Dream Lover

A/N—Thanks to my lovely snookems for the beta, and to Ali, knightmare and Kit for the helpful suggestions. As always you take my writing and make it exponentially better. :-*


Harry looked around his dreamscape and smiled to himself. Yes, this was perfect. A secluded hillside, with a blanket spread out on the ground and a picnic basket just waiting to be opened. Draco would call him a romantic fool—again—but Harry knew he enjoyed these dreams as much as Harry did.

Harry smiled wickedly and decided to surprise Draco when he showed up. He quickly stripped off his clothes, not noticing when they disappeared from where he dropped them. He stretched out on the blanket and basked in the warmth of the dream sun. Curious to see what kind of food he’d unwittingly ‘ordered’ for this dream, Harry sat up and opened the wicker basket.

What he saw there caused his blood to freeze in his veins. A head stared back at him, the head of Sirius, his godfather. Harry opened his mouth to scream and as he did so, the mouth of the head--Sirius’ head, his mind whispered--opened as well, and thick black worms began crawling out, only to disappear again up his nostrils.

Harry gagged and backed away, shaking his head violently, shoulders trembling as sobs wracked his body. All at once, a searing pain lanced through his skull, causing him to fall to his knees.

“Harrryyyyy Poootttttttterrrr,” came a hiss from behind him. He scrambled around to see who was there, and was unsurprised to see Voldemort standing directly behind him.

“You bastard,” Harry choked out. “You fucking bastard!”

Voldemort threw his head back and laughed. “Harry, Harry, Harry.” The sinister quality of his voice sent shudders of revulsion down Harry’s spine. “Language. Whatever would your dear, departed mother think?”

“She would wonder why I haven’t killed you yet,” Harry spat, bile still forming in his mouth.

Voldemort laughed, a high-pitched, insane sound. It was abruptly cut off as he lunged at Harry, clutching at his upper arms with a punishing grip. “And what about your pretty little lover boy?” he asked softly, his face less than an inch from Harry’s. “What would the son of Lucius say?”

Harry started trembling, his feigned bravado lost as the implications of what Voldemort was saying struck him through the heart. He shook his head, knowing before he even opened his mouth that his denial would do no good. “No,” he said shakily. “I don’t know who told you that, but we’re not…”

“Silence your lies!” Voldemort screamed, throwing him through the air to land on his back, driving the breath from his lungs. “I’ve seen you, Potter! I’ve seen you and that filthy little blood traitor! I stood here in your mind and watched the two of you rolling around in the mud, I watched as you sucked him dry in the Prefect’s bath. I. Watched. You!!”

Harry nearly threw up then and there. Those precious memories of his were now tainted for all time. The very idea that this mad man had observed his dreams with Draco burned at him, filling him with a need to purify himself and those treasured memories. He felt dirty and cheated. Why could he never have anything good and pure in his life, without this monster insinuating himself into it?

“Ahhhhh!” Harry shouted and launched himself at Voldemort, striking everywhere he could, hoping to hurt him as Harry was hurting. Actually, if he was honest, he was trying to kill him with his bare hands. Unfortunately, Voldemort took it all and merely laughed, the sound raising gooseflesh on Harry’s skin, making it crawl.

Voldemort thrust him back, watching through slitted eyes as he stumbled to the ground and lay there panting. “Do you know, at first I thought he was using the sex as a means of getting close to you, of making you trust him enough, so that he could bring you to me? The reward for him would have been…beyond all measure. But, perhaps he has given me a means of destroying you, anyway, a way to bring you to the fine edge of death, so that I might push you in. Yes…yes, I think he has. You stupid boy, you actually love him, don’t you?”

Harry shook his head fervently, trying desperately to think of some way of convincing Voldemort that his dreams of Draco were not real, that Draco himself had played no part in them.

“It’s just a dream, Tom,” he said, trying to inject some bravado into his statement. He needed Voldemort to believe him. He needed Draco to be safe, no matter what the cost to him personally. “I mean, he’s a bloody git, but he’s a fucking hot bloody git. So yeah, I have dreams about him.” He carefully climbed to his feet, trying unsuccessfully to cover his naked form. “How on earth could you think that any of it is real?”

Voldemort hissed in displeasure and raised a hand, curving it into a fist in front of Harry’s face. “I told you not to lie to me, Potter. You would do well to remember that. Think you that I don’t know the difference between a shadowy dream lover, and the presence of another’s mind in close proximity to my own? You foolish, foolish child. That Dumbledore truly sees you as the hope for wizardkind is laughable. You cannot stop me, boy. No one can. Now, once again, I will take that which you love, which you need, away from you. How pitifully easy it is, Harry, to do this over and over, but how pleasurable.”

At that moment, Voldemort did something, Harry didn’t know what, that caused a bolt of pain to slice through him, originating in his scar, and spreading through his body, leaving him defenceless in the face of it. He watched, helpless, as Draco appeared, a smile lighting his features before realisation dawned.

Voldemort laughed again, that high pitched, evil laugh. He flew at Draco, and as he touched him, they both disappeared, leaving Harry kneeling on the soft, cushiony grass as the smell of decaying flesh reached his nose.

*

Draco’s lips held a soft smile as he drifted off to sleep. He’d just spent the most amazing night of his life, with the man he loved more than he could ever have imagined, and now, thanks to some poorly performed spell, he would be able to continue that evening in their dreams, while their bodies refreshed themselves.

As he woke to the dream, he took in the pastoral setting and smiled softly, not noticing at first that he and Harry were not alone. As he looked around, and registered that it was Voldemort standing over Harry, who was writhing in pain on the ground, he felt a terrified fury pour through him. All he could comprehend at first was that his love was in danger. It took too long for him to realise that Harry was looking at him with an expression that perfectly matched the emotion burning a trail through Draco.

He watched, too stunned to do anything other than stand there like an idiot, as Voldemort seemed to fly at him, and then suddenly, everything was dark. The soft, green fields were gone, the blanket and picnic basket a thing of a different life, a different time.

Draco felt an icy coldness envelop him, even as he realised that wherever he was, he had no body, no form. He was merely a spirit floating freely on the waves of thought, a formless entity in this blank, merciless universe in which he suddenly found himself.

A voice, or a thought, something spoke to him, telling him what he fool he was to believe anyone or anything loved him. It seemed to take everything that was good in his world and wrench it from him in the most horrifically painful way possible. Within moments—or maybe it was years, he couldn’t tell—he could barely remember what happiness and contentment had ever been. The only emotions he could comprehend were fear and an overwhelming horror.

As his soul began to go numb, he caught hold of one moment and held it close. It was the shine of love captured forever, in eyes greener than anything the gods of nature could conceive. That one image, or memory, or whatever it was, sustained him now, made him stronger.

He felt his consciousness, his will, returning to him as he held on to Harry’s love. His terror was not lessened at all, nor did the cold abate to the slightest degree, but he knew now that as long as he could hold on, he could make it through this. He would be with Harry again; he simply had to hang on.

Draco focused on that one thought, holding on to it as if his life depended on it, since it very well did.

*

Harry woke up, his scar blazing, and immediately turned in Draco’s loosened embrace to reassure himself that his dream had been only that—a dream.

He put his hands to Draco’s cheeks and patted, a bit more harshly than he had intended, perhaps, but certainly enough to get the job done. When Draco did not respond and merely lay there on the bed, lax, Harry began to panic all over again. He knelt up and took Draco by the shoulders, shaking him roughly, tears falling unheeded down his cheeks as he shouted at him to “Wake up!”

Again, Draco did not react, the silent, steady rising and falling of his chest as he breathed the only sign that he was still alive.

Harry was trembling all over in a combination of shock and terror. Voldemort had done what he promised. He had stolen Draco, trapped his mind, taken him to a place that Harry could not reach. Being faced once again with a situation in which he could not save a loved one hit Harry with the force of a freight train, driving the breath from his lungs. He felt the same as he had after watching Sirius fall through the veil: powerless, shocked, impotent.

He gathered Draco’s unresponsive form in his arms and began rocking back and forth, keening softly. His mind was blank, all thought forced out with the depth of his grief. He would have been numb, but for the tears that continued to trail down his cheeks.

Lost as he was, he didn’t hear the voices outside the door.

*

Blaise smirked evilly, leading nearly the entire house of Slytherin to the Room of Requirement to witness first hand the humiliation of Harry Potter, golden boy of Gryffindor. He waited outside the door, giving himself a mental pat on the back for placing a tracking spell on Draco the night before, so that he would know where they had gone to take care of Potter’s little debt.

Striding confidently to the door that was positioned in the middle of what once had been a blank wall, he gave three sharp raps and flung it open, entering the room with a wicked laugh. As he scanned the room for signs of Potter’s downfall, he took in the trappings of seduction with a sneer. The fire still blazed, the rug looked a bit matted down but still thick and luxurious, and the bed curtains were still drawn, giving the occupants their privacy.

Well, that would just not do. Blaise stalked to the bed and threw apart the hangings, ready to laugh snidely in Potter’s face. What he saw, however, had him scrabbling at his robes for his wand.

He’d never seen such a look of utter destruction on a person’s face as he did on Potter’s. The boy was rocking back and forth, crooning something unintelligible to Draco, who lay limply in his arms.

“What have you done?” Blaise whispered in shock, even as he sensed someone behind him gasp and run from the room. “Petrificus Totalus!” he cried, a bolt of light shooting from his wand and hitting Harry squarely in his chest, knocking the boy off his knees and sending him sprawling stiffly onto the bed, his nakedness on display for all to see.

Blaise ignored him completely and rushed forward to find out what was wrong with Draco. After shaking him and casting Ennervate and Finite Incantatem on him, Blaise began to seriously worry. His friend was still alive, his heart beating steadily, and breathing regular. In fact, it was as if he were merely sleeping.

After a few minutes, he heard the harsh whispers behind him go instantly quiet, and suddenly his Head of House was right there beside him, asking in a clipped voice what was going on.

“It’s Potter, sir. He’s done something to Draco. I don’t know what, but Draco isn’t waking up. I think he slipped him a potion, because I’ve tried every counterspell I can think of.”

“What’s wrong with Potter?” Snape asked, a touch of what could have been concern, but probably wasn’t, sharpening his tone.

“I Petrified him, sir. He was sitting in here, holding Draco, and acting rather insane.” Blaise sneered the last bit, expecting his Professor to make a rejoinder about Potter’s mental state. When he didn’t, and simply ended Blaise’s spell on Potter with a softly uttered “Finite Incantatem,” Blaise’s worry increased tenfold.

Potter sat up groggily and flushed, pulling the blankets around himself before his memory returned fully. When it did, the change was terrible to behold. The light died from his eyes and a fine, steady trembling overtook him. Small, choked sobs wracked his frame as he once again pulled Draco’s unresponsive body to him.

“Potter!” Snape growled harshly. “Get hold of yourself, boy!” Turning, he ordered the students from the room, casting a calculating look on Blaise, before coming to the obvious conclusion that he wouldn’t be able to get him to leave. Once it was just the four of them, he lowered his voice and asked, “What happened?”

Potter shook his head and curled his body around Draco. His hand began stroking over the skin of Draco’s cheek, and he started with the weird crooning noises again.

Blaise whispered to Snape, “That’s what he was doing when I got here, sir. He’s obviously lost what little sanity he might ever have possessed.”

Snape stepped up to the bed and knelt on the mattress before raising his hand and slapping the hell out of Potter. Blaise was impressed despite himself. Potter’s head snapped around, but otherwise he didn’t move. However, the blow had the desired effect. Potter seemed to come back to himself a bit, enough to glare furiously at Snape, at any rate.

“What the hell?” he snarled. His hands curled into fists and he was obviously prepared to return the open handed blow with one of his own, before Snape’s next words stopped him.

“Beyond the fact that I’ve wanted to do that for years, you were clearly hysterical, Potter, and I need answers. Sitting there crying like a girl over Draco’s comatose body clearly wasn’t getting you anywhere, so shall we try it my way? Now, tell me what happened!”

“It was…” Potter trailed off as he looked at Blaise, truly seeing him for the first time. “Err… I think we should discuss this elsewhere, sir.”

Blaise growled softly. “No way are you leaving this room in one piece, Potter, not after what you’ve done to Draco.”

Blaise watched Potter flinch and his arms tighten around the boy in his arms. “I don’t know what… I don’t know what to do, sir,” Potter whispered to Snape, voice heavy with pain. “I don’t know how to help him, how to make him wake up. He’s trapped there, and I’m afraid he’s going to die, and I won’t be able to save him.”

“Get dressed, Potter,” Snape said, pulling Draco from Potter’s arms and covering him with a blanket. “Meet me in the infirmary.”

Potter scrambled off the bed and grabbed his wand. With a flick, his clothing was once again securely on his body. He and Blaise half ran from the room, quickly catching up with Snape.

*

After what felt a millennium, Draco began to realise that he could navigate around this horrible blackness. He had no concept of motion, really, but some areas seemed less cold, some had a hint of light that seemed to want to shine through. He moved toward those areas, longing for anything to bring a semblance of life back to him. He was sure this is what being dead felt like, and he wanted to be alive. He wanted to find the green eyes again, though his perception of the green eyes, and who they belonged to, was fading more with every moment. He only knew that he had to remember the green eyes, remember them, and hold on to the joy he still felt because of them.

He was surprised as he heard voices, whispers in the dark, memories calling to him. He pushed himself, his essence, toward those softly calling voices.

*

Snape listened to Harry’s account of his dream silently, the entire force of his intelligence dedicated to finding some hint of a solution to their current dilemma in the rather disjointed report. When Harry stumbled to a halting conclusion, Snape looked over at Dumbledore, who had Flooed directly from the Headmaster’s office when Snape firecalled him.

There was only one thing Snape could think of to try, but it was a huge risk and something only he or the Headmaster would be capable of undertaking. He steeled himself for a battle with the elderly wizard, knowing by the way his stooped shoulders straightened with resolve, that Albus was contemplating doing it himself.

“No, Headmaster,” he said softly, but firmly. “If anyone is going to do this, it will be me.”

“Do what?” Harry asked, confused. He felt physically and mentally drained after the intense emotions of the morning. Just looking at Draco’s still body under the white sheets of the infirmary bed made his heart clench in his chest. But he needed to concentrate, to help. If he did nothing else in his life, Harry was determined that he would save Draco, or die trying.

The two older wizards ignored him completely.

“Severus, I’m sorry, but I must insist that I be the one to take on this task. Mr. Malfoy is a student in my responsibility. It is my duty to help him, and I cannot afford to let Voldemort know that you are on our side. If he notices your presence—“

“We can’t worry about what ifs, Albus. We need to act quickly, and if anyone is going to be trapped, it would be far better that it be me. We can’t risk anyone else, certainly not you. We don’t know how long it will take to find him, and the Dark Lord will surely be expecting something of this nature—“

The doors to the infirmary crashed open, interrupting their quiet argument. Hermione Granger jogged quickly between the rows of beds, panting slightly as her eyes locked on Snape’s. “Sir,” she gasped out. “I found her. I know who did it.”

She stepped to the side, showing what had previously been blocked from his view—the stunned and levitating body of a Hogwarts student.

TBC