Nothing In This World (BEING EDITED)

XXXIX.

Chapter XXXIX: The Weight of Dreams
Warning: Strong language and mentions of blood.

Harry pulled off his clothes and put on his pajamas in silence; Dean, Seamus, and Neville were already asleep on the bed Bill had transfigured or them. After his dinner with Snape, they spent the rest of the night at the Manor playing games and watching some old films on the television. Hermione was in bed nearby, snoring softly a book tucked underneath her chin. Harry put his glasses on his bedside table and got into bed but did not pull the curtains closed; instead, he stared at the patch of starry sky visible through the window next to transfigured bed. If he had known, this time last night, that in twenty-four hours’ time he would be expelled from Hogwarts, he would have let the dementors suck out his soul.

Neville snuffled in his sleep and moved closer to Dean as the boy wrapped his arms around him. And his owl hooted somewhere in the room.

He had been asleep for several hours when his dream changed. Unlike his usual dreams, his body felt smooth, powerful, and flexible. He was gliding between shining metal bars, across dark, cold stone. He was flat against the floor, sliding along on his belly. It was dark, yet he could see a few objects around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colors. He was turning his head side to side in weird motions. At first glance, the corridor was empty . . . but no . . . his dad, Arthur, was sitting on the floor ahead, his chin drooping onto his chest, his outline gleaming in the dark. Harry put out his tongue. He tasted the man’s scent on the air. . . He was alive but drowsing . . . sitting in front of a door at the end of the corridor.

Harry longed to bite his father. . . but he must master the impulse.

He had more important work to do.

A silvery cloak fell from his legs as he jumped to his feet; and Harry saw his vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, saw a wand withdrawn from a belt. He had no choice. He reared high from the floor and struck once, twice, three times, plunging his fangs deeply into Arthur's flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood. . . .

The Arthur was yelling in pain . . . then he fell silent. . . . He slumped backward against the wall. . . . Blood was splattering onto the floor.

His forehead hurt terribly. . . . It was aching fit to burst. Harry began to trash around the pain in his forehead, which was excruciating.

Mean while at Hogwarts, Severus shot up in bed and drew his wand. He wasn't quite sure where he was, but as the room came into a clearer focus, he set his wand down. The Death Eater tattoo on his arm was aching terribly. "Harrison," he breathed out slowly. The only other time he and Harry had shared dreams was early on in their relationship.

He abruptly got up and got dressed and walked to his living room. When he couldn't reach anyone on the Floo, he went to his lab to brew. If he couldn't sleep, he'd finish up the potions he needed to give to Poppy before the start of term.

Back at the Weasley-Malfoy Manor, Ron stood over Harry and tried to shake him awake. "Harry! HARRY!"

He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was covered in icy sweat; his bedcovers were twisted all around him like a straitjacket; he felt as though a white-hot branding iron was being applied to his forehead. It was enough to make him scream.

"Harry!"

Harry slowly blinked the dream away and saw that Ron was standing over him, looking extremely frightened. There were a few more figures at the foot of Harry’s bed. He clutched his head in his hands; the pain was blinding him. He rolled right over and vomited over the edge of the mattress.

"He's really ill," said the scared voice of Hermione. She placed Crookshacks on her bed and told the cat to hush when he hissed at her. "Should we call someone?"