The Red King's Dream

Author: A.L. Witt

Genre: Harry Potter/Angel; the series

Rating: R

Summery: The thin line between reality and illusion becomes lost amidst the shadows of sorrow. What enticement does life offer when death's sweet siren song sounds?

Characters: Drusilla and Harry Potter

Notes: Takes place after HP Book 5 and Ats 5th season

Disclaimer: I don't own the concept, the characters, or really anything.

"If that there King was to wake," added Tweedledum,

"You'd go out--bang!--just like a candle!...You know very well you're not real."

"I am real!" said Alice, and began to cry.

"You won't make yourself a bit realler by crying,"

Tweedledee remarked.

"If I wasn't real," Alice said, "I shouldn't be able to cry."

"I hope you don't suppose those are real tears?"

Tweedledum interrupted in a tone of great contempt.

- Lewis Carroll

Through the Looking Glass

"Nasty snake smells all dead and dirty, like rotten fishes." Her faint voice little more than a lyrical murmur, the dark-haired women spoke to the seemingly empty room. "Let the glowing breath gobble Miss Edith all up so Princess couldn't hear the stars."

Her soft, mad giggles fluttered throughout the dungeon's shadowed depths, briefly engendering a small amount of life to the cell.

"Oh, but the smelly snake didn't know the twinkles would dance for mummy anyway. They sing such sweet songs; all about blood warming my tummy and tasty little ones all cold and still."

The crimson satin and black lace of her ancient gown rustled softly with each tremble of slender limbs brought about by childlike laughter. Magically strengthened, the chains binding her clinked and clanged as her lithe frame moved. Raven locks smoother than the finest silk cascaded over creamy, bared shoulders to glisten delicately against her slight neck. Although the frail beauty appeared harmless, she was in fact a creature of great power: a Master Vampire more than two hundred years old.

"And who do you talk to my dear Drusilla?" the hissed query interrupted any further ramblings of songs or blood.

"The moon hides away, like little secrets all dark and deep," crooned the Vampire. "All souls come out to play and drag princess right away."

A hissing chuckle like crackling parchment filled the dungeon. Voldemort's thin, snake-like body seemingly floated across the room. He stopped mere inches from the small, pale creature. Lifting one cloth encased arm, a single skeletal finger passed the black hem of his thick robe. The index finger brushed the Vampire's collarbone; a gently, almost intimate pressure. Leaning in closely to the petite woman's frame, he breathed a soft question against her flesh.

"You don't actually believe your going to be freed, do you my dear?"

His trailing digit had crossed the breath of her shoulders, drawing a sluggish trickle of blood as his sharp nail caressed the virtually translucent skin. It slowly meandered downward, slipping within the crevasse of her still bosom. The resurrected Wizard drew back, thin lips curving slightly upward as he smirked coldly.

"All around the Flutterby bush, the Pixy chased the Serpent," unfazed, she sang the soft melody to the tune of a children's nursery rhyme. "The Serpent thought it was all in fun, Pop! Goes the Serpent."

"Ah my dear, I'd think you would have had enough of these games by now," Voldemort sighed in mock resignation. "You know how much I do detest having to resort to violence."

"The puzzled Serpent isn't a riddler," Drusilla giggled, the play on words seemingly tickling her fancy. "But then, he isn't a 'true' Serpent either; nothing but a dirty, lying fishy."

Snarling viciously, Voldemort's clawed hand brutally grasped the Vampire's jaw. The sharp nails sunk into pail flesh, as the Dark Lord hissed in her face.

"You will speak only to answer my questions, nothing more, is that understood?"

Had her hands been free, she might very well have been clapping gleefully. Her dark chocolate eyes smoldered brilliantly, dancing with merriment. Chained and tortured, the Vampire seemingly possessed unfathomed reserves of strength, for after months of captivity, she still hadn't broken.

"My sweet sees the answers," she continued, ignoring the obvious threat in his menacing words. "All swirling flashes in pretty green pixies."

The Dark Lord backhanded Drusilla. As blood welled upon her broken lip, a feral glow consumed Voldemort's crimson eyes.

"Where is your 'sweet' now?" he smirked coldly.

"Smelly fishy doesn't like my sweet," she moaned, chill lips barely parting. "Tried to gobble him all up, like Miss Edith he did, make the little sparkles go all dark and dreary."

"'Potter'! Your 'sweet' is Potter?" he snickered maliciously. "Oh by all means, if he wants to come to the rescue, he's more than welcome."

Without another word, the 'man' glided from the cell as silently as he'd entered. Once the iron door closed behind him, Drusilla raised her head.

"Smelly fishy," the Vampire sniggered. "Never learn. Come my sweet, invited you in he did."

"I could be bounded in a nut shell

And count myself king of infinite space,

Were it not that I have bad dreams."

William Shakespeare

For the first time since he'd begun having the visions, over a year previously, Harry did not wake when Voldemort's anger was spent. Instead he remained non-corporeal; observing the dungeon even after the Dark Lord left the room.

Every night for the past two months, Harry had been forced to observe every meeting the evil Wizard released his anger. He'd witnessed every brutal attack wrought upon countless muggles, Wizards, and Witches. Every torture session - horrific violations of mind and body - on both Death Eaters and prisoners were observed against his will.

Over time, the small boy had come to realize that his mind would never be free of Voldemort's influence. No amount of Occlimency would separate them for with the curse that heralded his ruin, the Dark Lord entrenched himself within Harry's infant mind. Untouched by a lifetime of experiences, the child's magic simply incorporated the new conduit with establishing pathways.

Dumbledore could preach endlessly of the benefits of occludeing ones mind, it would make little difference to Harry's patchwork mind.

"…Come my sweet, invited you in he did."

Upon hearing the women's softly spoken words, the small boy's ghostly essence drew closer until he was a mere breath away from the Vampire. Smiling gently, the creature let her head fall back, swiftly morphing her features. Golden eyes gleaming brightly from beneath the pronounced brow ridges of her vampric-visage, she whispered with complete certainty, "We invite you within us."

Even after his last encounter with Ancient Magic, Voldemort still did not comprehend its subtlety, power, or terrible beauty. Although nowhere near the strength of an emotional response such as 'love', an 'invitation' none the less held great significance. As with a 'true name' it allowed possibilities where once there had been none. Some could use an invitation to gain power over another; whether a creature of demonic descent utilizing such a welcome to enter a home or one familiar with the old ways taking advantage of negligent words. Even Harry knew one did not foolishly nor blindly offer invitations.

The child smirked grimly; Tommy may not have understood nor cared about such trivial things, however Harry was far less foolish. He would not put his complete trust in anything but himself. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

His voice little more than an eerie hum, the apparition set boundaries upon the acceptance of Drusilla's summons:

"As my soul leaves its outer shell,

A berth of life and warmth to well,

For the purpose of a brief spell,

I offer Drusilla's Vampri a place to dwell.

May we remain so dispelled,

Only until this contract is fulfilled."

With the finale word, the pair merged into one being as Harry's wraithlike form entered the Vampires animated corpse. A flash of brilliant white light erupted, engulfing the dingy cell.