Dreams of Dancing
Rating: Tad more than U or G; or whatever you kids use now-a-days
Classification: Humour
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the HP World (and no, I am not talking about that brown sauce I like on my barbeque sausages…)
Summary: One of Harry's dreams in the sixth year – yeah; I know, he doesn't receive any dreams in the sixth book… he forgot that he had them, swallowed a forgetfulness potion or something else very feeble so I could write this very PWP! fanfic! Enjoy!
The starlight filtered through the branches of the surrounding trees giving the natural hall a green glow. Harry pushed on ahead, reaching a dark mass that he soon realised to be a gathering of Deatheaters. 'Good idea with the masks,' he mentally congratulated Voldemort. 'Means that if one of the congregation gets caught it means that they are less likely to identify some of the more important members of the cause.' Harry suddenly found himself to the far left of Voldemort, in front of the pitiful assembly of humans and non-humans.
He realised what was happening – and thought himself daft that he had not realised it earlier…
Harry was stuck in yet another of his 'dreams' (good olé Snape and his stupid, stupid Occulency) – Voldemort (who was levitating himself to be taller than anyone else in the crowd) was angry with some of his followers; they had lost control over the giants that they had persuaded to join their side and there were creating a rampage that was spreading from Manchester down to Bristol. These attacks were supposed to be planned… not to be made to be seen as a powerless ruler with just a chaotic mess to begin his world domination! Alas, for he knew that he wouldn't win the people's vote with his dashing good looks… He focused on his chosen (victim) of the night – a Deatheater who was not successfully hiding his shivers whilst remaining knelt on the hard ground. Harry could feel the build up of magic within Voldemort – its readiness reeking of the 'fun' it was about to have.
"You are absolutely useless! Why I decide to keep you under my service I have no idea!" Voldemort gave a very dramatic, over-exaggerated sigh and conversationally continued: "Oh well. Cucio!"
Harry cringed as he imagined the pain that the non-descript Deatheater was being submitted to. Yes he was a Deatheater, but you could only think 'thank goodness that isn't me at the end of that beam of light'. I wish that Voldemort would stop, Harry thought angrily – trying to wake himself with a good strong pinch on the arm.
"What!" Voldemort abruptly finished the curse, clutching his arm in shock. Harry looked up. What on earth was happening? Harry shrugged, not really caring at all (at least it wasn't muggle children being murdered in their sleep like last time) and sat down on the floor – it appeared that he wasn't going to be leaving this dream any time soon.
Harry picked up two twigs and started to tap them together. A careful observer noted out of the corner of his eye that out of nowhere (and with no breeze to be felt) and with absolutely no sane reason as to why two twigs should be behaving in such a manner unless there was someone extra was at the meeting and surely that if that was the case the Dark Lord being so talented at magicks of the mind would know that there was a watcher. It must have been his overactive imagination, he was young afterall.
"Leave my sight, you worthless piece of flesh."
Bowing low the shaking Deatheater stumbled away from the crowd.
Voldemort glared his glowing eyes at the rest of the gathering. "Anyone else have any more news?" Harry laughed at the look of the other Deatheaters – they are all spineless as the next, he thought as he continued to play with his twigs.
Voldemort would be so more relaxed if he started to dance, Harry thought. And his partner should be Lestrange! Harry was smirking at this point. "You shall be Voldemort and you Bellatrix" he denoted the twigs their names and started to dance the twigs together.
(The careful observer noted that the twigs were now spinning around each other and if he dared to move and wet his finger he would be certain that there was no breeze in the air. It was as if the twigs were dancing together in a passionate whirl-wind romance.)
Voldemort then had the inexplicable desire to call upon Bellatrix to the forefront of his congregation. "Bellatrix!" He called in what he believed to be a very manly tone of voice (some of this manliness was taken away by a rub to the forehead to relieve the headache that he was developing).
A cloak ushered forward and curtsied low as it could without toppling over. "Your Lordship? How may I be of service to the Dark Lord?"
Voldemort rubbed his forehead again. No!... Yesssssss, said a little voice in the dark recesses of his mind. You want to. Go for it – you have wanted to do this for years; who cares that she is married, her husband is a nincompoop. And anyway; that nincompoop would never challenge the pure greatness/evilness/masterful person that is Lord Voldemort. It was only for Bellatrix that he didn't kill the nincompoop. 'I do like calling him nincompoop!' he thought joyfully to himself. 'Nincompoop!' (He never thought that this was not a standard feature of his musings during a Meet). Without meaning to – having forgotten to argue to himself about asking her to dance; the words effortlessly passed his lips.
"Erm, would you care to dance, Bellatrix?" Voldemort offered his right hand to Bellatrix, wanting them to dance to beautiful, soulful music that only he could hear.
Some of the more daring Deatheaters were letting slip of their attempts to disguise their amusement and confuddlement about the uncharacteristic behaviour from their Almighty Dark Lord.
"Harry…"
Harry looked up to see the drama beginning to unfold; wondering what in Merlin's name what was happening with Voldemort and a Deatheater that gasped in shock rather than pain.
"Harry… Wake up! It's nearly eight o'clock!"
Harry awoke with a start to see his best mate obscuring all vision that existed without his spectacles. Silent giggling echoing madly within his ears.