Last night, I dreamed of biracial babies.
I dreamed of their perfect, soft, caramel-colored skin, and their tight brown curls. The girl giggled as I tickled her, and the boy gurgled at me from his crib. The girl's eyes glinted just like her father's, but the boy's smile was all mine. I marveled at how crudely our skin tones were displayed in our children: my fair complexion mixed with his dark chocolate like a child mixing watercolors. The girl's grin was complemented by only one front tooth.
The scene was perfect, for a mother, the distinct lazy Sunday feeling. No worries, just your children and the warm sun outside. I was so happy—just the three of us, the girl being tickled in my arms on the edge of the bed, and the boy in the crib a few feet away, chuckling at us. The only thing missing was the father, I suddenly realized.
He appeared then, out of the adjoining bathroom, wearing nothing but a green and silver towel around his waist. His babies absolutely beamed, delighted to see him. I picked up the girl and brought her outstretched arms to their destination: her dad. Neither she nor I minded his damp skin as he brought the three of us into a warm embrace.
xxxxx
It was the best dream I've ever had. It seemed so vivid and real, and as I awake next to my husband, the ache of "back to reality" has never stung so much, so bad. My red hair is wrapped around me—God, it's gotten so long. His glasses are perched on the night table next to him, but his eyes are slightly open, looking at me. I start, sitting up. I immediately feel guilty, like he can read my mind.
Hurried footsteps approach our room. "Mummy!" And I swear for a second, I imagine it's my little biracial daughter, greeting me with that wonderful, imperfect grin. But it is Lily, my actual daughter. And I hate myself for being even the slightest bit disappointed.
"Hi, baby," I croon, scooping her up. She is the exact same age as my—biracial, imaginary, false, fictional, I remind myself—daughter looked in the dream. In fact, their faces are almost identical, I realize. "How did you sleep?"
"Good," she yawns, as her father sits up, pawing his always-messy hair. "Daddy!" she shrieks, outstretching her arms towards him, and I am instantly reminded of the girl from my dream.
"Lily," he coos. "Where are your brothers?" I glance around, too, nervously. My kids are unintentionally drowning me in guilt.
"Albie and James are playing in the back," she informs us, using the nickname for her brother I normally laugh at. Right now, however, I'm a bit too shaken.
"Playing?" Harry says, already irritated. "Not Quidditch? It's only nine!"
"It's okay," I say softly, getting up. "Come on, Lily."
That was the worst dream I've ever had. I've had a few along the same lines, but never so—well, I dunno…I could swear it actually happened. I'm in my own world, walking with my child in my arms toward the backyard, thinking about everything. That was the first dream where I ever had babies with him. I've had the occasional chance meeting, the occasional flirt, kiss, and more. But never kids; never a family. This is getting bad, I think to myself.
Outside, I let Lily go, let her watch her brothers, clap, jump, scream. I'm long gone in my own head, imagining what could have been.
xxxxx
I first met him properly in the beginning of my fifth year, when I was in another one of my Harry phases. Looking back, it seems my entire time spent at Hogwarts was focused on Harry. I was madly in love with him for ages, then I just sort of hid it better for a while, and, when I'd finally given up, moved on actually, he came around. We were sort of together for a bit, but never anything too serious. Never anything serious enough for my teenage self. Then, as I began to hope, as things started to get satisfying, he broke it off. Why? Not because he was an asshole. Because he was a nice guy. Because he loved me, and he didn't want me to get hurt. How much worse could it have been? I was still so in love with Harry.
Then, when I least expected it, he came and picked up the pieces. I remember it so clearly: I was sitting by the lake, and the September sun was setting. It was late—no one else was outside, but I wasn't nervous. I'd been thinking about my relationship with Dean. It had seemed ideal at the beginning, but time had passed and we were just realizing—separately—that we were not meant to be. Of course, I still had Harry in the back of my mind, as always, but mostly I was thinking about the good, the bad, and everything else about Dean. I was trying to figure out whether or not to break up with him, when my thoughts were interrupted by a voice.
"Careful of the squid, Gryffindor." I turned around to see a tall, older, good-looking, brown-skinned boy with that distinct Northern accent that I'd always found so appealing. Did I mention good-looking? He was…his eyes…wow. Anyway, I'd seen him around the school before; I remembered he was a Slytherin. He wasn't wearing his robes now, though. Why?
"I'm not worried," I said. There was a pause, and then I added, "Slytherin." He snickered, still awkwardly standing up. I wasn't offering him the seat next to me, though. There are Gryffindor-Slytherin prejudices, you know.
He sat down next to me anyway, and I noticed that, oddly, he was barefoot. He edged a bit closer to the water and stuck his toes in, then looked up and grinned at me. I smirked, and countered, taking off my shoes and socks, and sticking my feet in. He edged closer, so his ankles were in. I hesitated, but mimicked him. He edged closer—now half his calves were in. I followed, trying not to laugh. He moved in again, keeping his balance far better than I. After a moment's pause, I—slowly, slowly, nearly there—fell in!
I fell deeper than I imagined the lake should have been, and frantically paddled toward the surface. When I got there, I rejoiced in the cool, sweet air, only to find the Slytherin boy laughing at me. How dare he? It was his fault anyway. I frowned at him, which only made him laugh more.
In my anger, I suddenly jerked at his leg. His face was the picture of shock before it met the water. When he resurfaced, I was already in mid-laugh. Ha. Now he was pissed. He splashed me and I splashed him back…we laughed for ages.
Then, in an instant, everything went black. Before I knew what was happening, I suddenly was forced underwater, with a strong force around my belly. I opened my eyes hurriedly underwater, and saw the Slytherin's strong arm around my midsection, dragging me under. I was terrified! I remember being so convinced, at that moment: I had condemned myself to death. I thought, I'm going to die right here, right now, in the arms of this—this boy. The next thing I knew, I was above! Above water! I could breathe! I gasped for air, as I realized I was on the grass, a few meters away from the side of the lake. Next to me, again, was that damn boy.
"What were you thinking?" I yelled when I could breathe again. "I nearly died! Stupid Slytherin!"
"Uh, Gryffindor?" He pointed towards the lake. Or what had been the lake, before it had been overtaken by this huge orange mass. The squid was colossal—twenty times the size of a hippogriff, and occupying every inch of the lake we had been in just a minute ago. It sank slowly, sullen that we were leaving.
I closed my gaping jaw. "Oh." He laughed—his laugh was gorgeous, and I hated him for it—and got up, leaving me still sitting stupidly on the ground.
"See you, Gryffindor," he called as he walked away.
I may have been only fifteen, and in a relationship, and still maybe a bit in love with Harry Potter, but that was without a doubt the best meeting of my life.
x
I remember hearing about him a few days later, just in passing. He was Blaise Zabini, son of the famous Aphro Zabini (short for Aphrodite) and apparently, he hated Muggle-borns, halfbloods, and—as some astoundingly stupid people call my family—blood traitors. Of course, this only left me even more bewildered. Why had he bothered to come up to me, when the two of us were alone? He could've done anything he damn well wanted with me, but he talked…flirted…and kind of saved my life.
I've never told anyone that.
After that "chance" meeting, I tried to forget about him, and it almost worked. (How different would my life be if it had?) It worked until he cornered me one day in Hogsmeade. It was at the Three Broomsticks, if I remember correctly. I was there with a few people, including Harry, Ron, and Hermione, until they left, leaving me with people in their year I didn't really know. They suggested I come, but I politely declined. I've never had a problem with being lonely. In fact, I was sitting there thinking, actually getting dangerously close to dozing off, when he appeared, again out of nowhere, carrying two mugs I really hoped didn't include liquor.
"Gryffindor," he said as if he hadn't just come up to me. "Long time no see." I stared at him. "Don't worry, it's just Butterbeer." I still refused to answer. "What's wrong? Did a squid get you when I wasn't around?" He took my silence as an affirmative. "I told you to be careful around those lakes," he said, mock sighing. "Next time—"
"You may call me Gryffindor, but my name is Ginny. Ginny Weasley. You're Blaise Zabini. You're friends with people like Malfoy. You loathe people like me. You should be stealing from Honeydukes right about now. What," I asked coldly, "are you doing here?" His eyes met mine—wow, he looked seriously hurt, and somewhat confused. So much for cold-blooded Slytherins. He swallowed it quickly, though, and stood up.
He cleared his throat, and glanced around. "I had an extra Butterbeer," he said. I nodded icily, looking up at him without a word. He should've left right then, but he just stood there, across from me, separated by the table, shifting his weight back and forth from foot to foot. Just when I was considering hexing him, he sat down again and started talking.
"Look, Weasley," he said, without a trace of gentility, "I like you. I thought you knew that. Where do you get this idea that I can't like you because I'm a Slytherin?" I blew air out through my mouth and turned my head. He had me there, and I knew it. The light side and Dumbledore were consistently promoting equality, fairness, love of everyone, but there were definite prejudices and always had been. "You won't give me a chance?" I glanced back at him nervously, afraid his eyes would captivate me again. Damn.
"Right. Tell me your story. It'd better be good too."
"I promise," he grinned, and I think we paused a bit too long before he shied away from my gaze and began his tale.
"My mum was the one who drilled those ideas into my head from a young age, purebloods are superior, blah blah blah. The truth was, my father, her third husband, was a Muggle, which makes me an halfblood." I bit my lip to keep from smiling at his accent. His h's were almost nonexistent, and he said "me" instead of "my." "She never told me this, actually," he continued, "but I found out from my aunt and confronted her. She admitted as much, as well as the many affairs she'd had with Muggles, halfbloods, Muggleborns," he said pointedly.
"At any rate, this aunt of mine basically raised me, as my mum was hardly ever around. And my aunt was no bigot. She did her best to wash my hair of any prejudice my mum had ever given me. It worked, for the most part, until I came here. Apparently, that Sorting Hat gives you pretty much whatever you ask for." I tilted my head, intrigued. The Sorting Hat wasn't objective?
"Yeah," he grinned. "My mum was a Slytherin, and I only wanted to please her." He looked down, a bit embarrassed. "So I thought, y'know, unaware that the Hat was soaking it all in, 'Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin.' Next thing you know, here I am." He paused to sip his Butterbeer and let me absorb the new information.
"Good story," I said skeptically. "I liked the part about the neglected childhood." He made a face at me. "It really tugged at my heartstrings."
"I'm glad," he grinned. Wow. A second later, though, he turned around and ducked down in his seat a bit.
"What?" I asked, curiously, looking where he had.
"Malfoy," he murmured, and I rolled my eyes.
"Really?" I said rhetorically. "You're afraid of big, bad Malfoy? What's he gonna do? His father's not around." I waited for a response that he was obviously reluctant to give.
"We've been 'friends' since first year," he confessed in a whisper. "I've never liked the bloke, to be honest, but you know how things are. We've been friends for five years and I've no idea how to get out of it."
"Tell him to bugger off."
He sighed. "It's not that simple. Our families know each other—what would mine think of me if I went against the Malfoy family?"
"You mean if you came to my side?" I said, the criticizing tone so prevalent in my voice. "Dumbledore's side?"
"Well…"
"So—what is this?" My voice was getting louder and louder, as he was looking more and more nervous. "You try to get on my good side but can't break ties with Malfoy's? You've got to pick, Zabini," I said coldly. I got up, leaving him alone as Malfoy and his crew approached him, staring at me, probably wondering why we were talking to each other.
x
I saw him a few times after that, in the corridors. He'd always glance at me, with an unfathomable expression on his face. I wondered if he knew how to apologize. About a week after I bit his head off, he appeared next to me when I was sitting under a tree. He was on the other side.
"Gryffindor. Fancy seeing you here," he smiled.
"Bugger off, Zabini."
"In my defense, I was sitting here first," he said, the grin never leaving his face. "Maybe you should avoid me if you don't want to talk." I started to say something, but he cut me off. "No, it's okay. I understand. You can't resist me."
Frustrated, I returned to my book. "I didn't see you," I said huffily.
"Uh uh uh, it's fine. I'm a pretty good-looking guy; I can see—"
"What do you want?"
"Er…" he finally seemed at a loss for words. "Well, I wanted to tell you that I've, er…made a decision."
"Have you?" I didn't look up from my book.
"Yeah. I told Malfoy to screw off."
My head jerked upward. "You did not."
"I did." He seemed proud, sure of himself once again. I actually preferred him that way, despite the way I usually acted. There was a saturated silence, and he finally said: "So, you'll…you'll forgive me then?"
I smiled, finally. "Sure. We can be…friends now." I laughed lightly. and he jokingly rolled his eyes at me. He edged over closer to me and unexpectedly planted a kiss on my cheek. My eyes widened in shock, and as he got up from the tree, I stared at him.
"Just a friendly kiss, Weasley," he grinned. "Don't get too excited."
I was. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, I was. For the first time since the day I saw Harry, I'd almost completely forgotten about him. Every spare moment, every spare space in my mind was filled with the thought of Blaise. I'd officially ended it with Dean at that point, although no one knew the reason why. Despite Blaise's views, a Gryffindor and a Slytherin together was still pretty taboo. We kept our friendship a secret, and even more so when it developed into something more. We hung out at the Hog's Head and other dodgy places where students rarely were, and talked and kissed in the back. I'd had plenty of boyfriends, but never felt this way about any one of them. I'd never felt this way about Harry, even.
As the months went by, we grew more and more crazy about each other. But it was my fifth year and O.W.L.s occupied too much of my time. We had to meet in secret, and besides, Harry was growing more and more interested in me. Our first fight was toward the end of the year, around April or May. He got upset because I was spending less and less time with him. We'd been officially going out (or as official as a secret couple can be) for a few months at the time, but meeting each other was getting more difficult. Some weeks, all we had to settle for were a few passing glances. It was awful. But I felt that he should've known that my aching for him was just as strong as his aching for me. I missed him just as much as he missed me, maybe more. How dare he blame me for having to study for O.W.L.s?
He accused me of this one night on top of the Astronomy Tower. He'd planned it so we'd be alone. We were kissing and I'd mentioned having to leave soon. It was half-past eleven and I had to finish some work. "No, stay," he whined, kissing my collarbone.
It sent chills down my spine, but I resisted. "I've really got to go," I pleaded, feeling like I was arguing with myself as much as him. "Please."
"I haven't seen you in ages."
"You saw me yesterday," I pointed out.
"I haven't seen you—like this," he said suggestively.
"Shove off," I said jokingly, and we laughed. "Please, Blaise, I've really got to go. Tomorrow," I said, but it felt like a promise.
"All right," he said reluctantly.
To appease him as well as myself, I continued, "I'll meet you tomorrow, after dinner." He nodded. It wasn't said, but understood that we would meet in the one classroom that was always unlocked and always empty. "After dinner" had come to imply that, after many evenings spent there. The excuses we made to our friends about that time spent included Quidditch practice (even though no one else had it then), extra classes, stupid stuff that we didn't expect too many people to buy. Luckily, no one cared enough.
Anyway, things got bad that night…because I never actually showed up. The next day, Snape offered extra O.W.L. preparation for my Potions class. Forgetting about my date with Blaise, I signed up for it. I was incredibly stupid, I know. Besides, my Potions grade was horribly lacking—a combination of Snape's hatred for me and my natural ineptitude for Potions. In the next class, I realized my error…but I couldn't pass on the message. Any message passed from Ginny Weasley to Blaise Zabini would be odd, let alone one that canceled a meeting.
I tried to get his attention at dinner, though he was on the opposite side of the Great Hall. When he finally looked up at me stealthily, I gestured a "no." He looked unsurprised, almost resigned. After dinner, I ran up to him, before most other people had even gotten up.
"Sorry," I hissed, my face flushed. "I really can't. Tomorrow."
"O.W.L.'s?" He wouldn't look at me.
"Yes." I waited for a response, but got nothing. "I'm so sorry."
"I know," was all he would say.
Of course, when I reached Potions, I pleaded with Snape to let me go—I told him I had made a promise to someone. He immediately picked up on it…he immediately knew it was my boyfriend, to this day I'm not quite sure how. This made him care even less; I imagined because no one loved him.
"Weasley, cauldron," was all he would say after my breathless speech.
"But Professor—"
"Cauldron!"
Later, I would find out that Blaise knew of Snape's sudden O.W.L. prep course…and knew that it was not mandatory. In other words, in his mind, I chose to break my promise to him. I apologized over and over, but he wouldn't budge. I dunno, maybe if Harry hadn't come immediately after, we would've had a chance to work it out and my whole life would be different. I actually think about that a lot. I mean, how many happy couples break up for good after the first fight?
It definitely got worse when Harry started on me. He was never very subtle.
For the short period that we "dated," most of my mind was on Blaise. His pained expression when he saw Harry and I together, even though it had been months. When he saw us walking around, he always looked strained, and my heart went out to him. But, accordingly, my apologies stopped. I'd given up. Whatever hurt I'd caused him was now tripled by the fact that I was with Harry Potter…with whom he thought could never compare. It didn't matter that I was still head over heels in love with him. It didn't matter that any kiss Harry and I shared was marred by the thought of Blaise. It didn't matter that Harry and my relationship felt like a very good friendship, at best. Nor did it matter that Blaise effectively ended my five-year crush on Harry. I'm positive he saw me as gone at that point.
x
The last time I ever saw Blaise was at my graduation from Hogwarts. Voldemort had been defeated. At that point, I was officially dating Harry Potter, though of course always thinking of my first real love. In retrospect, I don't know why Blaise was there. I almost felt like I was imagining his face in the crowd; it seemed too good to be true. But there he was, smiling, clapping, looking at me proudly. I remember annoyance bubbling to the surface. How could he just be there, smiling, after all he'd done? After he'd been so unforgiving?
I went to the bathroom at one point, leaving Harry, Ron, and Uncle Bilius discussing something heatedly. I sighed, smoothing my dress and checking my reflection. Suddenly, he came through the entrance casually.
I whirled around. "What are you doing here? You're a man!" I blurted stupidly.
He laughed. "You're still so articulate." His hair had grown, and it suited him. I blushed as he noticed me staring. "I dunno, Ginny. I've just—missed you."
There was a pause that revealed just how defenseless he made me, even after all this time. "It's a bit late," I said weakly. "I mean, I'm with—"
"Yes, Harry, I know." He rubbed his head, thinking. "Thing is, I don't care. I'm still in love with you."
I smiled despite myself, but there were tears in my eyes. "Blaise…"
He didn't know how to react—he just stood there, waiting for me to continue.
I sniffed. "Blaise, I…now? At my graduation? Really? I—I can't…" I sighed, letting the silence build. "I love you too," I choked. There it went. He knew. I was weak and he knew it.
He wouldn't smile though, despite my admission. He walked over to me, and brushed a tear off my face. "What's wrong? Is it Harry?" I nodded, hating myself for turning to mush in his arms. "Do you love him?"
"Not like I love you," I whispered. "I've never loved anyone like that." Still not a smile from him.
"So?"
"I can't." He let go of me then, and shut his mouth tight. It looked like he was keeping the tears back. He leaned his elbow against the wall, still staring at me intensely. His eyes begged. I hated to have to do this to him. "I'm so, so sorry. I've got to go." I kissed him on the cheek and left.
"I love you," he whispered, defeated.
"Always," I called over my shoulder.
At that moment, my life lost its meaning. I'm ashamed to say that nothing fulfilled me after that. From then till now, I've always felt partially empty. The eventual marriage to Harry, the birth of my three children, the joy I should've been feeling all these years because Voldemort has been defeated—none of them restored the happiness I'd once known. As I've aged, I've gotten better at hiding it. I'm feeling more and more numb each day. To think, what a stupid reason to lose the love of my life.
xxxxx
I keep replaying those memories, as well as my dream, that night as I lie in bed. Torturing myself, I toss and turn, remembering, as my husband peacefully sleeps beside me. When I can take it no longer, I slowly get up, and my feet pad down the stairs silently. I slip on shoes and walk into my backyard. It's well past midnight, but fairly light outside because of all the stars. I breathe the damp, cool air into my lungs and sigh. I've always loved the weather just after it rains.
I circle around to the front yard, and walk down the deserted street until I find a lit Muggle shop. I stall outside for a minute, wondering whether I should go in. After all, I'm in my pajamas. Against my better judgment, I eventually go in and sit down at the counter. The barman looks up at me, unsurprised.
"Just a Butter—er, a root beer, please." I correct myself. He nods, not disturbed, and retrieves my drink for me. I chug it down thirstily.
"Good choice," I hear as I set my drink on the counter. Slowly, I turn my head, having no idea what to expect. When I see the man sitting two stools down from me, my face turns bright red, and, without thinking, I run up to him with outstretched arms.
He whirls his stool around, his smile as brilliant as mine. We hug for a minute, two, three. I inhale his scent hungrily—God, it's been so long. Finally, we reluctantly break apart. We eye each other up and down, him in his Muggle hoodie and me in my pajamas.
"Nice clothes," he grins. It's surprisingly easy to talk to him.
"I could say the same for you," I retort. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. I sit down next to him, pulling my soda over.
"How've you been?" I ask casually.
"Alright," he says with a definite sadness in his eyes. "You?"
"Er…" I utter. I can never lie in front of him. "You know," I chuckle. "The same."
"Yeah," he agrees, understanding. "Me too."
"Not seeing anyone?"
"No, not—not anymore," he says, but not wistfully. He's more interested in me, scrutinizing my face. After a moment he adds, "You've not changed a bit."
"Haven't I?" I giggle. "I'd like to have changed a little."
"Not a bit," he repeats, brilliant blue-green eyes locked on mine. They'd remind me of Harry's if they didn't remind me primarily of the sea. They were remarkably comforting. "It's good, though," he says belatedly. "I like you." It is an understatement—we both laugh. There is a silence, and we take the opportunity to drink.
"Still with Harry, then?" he asks, with a glance to my ring finger.
I sigh softly, but he notices. I nod, ashamed of myself.
"Married?" he says. I nod again, wanting to crawl into a hole.
"Kids," I say, trying to keep my voice level. The last thing I need is to cry again. "Three."
"Merlin." For the first time, his voice has a note of frustration in it, and he looks away from me, tapping his finger on his thigh. Minutes tick away, but I keep looking down, afraid that if I look at him, the tears will fall. We both wait for the other one to speak. Our moods have changed, and he shuffles his feet on the stool. Finally, he takes a napkin from off the table and jabs it with his wand. He gives it to me, and I read an address. "If you ever want to owl me," he explains. I nod foolishly, and pocket the napkin.
"Well, I'd better get going," I murmur, disgusted with myself. I get up from the stool and turn to leave. He follows me.
"Yeah, I should probably get home as well," he agrees. We walk outside awkwardly, into the dimly lit, deserted street. We stand there for a minute, looking at each other. Suddenly, I find myself grabbing his shoulders, roughly kissing him on the lips. It becomes tender, though, and out of nowhere, we're kissing passionately…where did this come from?
I don't know how long we stood there, like a couple of teenagers, making out in the street. But our kiss breaks eventually, and we're both left panting.
"I'm sorry," we say at the same time. Now there were no more words to be said. We look at each other one last time. He gives me a little wave and we walk off in opposite directions.
The walk home is just a blur. Up the stairs, into bed, unconscious in a matter of seconds.
xxxxx
Wow, the sun is bright this morning. I glance around and see only my bedroom. My head vaguely hurts. I stretch and notice the lack of a husband next to me. It takes me a minute, but I finally remember last night's dream and shiver. It was amazing—so surreal and yet so perfect. I snuggle down under the covers, replaying it before it evaporates from my head completely.
I'm up to the part where Blaise has just started to talk to me when I hear noises outside the door. Déjà vu.
"No, don't wake your—"
"Mum!" calls James. Harry follows him lamely, obviously trying unsuccessfully, to keep him away from the door.
"Sorry, Gin," he smiles at me sheepishly.
I laugh. "It's okay, Bl—Harry." I say, and immediately glance up at him nervously, realizing my mistake. My heart beats so fast...Please don't notice. Please don't—
"What did you say?" he asks.
"Hmm? Er, what?"
"Blarry? Larry?"
"Er, I said Harry."
"She said 'Darry,'" giggles three-year-old Lily, stumbling in. "Daddy. Darry. Daddy." She laughs hysterically, repeating, "Darry. Daddy." Harry scoops her up, and luckily for me, is distracted for now.
I fall back into bed, still tired, but afraid to replay the dream in my mind with my real family close by, as if they can see into my head. In my head, I know that Harry was never a good Legilimens, but in my heart, I feel guilty for thinking of him, even if it was just a dream.
"C'mon, kids, let's get out of here. Let your mummy go back to sleep." He smiles at me, and my heart breaks just a little. I smile back stupidly from the pillow, as he leads the two out.
I sigh once they're gone and roll over. I should get out of bed soon…but then I remember last night and I ache. I close my burning eyelids and remember. As I think back, something dawns on me. He wrote his address somewhere on a napkin…a napkin…! My mind races…if I still have the napkin, then what happened last night was not a dream, but reality!
In the dream, I pocketed the napkin in these pajama pants. I take my time, in case it's not there. I pat each pocket individually to feel if the napkin is in there. Left, right…no luck. Back left, nope. Back right—I hold my breath—yes!