BROUGHT BY DREAMS / Original WIP
Summary: A Muggle woman is intrigued by a dark-haired man in an English village.
A/N: Many thanks to blue artemis for quick and excellent betaing.
She was brought to him by dreams.
They began one summer when she glimpsed a tall, slender man with long black hair striding through the Lancashire village where she spent two nights while touring England.
There was something… mysterious about him. The villagers nodded comfortably as he passed and chatted with him when he paused in his long-legged walk along the sidewalk lined with aged rock buildings, yet he did not seem to fit in entirely. He carried himself stiffly, and—from the distance she saw him through the inn's dining room window—appeared to be wearing a coat that was rather heavy and longish for warm weather.
Within five minutes he was gone; ducked into the local chemist's, which also served as the local news stand, tea shop and gathering place before the pub opened.
It was unfortunate that her bus arrived only half an hour later, and she would not be returning.
+++++
The dreams began that night. And they continued intermittently, growing more vivid and detailed as the months passed.
A dark man in dark places. A person—a soul—held captive. Red, piercing eyes. Unspeakable sadness, pain and agony. Overbearing loneliness.
The dreams were all about him, she knew. The long-haired man in the village.
She would return. And she knew what to do.
+++++
The room had been booked months in advance and had changed little, other than that when she arrived, it was earlier in the day so that the sunlight splashed brightly on the wallpapered walls. Shoving the suitcases aside, she checked her face and hair in the freshly-cleaned mirror. She then grabbed a brush and powder from her purse to undo the damage from several straight hours of travel in mostly cramped settings.
The jittery feeling began the moment her foot stepped over the inn's threshold. What was she thinking? Even if she found the man, assuming that he lived there, how could she think he would accept her as anything other than a loon?
She'd paid good money for this trip. And if he laughed at her, gulped and ran, or told her exactly what he thought of a strange woman approaching him with even stranger words, well, she could always check out and take her bags to another inn in another town. And she could try to forget the humiliation she'd brought onto herself. She shook off the doubt and continued, one foot before the other.
It was too early for lunch, but tea was acceptable at any time of the day. A bell tinkled as the window-paned door, painted brown like so many other doors in the village, opened. An elderly man approached, clutching a bag just handed to him by the chemist, and she stepped to the side, holding the door open to him. With a slight smile and nod, he exited and she closed the door.
Picking up the top newspaper on the stand, she took a seat at the nearest table, which was tidily covered with a white, cut-lace tablecloth. A thick-ankled woman, likely the chemist's wife, toddled over to her and efficiently took her order for a small pot of tea with a scone. She was ready to camp out.
By the time she'd reached page 17 and had had her fill of local, regional and national politics, several people had come and gone, and three had stayed for tea and a chat. The chemist had excessive spare time and spent it sweeping the floor, double-counting supplies, straightening displays, and visiting with the locals. He gave her periodic kind smiles when their eyes met, most often because she glanced at every person passing the large windows.
The shop made more money from her when she bought lunch and another newspaper. The streets were busier now, and a tour bus—such as the one she'd arrived on last summer—emptied of its passengers, who gratefully stretched both legs and necks as they began exploring every shop, park and alley.
Dessert finished as well as the second newspaper, she considered whether to purchase a magazine.
And then it happened. He walked in.
He was taller and leaner than her actual memory recalled, but wasn't nearly as dark as in her dreams. He was, in fact, a very pale man with thin but shapely lips, a deep gash between his black eyebrows—from worry, she hoped, rather than anger.
All the while, he carried on a quiet conversation with the chemist as a package was exchanged from his long-fingered hands to the chemist's. She couldn't hear a thing, even if their voices had been loud enough to carry. A mix of fear, dread, mission and excitement rose in her as she rose to her feet and walked, dream-like, to him.
An eyebrow rose in a sharp arch as he looked at her.
"I need to speak with you. Please."
He paused and stared what seemed to her minutes but actually was only a few moments. Those at the tables might have noticed a stiffening of his right arm and cupping of his fingers, as if he planned to catch something sliding from under his tailored black jacket. Then he nodded in the manner of one accustomed to being approached by strangers, his long, lank hair dipping forward, and he turned, motioning her toward the door.
She stepped outside, refreshed by the warm breeze, as he followed her, closing the door quietly. It was much later that she realized the bell hadn't sounded with the inward and outward swings.
Taking her elbow, he walked her down the street to the nearby churchyard, turning her onto the stone path. Instead of approaching the door, he steered her onto the grass and beneath a tree, far enough from the sidewalk that passers-by—especially the other tourists—would hear nothing.
They faced one another, her brown eyes wide with wonder that he existed and had actually agreed to listen to her, his black eyes unreadable and his expression bland.
"I've been having these dreams. About you. And, and—" She gulped but despite her near dream-like state, she mustered her courage from within. "Look into my eyes."
And he did.