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Author: Felix-Felicitas Story: Asleep, He Dreamed Rating: Teens Setting: Pre-DH Status: WIP Reviews: 16 Words: 16,293
Harry had no idea how much time had passed since he'd woken in the Hospital Wing. It felt like just a few hours, but, for all he knew, it had been days, or weeks, or months...time had no place in this strange-yet-familiar world. The majestic Grandfather clock that usually announced the time on the hour with a lilting Welsh voice had stopped, its hands frozen at twelve. The light coming in through the windows remained silvery, the moon and stars paused in their travels across the heavens. He perched uneasily on the edge of a chair that he had backed into a corner, offering him a view of every entrance to the room. He hated just sitting there, hated the sense of anticipation that was building up in his stomach, leaving him feeling on edge and jittery. His leg was bouncing constantly in a futile effort to rid his body of the pent up nervous energy. Indecision wasn't a trait he usually possessed, so to find himself debating a course of action was, at best, frustrating, and, at worst, disheartening. It was dangerous to sit and think for too long; each passing minute saw an increase in his level of nervousness, leaving him with sweaty palms, a dry mouth, and a racing heart. The legendary Gryffindor courage seemed to have deserted him when he needed it most. Distraction from his increasingly introspective state of mind returned in the form of his ghostly visitors, who settled into chairs and began their silent chatter. Their smiles were genuine this time, particularly from Fred and George, who were telling inaudible jokes and grinning widely. Harry watched the steady stream of his friends, making no effort to interact with anyone, content to just look at them. The only person that seemed to respond to his touch and voice was Ginny, and she wasn't anywhere to be seen. Hagrid made his first appearance, no smaller in his non-corporeal form. His beetle black eyes were shiny with unshed tears, and his massive hands kept creeping up to tug at his beard, but he seemed to be trying hard to be cheerful. The Keeper of the Keys was followed by Ron and Hermione, who sat together. Ron still looked scared and somewhat nauseated, but gradually relaxed, his lanky body sprawling in the chair. Hermione read from a book, her voice reaching Harry as a softly pitched hum. He couldn't distinguish any words; it was like being underwater and hearing people talk from above. Ron rolled his eyes and muttered something that made Hermione smirk before she carried on with her reading. Harry grinned, remembering so many evenings spent just like this, with Hermione's nose stuck in a book, oblivious to the fact that her two best friends were just pretending to listen. Eventually they left, shooed off by Mrs. Weasley. Ron seemed mortified at something, and Hermione frowned at him, obviously annoyed. Mrs. Weasley bustled around doing something that Harry couldn't see, but as she worked, a feeling of warmth and protection folded itself around him like a down-filled duvet. He felt safe and secure for the first time since this madness had started. Job done, Mrs. Weasley leaned forward and brushed a kiss against Harry's cheek. There was a faint pressure there, like a feather stroking over his skin, and that sensation stayed even after she vanished. Harry wasn't alone for long. With his friends gone, Voldemort chose that moment to appear, slinking into the room like a panther. He was still silent, still dressed in midnight black robes. The Slytherin House scarf remained, but it was now adorned with a bile green 'Potter Stinks' badge. The jittery feeling drained away from Harry now that Voldemort had returned, and it was replaced by anger, filling him up from the tips of his toes to the top of his tousled head. This was the man that had killed his parents and Cedric. Although Harry was petrified, he wasn't going to give Voldemort the satisfaction of seeing The Boy-Who-Lived in fear of him. Voldemort grinned at Harry, and then began to gesture with his wand, conjuring emerald-coloured smoke that coalesced into James and Lily Potter. The wraiths circled Harry, moaning mournfully, their dead eyes wide and blank. He did his best to ignore them, staring steadily at Voldemort. He refused to be cowed by a party trick, even though it tore at his heart to see the image of his parents distorted to suit Voldemort's needs. He cast a weak and sickly Patronus that was little more than silver mist, but it did the job, chasing away the phantoms. The look of triumph he shot at Voldemort was fiercely defiant and unwavering. Voldemort just raised an eyebrow, unconcerned, and began to spin his wand between his fingers the way a majorette would twirl a baton, the long, slim piece of wood in constant motion. Harry deliberately turned his back on Voldemort in a deliberate show of contempt, casually draping his legs over one arm of the chair and resting his shoulders against the other. As he shifted his bottom into a more comfortable position, he caught a flash of red hair from the corner of his eye and turned in the chair to look for the cause. "Ginny?" He couldn't see her, but he knew she was there, knew that it was Ginny. Her presence made him calm and quietly confident in a way that nobody else could. He left the chair to go in search of the youngest Weasley, hyper-aware of Voldemort watching him. He thought he saw her duck behind a curtain and moved to follow her, but was stopped short by a sudden tug low in his abdomen. It didn't hurt, but his legs turned to jelly and he fell, clutching at his stomach. The pulling sensation intensified, and he grimaced in almost-pain, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the way his world suddenly shifted on its axis. When Harry opened his eyes again, he was no longer in the Common Room, and Voldemort was gone. Harry was back in the Hospital Wing, tucked up in bed. The table at the foot of the bed was overflowing with presents and cards, and a huge, solitary zinnia that was the colour of tangerines scented the air with its sweet perfume. He struggled to sit upright, his body trembling with the effort. "Hello?" His throat produced a dry little rasp of a voice that probably didn't carry any further than the privacy curtain around the bed. As he tried to move his legs out of the bed, a curious feeling of detachment washed over him and he found himself listing to the side, unable to keep his balance. A roaring sound pressed against his eardrums, like the remembered echo of the ocean inside a conch shell, and his mouth filled with a metallic taste, as if he'd been licking a knut. Then Ginny was there, running toward him from the other side of the room. She was flesh and blood this time, not a spirit. "Ginny!" he managed to shout, before his jaw locked shut and his back arched from the bed, his limbs rigid. Each time his body shivered, the top of his head banged against the bars of the headboard, and his clawed hands twisted in the sheets. He tried to reach for her but his body wouldn't respond, and then he was back on the floor of the Common Room, twitching as what felt like electric shocks sparked through his nervous system. A hand touched his shoulder. "Relax, Harry. Just concentrate on your breathing." The voice sounded oddly familiar, only it couldn't possibly belong to the person that Harry thought it did. It had to be wishful thinking on his part. People didn't just come back to life three months after dying in a blaze of green. The speaker leaned over him, and Harry sucked in his breath. The face matched the voice - blue eyes, brown hair, and an almost aristocratic cast to his features. But ... he was dead. Harry had watched him die, cried over his dead body, so how could he be crouched there, apparently alive?
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