HA! Three chapters in as many days! Go Aimee, go Aimee *dances like a dork*
By the way, I strongly believe in reciprocity, so if you favorite/follow I will check out your stories (it's a pretty decent way to find new material, actually), and if you leave a comment I will reply to it.
Harry finds himself unable to fall asleep after waking from his dream, so when he finally bows to the inevitable and gets up in the morning he is tired and ill-tempered. However, the edge is quickly taken off his temper by a beaming Hermione, who comes bounding up to the makeshift breakfast table he is eating at with Horace Slughorn in tow.
"Oh Harry, I don't know why I didn't think of it yesterday," she says brightly, plopping down beside him, "but Professor Slughorn is both an Occlumens and a Legillimens! He's agreed to teach you."
"I would be more than happy to tutor you, Harry," Slughorn cuts in smoothly, a benevolent smile on his face. "Occlumency is quite useful, especially if you still want to become an Auror. We can start immediately if you'd prefer."
Harry's tensed shoulders relax, profound relief washing over him. "Thank you very much, Professor," he says, flashing a genuine smile at the rotund man. "I'm willing to start now if you are."
"Excellent, excellent!" the professor says jovially. "My office escaped the brunt of the destruction. We can start there as soon as breakfast is over."
"Of course. I'll meet you there," agrees Harry. He turns to Hermione as Slughorn walks off, wrapping her in a grateful hug. "Thanks, 'mione."
The bushy-haired witch shoots him an odd look, though she smiles as well and returns the embrace. "It was no trouble, Harry," she says, then hesitates. "And… of course, if… if anything's wrong, you can always talk to me, you know? Or Ron."
The dark-haired wizard looks guiltily back down at his breakfast, wishing he's told her in their first or second year. He wants to tell Hermione now, especially after everything they've been through together, but he feels it would be cruel to burden her with his worry so soon after everything. So instead he looks back up, smiles reassuringly, and says "it's nothing, Hermione. I'm just… I just need this after everything that's happened." Not a lie, really.
Hermine's eyes brighten with realization at his words, and she pats his shoulder sympathetically. "Oh, of course, Harry. Listen, I'm going to go find wherever Ron went off to, alright?" She pats his shoulder again and stands.
Harry waves her off. "Go find the lout," he agrees with a nod, "I'll save some food for you, yeah?"
She flashes a grateful smile over her shoulder as she dashes off, leaving Harry to stew in his guilt alone, a plate of slowly congealing eggs his only company.
Harry meets Slughorn twice a day every day after that, once after breakfast and once after dinner. If the professor is surprised at Harry's newfound enthusiasm for the mind arts, he's tactful enough not to say anything; if he's surprised at Harry's unsubtle questions about how one can block dreams out, well, he's tactful enough not to say anything about that either.
The dreams of the dark wood follow the same pattern as those of the pale wood, with one difference: with each new day, the darkness and evil of the wood lessen, until he barely has to play at all to restore the life in it.
Despite Harry's best efforts, and despite Pofessor Slughorn's exemplary tutoring, seven days is simply not enough time to learn something as complex and advanced as the complete blocking of dreams. And so, it is with trepidation that Harry goes to sleep on the seventh night.
It is not a forest he is in or a tree he walks from beneath, but instead a high, arching portico fashioned from pale wood and stone. He steps barefoot onto the cool flagstones that have been laid so smoothly to form a path; the portico extends into an elegant colonnade that shelters the flagstone path, and he follows it by some instinct and familiarity he does not remember gaining. He knows this place to be a safe haven and the home of a great healer, though he does not remember how he learned this.
The hem of his long, hooded cloak -made of brown velvet embroidered with gold- sweeps along the ground behind him with gentle, rhythmic swishing sounds. The robes beneath are knee-length and high-collared, fashioned from an intricate brocade fabric the color of raw umber, and complimented by immaculate trousers of the same brown as the cloak. He does not remember any of these garments, but that is beginning to matter less and less.
His feet carry him on a familiar path as he hums softly, meandering through the walkways that surround the grand house; he ascends a wide staircase cut into a tall outcropping of rock, following the pale lanterns on either side to an elegant stone gazebo situated at the top. He crosses a short bridge, passes through an archway, rounds the stone table that sits under the center of the dome, and mounts a few stone steps onto an East-facing platform that juts out over the river far beneath him.
The valley below is enshrouded by predawn mist, the white stone of the surrounding cliffs painted in a pale lavender color as the night sky begins to lighten. He reaches up and pulls the hood of his robe down, revealing long black hair -tied back at the nape of his neck- and sweeping bangs that frame his eyes. A violin and bow, both very finely crafted from dark, reddish wood, rest in one hand; he takes the bow in his free hand and raises the violin, cradling it securely between his chin and shoulder. When or where he learned to arrange his fingers across the violin's neck, and when or where he learned to draw the bow properly across the strings, he does not know, but he does it nonetheless. With his eyes on the slowly lightening horizon, he inhales deeply of the cool air and begins to play.
The sweet notes ring out through the valley, clear and bright as moonlit crystal. He smiles, love swelling in his chest, and he knows deep within himself that this song is a song of praise and adoration. As the first rays of dawn peek over the distant mountains, he begins to sing.
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-díriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, sí nef aearon!
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
o menel palan-diriel,
le nallon sí di'nguruthos!
A tiro nin, Fanuilos!
He smiles as his voice weaves in and out of the violin's lilting notes, filled with such genuine adoration for Elbereth Starkindler that tears well in his eyes, though they do not spill over.
He is not surprised when, after the final syllable rolls off his tongue and the final note echoes through the valley, a voice speaks from behind him.
"Daro."
This voice is like neither of the other two. It is masculine but not deep, cautious but not hostile. In fact, it is quite soft and welcoming, the voice of one prepared to welcome a stranger if they themselves are not hostile. This is a voice that speaks of help and safety.
He lowers the violin and turns, a smile still gracing his lips.
Indeed, the speaker's appearance harmonizes perfectly with his voice. A very tall man stands on the opposite side of the gazebo, clad in long burgundy robes of silk brocade, high-collared and long-sleeved like his own shorter robes. His skin is pale, his keen eyes the soft gray of spring storm cloud, and his long brown hair is swept back over his shoulders, held in place by an intricate silver circlet. Most curious of all, his exposed ears are pointed, though this does not seem so strange to him; he knows without knowing that this man is an elf.
"Man le?" the elf asks softly, the tension in his shoulders easing at the mutual lack of hostility.
His smile fades, though it is not with sadness that he answers, but with tiredness. "Ú-iston," he sighs with a shake of his head, gesturing carelessly with the hand holding the bow. And as the sun finally rises above the horizon, haloing him in the light of dawn, the dream fades away.
He is once more Harry James Potter.
The young wizard, curled up on his side, stares into the shadowed corners of the room with a faintly stunned air. Pointed ears, he thinks, his brain grinding to a halt. An elf. Not a house elf, a bloody High Elf with bloody pointed ears. An elf. What-?
Harry turns his face into the pillow and proceeds to vehemently recite every curse word he ever learned from the Gryffindor Quidditch team (which is quite a lot of very naughty words, coincidentally). When he runs out of curses, he sits up and pummels his mattress for good measure, a scream of rage locked behind his gritted teeth.
"What the bloody fucking hell?!" he scream-whispers, slumping back down onto the mattress and staring incredulously up at the ceiling. "An elf? What the bloody hell is that even supposed to mean?!"
He sits up suddenly and throws his legs over the side of the bed. "No, you know what, fuck this," he growls, standing. "I'm done. I'm not dealing with this."
And with that, he stomps off to the burnt out shell of the Quidditch Pitch and spends the rest of the night flying, trying in vain to forget the strangeness of the dream and his own slowly increasing sense of doom.