A/N: Feel free to squint. I didn't, but you can.
The Night Before
His dream begins like dreams often do, in darkness and silence and incomprehension. All around him there is nothing, no light, no sound. He looks about wildly, his movements muted by his own imagination, searching desperately for anything he can cling on to and call his ray of hope. Even asleep, Harry knows that he is mere hours from what may be the last day of his life, the moment when he must finally, after all these years, face Voldemort for the last time. The moment when he may be killed, and all may be lost. He looks around in the darkness once more, and still there is no hope.
Beneath his bare feet he feels, quite suddenly, the reassuring solidness of sodden earth. Mud oozes between his toes but at least it is something for his senses to grab on to, and he relishes in the cool feeling as it sends shivers up his legs. He would like to chance a smile, but the monster that is his fear rears it's ugly head once more and bellows it's presence towards him, foreshadowing everything else in his mind. He is so frightened that he might die tomorrow.
And then, thankfully, there is a sound. Relived, Harry breathes and strains his ears, fancying that it is perhaps laughter or song. It becomes clear to him quite soon, however, that he has been mistaken, as the sound is nothing but measured breathing and occasional grunts, the kind made by someone running very fast towards something, as opposed to away from something else. He hears the heavy thud and slap of feet that may be as bare as his own finding purchase in the mud, speeding towards him with an unstoppable determination, and Harry knows in that moment that it is time to run. He turns, his feet weighed down by the mud that sucks and pulls at the soles of his feet. He lets out a small cry of despair, his hope all but vanquished once more as he finds he cannot even rely on the ground beneath his feet to ally with him in this war. The breathing is getting closer, and in the distance Harry can see it. The flash of red. The eyes of Voldemort.
He trips in his panic to get away, but manages to right himself quickly and begins to run. He is running harder and harder, towards a light that has appeared before him. It is red, too, but it carries with it an orange glow that reminds him of the flames in the common room fire. It is a reassuring light, unlike the one behind him which is moving to quickly for him to define. In that instant Harry knows he must get to the glow in front of him, the warmth that is flowing from it too powerful to ignore. He runs harder still, his legs pounding at the defiant earth and the breathing becoming ever closer in his ears. It seems as though the faster he runs the closer it gets. The more he is determined to reach the glow, the more the creature chasing him is determined to get to Harry first.
Again he slips, and he clutches madly at the ground, scooping up handfuls of dirt is his mad desire to right himself once more. The breathing is so close now he feels as though the creature is truly upon him, but when he is foolish enough to look to the side he sees there is nothing there. When he looks behind him, the unnerving flash of red is still there, troubling Harry with it's unrelenting movements. He feels as though that even if he runs forever and ever, until the rain has washed away the earth, it will still be pursuing him. He screws his eyes up in frustration and bellows out angry tears, throwing one last look at the red shape behind him, which has acquired a wooden blur. Voldemort's wand, poised, and ready to strike.
He runs again, knowing that he must escape from Voldemort's glare, that must get to the warmth of the fire before him. It has multiplied now, and it fills Harry's vision so much that the darkness has been completely purged from his dream. Panting, Harry tries to get there still, knowing that no matter what, he must. He nears the flames, and suddenly he realises that they are too hot. There are too many of them, just for him. He stops and wants to scream, as once more his hope is snatched away. The place that would be his sanctuary is too much for him too handle, and the creature is so close now that he can see the black robes flitting about his pale frame.
He looks into the fire, and sees it filled with dark, malevolent shapes. He feels the same sick feeling in his stomach that he felt in the graveyard the night that Cedric died. There are Death Eaters in the fire. Death Eaters before him and the Dark Lord behind. Harry assumes this is his subconscious's way of telling him that all is lost.
With a final deep breath, Harry turns to face Voldemort, knowing all along that it would come to this. He can feel the flames of the Death Eaters on his back, and the breathing in his ears is now so loud that he feels as though it is fused into his very blood. The figure nears, and Harry raises his wand, his hands trembling as he does so. The figure bounds closer, and Harry's eyes widen in shock. He nods numbly as the figure continues towards him, turns around again to face the fire, and jumps headlong into the flames. It takes the creature only a moment to catch up and, without hesitation, it does exactly the same thing.
Harry is plunged into fire and cursed magic, his heart burning ferociously with the hope he thought he'd lost. It took only an instant for him to realise that it was not Voldemort behind him, but Ron, and that he was not being hunted or chased. He was being followed, all the way.