To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Chapter Two

Content Warnings: Brief vomiting (it's not overly graphic). Brief sexual content. All sexual scenes are clearly marked by these symbols at the beginning ❧ and at the end ☙ if you want to skip them.

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Harry blinks as a world coalesces into existence around him. He pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks around, breathing out a low, "Fuck."

He's standing in the entryway of Grimmauld Place, but it looks vastly different from the thoroughly cleansed and remodelled version where he currently resides. It's unnaturally dark—the only light from a few old sputtering gas lamps along the wall, the air dank and heavy around him.

The grotesque troll leg umbrella stand is beside the door, and so is Walburga's old portrait, covered by the thick curtain, still hanging on the wall Harry distinctly remembers knocking down—painting and all—with his own two hands and a sledgehammer on Draco's wedding day.

"Master should not be here," a voice croaks.

"Kreacher?" Harry gasps, staring at the old house elf in shock before shaking his head.

None of this is real.

Kreacher has been dead and buried for over a decade.

A floorboard creaks above them, and Harry steps toward the stairs, gripping his wand tightly. He notices the patterns in the stair railings are slightly different from the actual design, an error in Draco's memory of the place, to be sure, but overall the house looks disconcertingly familiar.

As he watches, the error corrects itself, the curse incorporating Harry's memories into the construction.

"Master should not be here," not-Kreacher repeats. "He is happy. Would you take that from him?"

"He's dying," Harry snaps, shaking off his discomfort and taking the stairs two at a time.

There's light shining under the door to Sirius' old room where Harry had taken up residence shortly after the war. He hesitates with a hand on the cool metal handle, grimacing at the sounds that greet him from within.

❧There's a soft moan, and the rhythmic creaking of the old bed, followed by a high-pitched whine.

Harry doesn't want to open the door, which he knows is precisely why the curse has conjured this scenario for him. It's working with both of their memories now.

So he steels himself, gives the handle a sharp yank, and pulls the door open.

Draco turns his face toward the door at the sound. He doesn't look a day older than nineteen. On his back with his legs in the air, his face scrunches in ecstasy as he gasps, "Harry!"

On top of him on the bed, still thrusting steadily, is a nineteen-year-old conjuration of Harry—a combination of the twisted magic of the curse and Draco's memories, just like everything else.☙

"Let him go," Harry growls.

The copy turns its head and grins wickedly at him. It's an exact imitation of the face Harry would have seen in the mirror at that age, except for the eyes. Instead of green, they're blood-red and glowing.

"Harry?" Draco is staring at him, then glancing between them in confusion. "What...how...?"

"This isn't real, Draco."

"'Course it is," the other Harry says smoothly. "We've been having fun, haven't we, sweetheart?"

"This isn't real," Harry grits out, shaking his head to clear it and pointing his wand. "Exolvus!"