot knife into butter. Harry couldn’t have said how long it took, but while he waited, the stroking at his back stopped, and Draco’s chest under his head began to rise slowly and surely in slow deep breaths.