a/n: I know the chapters are short- but these first few segments are really just short stretches of thought- but it will get much longer later. promise. Also- Harry may seem a bit Out of character, but I'm playing pretend with him, so I get some imaginative liscence here.
Disclaimer: I do not own or pretend to own Harry Potter.
When We Dream- CHapter 1
When we dream,we enter a world that is entirely our own.We could climb the tallest mountain, and swim in the deepest ocean. We meet people we never could in real life, and we learn things that we will never remember upon waking. We could talk to people from a different universe, or meet people long dead. We could visit places in the world that we shall never be- or places that we will visit in the future, or already had in the past. In our dreams, there is the illusion of control. But as anyone with nightmares can tell you, it is just an illusion.
Sometimes, when you wake up…you remember. Mostly, it is times where you remembering doesn't matter- elements of the secrets of the universe erased from your mind- but sometimes…
it's not.
Basking in the light of a full moon, a body tossed and turned in fretful slumber. Tatty sheets lay twisted and tangled around the legs of a male form, scars marring otherwise perfect flesh. Suddenly, there is stillness. One arm is tossed over his head, bent at an angle so that his underarm faces the ceiling, creamy whiteness covering red and blue lines of life, while the other arm lies across his pale torso, which is unmoving except for the rhythmic beating of his heart and the heavy, profound breathing that seems to move his whole body. With each breath he takes, warm air emanates from lips that seem to form words without sound.
A hand, seemingly brittle but strong, reaches toward this scarred being that lies oblivious to the world, in the depths of slumber. It hovers uncertain above those moving lips, before retreating into the shadows it had originated from, certain that it shall come back tomorrow. That hand, connected to a man, creeps out from the half-open window, and steals into the humid July night.
Suddenly, the boy bolts straight up in his bed, green eyes wide and amazed. He looks briefly, questioningly, towards the open window, before taking in the state of his room, his books piled awkwardly around, crumpled parchment and broken quills lying haphazardly among his dirty clothes, and the broken toys of his cousin. His eyes land upon his school trunk, and he jumps to his feet, his eyes filled with an unbelieving madness as he drops to his knees in front of it, throwing it open and searching frantically for what is not there, as wide, bright-golden eyes watch his every move in trepidation.
Eyes wide and mouth slack, he settles back on his shins, his body trembling as he stares first at his hands, then his arms, turning them over and touching them to each other as if to test if they were real. He moves next, to investigate his bare body, hands stopping at unblemished patches of skin where he specifically remembers there to be scars. He turns his head towards the only occupant in the room, before rising and walking over to caress her in a gentile fashion, bright-golden eyes closing in contentment before he stops. Coming eye level with his avian companion, who gives the startling imagery to be speckled snow in the shape of a bird, he says, "Hedwig, I don't suppose you could tell me what is going on, could you?"
His only answer is a hoot, which happened to correspond with the howl of a canine singing his mournful note towards the full, midnight moon miles away.
After spending the night going over recent correspondences, birthday cards and presents- , tomes, and textbooks, the boy (whom on a whim we shall call Harry), had figured out what had happened to him, or at least, he believes he has figured it out (he really hasn't but let's run with it okay?). Anyway, Harry believes he has been somehow turned back in time to the summer before his third year. (Ah, but to dream…) This belief was supplement by the fact that when he checked his home, his aunt Marge was found in attendance, her dog ripper laying at the foot of her bed, snoring like a freight train(the woman, not the dog- though they do say that dogs take after their masters-or the other way around), and the fact that none of his books (besides the Monster book of Monsters) went beyond second year material. Pulling out the dishes to set the breakfast table, with His aunt Marge muttering and wiping off her mustache every couple of bites, as well the background cackling of the news on the television that had been the welcoming home present for dudly who(as Harry remembered) had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room that year- he pondered his situation. He had gone back in time. This meant, in retrospect, that he was a seventeen year old Harry potter, in thebody of the almost-thirteenth year of his life, giving him intuitive knowledge of the future…which…
"Sirius!"
"Boy! What do you think…..lazy….you know how much those cost!... "
His uncle Vernon was reaching a most alarming shade of fuchsia, but at the moment, all that was registering to young Harry Potter's mind was the face on the television screen. It was the very face of the one and only Sirius Black, convicted killer of 12 muggles and Peter Pettigrew. Oh. Sirius. That means…Wormtail. Shit.
Our poor boy wonder! What shall he do? Stay tuned until next time for When We Dream!