Water Just as Thick as Blood (Harry Potter)

First Dreams

As Harry awoke, panting as if he had just run a marathon, he felt a pair of eyes on him. This did not disturb him, as he was familiar to Cassandra having an uncanny awareness of his emotions. When they were younger he used to believe the notion that she simply never slept, and he continued to believe this until they turned eleven and he gave into her protests that she just had psychic abilities. She said that jokingly, of course. Now that they were fledgling wizards, the joke seemed to have far too much truth to it. The pair of emerald eyes never left him as he pressed his left hand snuggly against his forehead, against the scar that sent white-hot jolts of pain throughout his body.

Fumbling for his glasses, he heard a soft, low voice murmur a question, even though the owner of the voice knew with certainty the answer. "A dream...you had a dream about him, right?"

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, blinking the light from the lamp his sister had quietly turned on. Furrowing his brows, he tried to recall what the dream was about. All he could remember was fear and pain. And...wait...a-and a dark room, a large snake curled on an old rug, a man named Wormtail, and the unmistakable high cold voice of Lord Voldemort. Harry felt the sensation of an ice cube run down his back, sending tendrils of unpleasantness trickling through his veins. He said nothing but nodded in unnecessary affirmation.

Cass turned away from her brother, her eyes glinting with the reflection of faraway stars. "He's planning something..." she spoke almost plainly, but Harry knew her too well. There was a faint trail of a tremble in her voice. Cass rarely spoke about the man-if you could even call him that-who killed their parents and tried to kill their best friend's little sister. Was she scared of him? No, close...but that couldn't be it. It was more like a primal wariness. An instinct that was akin to that of a butterfly knowing that it needed to flutter away as fast as it could to avoid being trapped in a glass bottle. He wasn't sure how he knew this, but he did. Just as Cass was keenly aware of him, he too was keenly aware of his sibling.

Harry shifted. "He and Wormtail were plotting to kill...me."

"They better get to us before Malfoy does, or, ourselves, seeming as we always concoct half baked plans that land us in mortal peril."

He could stop a small grin from tugging at his lips. "Is it bad that I'd rather not give Malfoy the satisfaction of triumphing over our dead corpses?"

Placing a finger under her chin, Cassandra pretended to contemplate before they both said in perfect unison, "He doesn't have the balls to do it!"

Their laughter trilled through the room softly as to not wake the Dursleys. It was funny, almost, how his sister could alleviate his discomfort so easily. And at that moment, he truly felt sorry for everyone who did not end up as lucky as him. Sure, the Dursleys were near bad enough to call the social services on, but he'd take it if it meant he got to keep Cass. Even these fond thoughts could not keep worry from eating at his thoughts for long.

Harry restlessly returned back to his bed and ran a finger across his lightning-bolt scar. Cass subconsciously touched her scar. She was more accustomed to the pain than Harry. It was more acute for him, she assumed. However, he was more accustomed to more concrete physical pain, seeing as though he was a quidditch player and fought a fifty ft+ snake. But it was not the pain that concerned either of them. Their scars only hurt when Voldemort was nearby. There was absolutely zero chance of him lurking in Privet Drive. They had, additionally, destroyed his body. So, why did their scars hurt?

Both of them listened to the silence that filled the air. Only crickets and the dissonant lullaby of Dudley's snoring could be heard. Cass shrugged, and broke the silence by suggesting, "We could and write to Hermoine..."

"...Or Ron", Harry added.

Their friends' voices filled their heads. Hermoine's voice would be shrill and panicky, suggesting they write to Dumbledore. But should they really bother him with something as trivial as this? Cass scoffed, how preposterous. They couldn't possibly bother a terribly busy and important man such as Albus Dumbledore himself over a silly little thing like their scars hurting. It ate at her though. It gnawed on her like a dog to a steak bone. Could this really be an omen of something horrible to come?

Ron would tilt his head and neither confirm nor deny their worries, instead opting to ask his father for advice on curse wounds. Harry doubted Arthur Weasley would be much help. As much as he respected the man, Mr. Weasley's forte was bewitched muggle artifacts. That aside, Harry grimaced and caught Cass doing the same out of the corner of his eye.

If Mrs. Weasley got wind of Harry and Cass's scars aching, she would not cease to fret over them like a mother hen. Not that they did not appreciate the sentiment, but it would cause stress on all ends. And if the Weasley twins, Cass's personal favorites (aside from Charlie-He worked with dragons! Dragons!), caught wind, would they think less of the two Potters? Think they were losing their nerve?"

Then a thought donned on Harry. Sirius! They would write to Sirius! He was family and could give logical and reasonable advice.

As Harry scribbled a letter to their godfather, Cass grasped onto the fleeting memory of a dream she had. As much as she tried to remember the details, she could not. All she could remember was a voice calling her name. And the voice was unmistakable. It belonged to the boy she met at the end of her second year. The boy with a pale face and wavy black hair that curled at the end just like hers. Eyes a deep brown that would eventually turn a brilliant scarlet.