Heroes Symphony

Notes: Mmm'kay. This doesn't belong to me, never will, alrighty? Good. This is my first Snarry ficlet; I hope it'll turn out okay.

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I, I...

I will be king...

And you,

You will be queen--

Though nothing will drive them away--

We can beat them,

Just for one day

We can be heroes,

Just for one day...

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Swirling betwixt the flashes of rainbow light, Harry Potter found himself falling. Falling... Falling... Falling faster, faster, and faster with each passing moment. Amazingly, his glasses stayed on with each throe of pain, his body being shot harder down the endless portal. His arms and legs were spread outwards, robes scattered around his body. He felt weightless. He felt immortal. He felt agonized. A gasping breath shot outwards, sparkling, shimmering air being drawn back in just as shortly as it was drawn out. He dared to open his eyes, green and reflecting every color, every destructive image—he couldn't drive them away. They were so beautiful, he and the colors. They swirled about his limbs, tangling, tangling around them, and he gasped as he was pulled to another part of the world. Another part of those amazing lights, though he felt a hand upon his. A rough hand, though gentle and soft; it pulled him away. He struggled. A black sleeve caught onto his own fingers as he reluctantly pulled away, and he could faintly see a white undershirt—or a dress, he couldn't tell—beneath the black.

He awoke.

Breath was hurried, his lungs feeling as if they were going to collapse. Twelve-year-old Harry shot upright, hair which was plastered to his face doing the same. "Bloody hell," he murmured, feeling the stares upon him. It wasn't new, it having been the third night of this happening. "What?" he asked tiredly. They went back to their own business, whatever it may have been. 'This has got to stop,' Harry thought bitterly. 'Who was that in my dream? Who wears a robe like that...? What were those lights?' He pushed the blankets away. It suddenly dawned on him that the heater had in fact not been on, and he felt a twinge of cold rush past his sweat-laden body. He blinked, subconsciously reaching for his glasses. They had, somehow, fallen onto the floor, and the exhausted Gryffindor had little to none of an idea of how they had done so. Pulling himself over the bed, he quickly found that his legs were indeed tangled in the mess of blanketing, and aggravatingly pulled himself free. His glasses, afterwards, were neatly set on his side table.

"I need to sleep," he murmured to himself, falling back against his bed. Thankfully, he had cooled off quite quickly, though he was no longer tired. He glanced at the clock. What was that—he pulled on his glasses lazily. Five A.M.? That was good enough. People would begin waking at six—not a big issue. As it turned out, a few had already left for either early studying or whatever else they might think of, and he wasn't too far behind. The infamous Harry James Potter was, in fact, a morning person. He stood, halfheartedly undressing, and replacing his nightclothes with his school uniform. It was a bit cold. A blasting headache was coming on, though as he leaned against his bedpost pushed himself off. "What is wrong with me?" he again murmured to himself, beginning to walk down the stairs to the common room. Hopefully, there wouldn't be anyone else there; he wasn't in the mood to talk, rather he wasn't in the mood to look at anyone at this point. He paused, momentarily looking back once reaching the middle of the stairway. He had heard movement, but was relieved upon hearing the return of snoring.

The portrait, rather, the fat lady wasn't exactly in the best mood after being forced to open for the fifth time that morning. She let out an array of obscene words, though it didn't bother him. He began down the staircase, and much to his great pleasure there in fact was not anyone there to bother him. Just the peaceful silence and respective footsteps from separate hallways, or other floors. For the most part, he was completely alone. He stopped for a moment, and stretched, glasses nearly falling off as he leaned down. Again, the usual. As he began walking, Harry faintly noticed that his robes were lightly billowing behind him, pulling a Snape move, only on that note did he feel a light tapping on his shoulders. The teen could have screamed, had it have been dark enough and the man pulled a lumos spell just to make himself look all the more creepy, though upon seeing the face of his semi-amused potions master, it spoke for itself. The poor boy could have fainted. "Er—Good morning, Sn—Professor." Again, may he restate that he was not in the mood to talk, especially with his least favorite professor.

"Mr. Potter," came the cold voice, though a hint of amusement lay dead in his black eyes. "I was just looking for you. May I ask why you are out of bed so early?" Harry was growing just a tad irritated, but nothing more. He forced a calm demeanor outwards.

"I couldn't sleep, sir. I was going to go and attempt to study, maybe finish a bit of my homework." What else could he have said? Nothing, really. It's rather awkward, honestly, to actually go and try to seek out the man or woman in his dreams. He was almost positive that the person just had to be here, though again found himself at a loss of even a clue, past the outfit.

"A bit early, don't you think?" he smirked. "Bad dream, eh, Mr. Potter?" Harry fell pale. "I'll be seeing you this afternoon. Also, the headmaster wishes to speak with you a bit after breakfast. Do be prompt." He continued to walk after the last word, and Harry was left for speechless.

How in the hell did he know about it?

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