Harry woke with a start. After blinking a few times and rubbing his eyes, he stretched. He almost yelped when his hand hit something that definitely was not a pillow.
Was someone in the bed next to him?
Harry was wide awake now, fear sharpening his senses. He could see nothing in the small, barely-furnished room.
"Where am I?
Harry slowly turned on his side to catch a glimpse of the slumbering person beside him, but he couldn't see more than a few inches around him because his glasses were off. He reached to his nightstand for his wand and silently summoned his glasses. As Harry caught them and put them on his face, to his dismay, he realized the glass was broken.
"I wish Hermione was here to fix these," he muttered aloud in frustration. The person next to him moaned softly. Harry stiffened, remembering the predicament, other than his glasses.
The person next to him sat up.
"Harry? Is that you, m'boy?"
Harry's mouth became dry with shock. He could taste last night's Firewhisky on his breath, and maybe something else, was that…pineapple?
"Professor…Slughorn?" Harry asked tentatively. The old man to his right sat up, running a thick hand through his thinning hair. He reached over and placed his other hand atop Harry's shoulder and said, winking, "You can call me Horace now."
Harry swallowed, and nearly yelped with surprise as another man sat up to his left.
"I do love knitting patterns!" Dumbledore exclaimed, hands in the air.
"What the bloody hell is going on here?" Harry shouted, reaching to throw off the covers in indignation, but at the same time realizing he lacked proper attire. Any attire.
Slughorn, or, Horace, reached over and gave Dumbledore a high five.
"Well done, Albus!" boomed Horace. "Nothing like a good ol' batch of Felix Felicis to make our dreams come true!"
"Ah, right you are Horace, right you are," said Dumbledore. "Lemon drop?"
Harry groaned and fell backwards on his bed. Now he knew what Dumbledore really saw in the Mirror of Erised.
"Get up, Potter," Snape snarled, yet with a more hesitant and inquisitive note in his sultry voice than the many times before while they practiced Occulemency in his dark, solitary chambers. Harry stumbled to his feet, furious at Snape, wanting him all the same.
"Explain," demanded the hook-nosed angel. He stood at the front of the room, arms crossed over his rippling pectorals.
"It was just a dream I had," Harry panted, very red in the face. "After we won the first Quidditch match of the season," he muttered, still avoiding Snape's fiery gaze.
"Ah," Snape said curtly. "Very understandable. I often have those dreams myself, but mostly about you and your mother."
"Me too," said Harry, his heart warmed at this bonding experience they were sharing. "About my mum, I mean."
"She is a sex bomb," Snape acknowledged.
"Speaking of sex bombs," Harry said, "what about Dobby? Hermione always tells me that house elves do it better."
"Take off your clothes, Potter, and I'll show you who does it best."
Professor Sprout, Bill Weasley, Hagrid, Renesme Cullen, Count Olaf, and any other out of place character you can think of, who were watching from behind the desks in the back of the room, fainted with longing.
Somewhere, J.K. Rowling wept.
