The Noctis Codex | DRARRY

TWO

As much as Harry loved the feeling of the soft grass against his skin, he knew exactly where he was and wished to be anywhere else but here. The same, warm sun shining down on him, causing him to feel uncomfortably hot. The same scent, the same...Malfoy.

A groan left Harry's lips as he turned his head to the right. Draco sat a few feet away, lounging on the grass with an irritated look on his face.

"Seriously? Again?" Harry muttered to himself. This was only the second time he'd found himself in this bizarre dream, and yet it already felt like too much. Once was confusing enough, but twice? Something was wrong.

Draco turned his head, narrowing his eyes at the other. "What, Potter? You still think you're the only one stuck in this nightmare?" He sounded annoyed, like they'd somehow been through this a thousand times, but the confusion was still clear in his voice.

Harry pushed himself up, his body feeling oddly stiff despite the softness of the grass. "I don't understand what's going on. Last time—" he cut himself off, remembering how the last dream had ended. With Malfoy standing beside him in the ruins of his parents' home, watching as Voldemort murdered them. It had been too real, too vivid. And now this.

But before he could finish the thought, the world around them began to change again. The peaceful meadow darkened, and a chill swept over them. Harry's heart rate spiked, that creeping sense of dread settling in his chest.

The grass beneath them hardened into stone, and the blue sky twisted into a shadowy ceiling. In the blink of an eye, they found themselves inside a room Harry recognized all too well. A small, cramped cupboard under the stairs.

Harry's breath caught in his throat.

"No..." he whispered, barely audible. He knew exactly where they were now—Number Four, Privet Drive. His childhood home. More specifically, his childhood prison.

The door to the cupboard creaked open on its own, revealing a small figure huddled inside. A younger version of Harry, barely eight years old, sitting on a ragged blanket, his knees pulled tightly to his chest.

Draco was silent for a moment, his usual facade faltering. "What... what is this place?" he asked, his voice quieter than before.

"It's where I grew up," Harry answered, his throat tight. "Or where they locked me up, anyway."

Draco glanced at Harry with a mix of confusion and discomfort, clearly not expecting to witness this part of Harry's past. Before he could say anything, the door slammed shut with a deafening bang, and the walls around them started to blur, melting into something else entirely.

Harry's pulse quickened. He didn't want to be here. Not again. Not in these memories.

But whatever force had brought them here wasn't done yet. The scene shifted again, and now they were standing in the middle of a dimly lit room—his childhood bedroom. A teenage Harry sat at the edge of the bed, staring out of the window, utterly alone.

It was all too familiar. And all too real.

Harry's jaw clenched as he felt a wave of anger rise up within him. "Why are we seeing this? Why are we here?" He turned to Draco, who looked just as bewildered as he felt.

"I don't know," Draco admitted, for once not laced with sarcasm or mockery. "But it's not my doing, Potter."

Right, this is just a dream, after all.

Before either of them could say more, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the house. The door burst open, and Uncle Vernon stormed in, his face purple with rage. Harry winced, knowing what was coming next. And Draco, for the first time, fell completely silent.