Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

ANs: If you were bored enough to go read my lj, it would probably make sense to why I didn't write. But, if you didn't, here goes.

I tried to catch up my sleep, but it seems my dad's perfectionist ways got to him, and he was bothered by my mode of sleeping. So he decided to go and announce I should change it [for him, but he didn't say that aloud, but it was his intent]. Says I'm wasting my life sleeping and what not. So whenever the urge to go and write or doodle was up, I slept it down. Most of the time, the attempt was near crap anyways.

So after lots of downloading new music, plenty of fic, and reading long threads of canon discussion, here it is.

It's mostly filler, I guess. In a way. More dreams, more crappy writing. But it's better than the other attempts I tried to write. They were so much crap. Still think it is crap, but I'm trying, I'm trying. :) I am, after all, inexperienced.

Enjoy!
"We do not know what we believe unconsciously,
but it is almost certainly not what we
consciously believe we believe."

Global Mind Change: The Promise of the 21st Century, Willis W. Harman


These new dreams were occurring more often than he liked. It was as if they replaced the time slot of his usual nightmares, robbing him of tearing madness and guilt. He tried clearing his mind every night, as he tried to remember each occlumency lesson.

It was oddly suspicious.

He could feel his defenses tighten every night, and only the nightmares came. No visions from Voldemort, no weird, out of place dreams. Only the nightmares, with Sirius falling; so beautiful, but yet so wrong, sickeningly wrong, as his stomach clenched.

But these other dreams he witnessed, they were so surreal; real, and wonderful, and blissfully...normal. Or at least, close to normal he could get. Maybe, he just knew to expect them, remembering their schedule.

Regardless, he had enjoyed them. Most of the time, they were pleasant, and pretty easy-going. Though the last one, he cringed, was pretty whacked. It made Harry all the wiser.



It had been a blur. The cold, chilled feeling of the room never left him, as he felt his feet against the cool ground. The room was covered in hard stone, shielding to rid itself of emotion, lacking the warmth and feeling of the Gryffindor Common Room.

Makes you wonder about Slytherins too, Harry thought. No wonder most of them were testy bastards. As if they would live in a nice and cozy place.

The place hadn't changed in the last four years; still as icy and unwelcoming as the shadows danced around the room. The leather couches were lined with smooth leather, and Harry supposed they were rather comfy. Maybe the only place to get comfy in.

Something caught his eye, as he turned to face the blanket-clad couch. He stepped closer to find it was accompanying a person.

It was night—by the looks of the room—and the silence surrounding him. It was ringing in his ears—a dull ring, but one nonetheless. Only cracking fire and scratching quills stopped him from drowning in it.

He tip-toed closer, still covered by shadow, as he made out the profile of the boy in front of him. It was Snape, and his huge nose was silhouetted by the firelight.

There was a minty-scent in the air, spotting the bottle of salve near him on the table. Books were strewn across the table, scattered open to various pages.

So, Snape was doing homework. Not to mention, in the middle of the bloody Slytherin Common Room. He spotted several bruises on his arm; highlighted by the little light there was, and it seemed they were covered in the salve.

As he scribbled away, he watched as dark intense eyes scanned the page, pausing every so often. Intense, but still focused.

Fondness filled Harry as he remembered how Hermione once looked like that. Determined, but passionately focused. How Hermione-esque he was looking.

It still drudged up past memories of the one from the pensieve, his beetle-black eyes scanning the page, his nose all too close to the parchment; his father's and his father's friend's words ("'Snivelly', 'Snivellus', '...There'll be great grease marks all over it, they won't be able to read a word...'") taunting, chanting, evil evil, you're worthless, you're a freak....

Harry snapped out of it, his hands in fists, and his nails digging into his flesh. He was surprised he wasn't bleeding. This wasn't a time for self-examination.

He had not totally cleared his mind though, still swirling in thoughts as his trainers skidded against the floor. He stared inquisitively, trying to imagine why the hell he was in his trainers, why was he fully clothed, but all realized that he was found out.

He froze.

He watched as he saw Snape pause, putting his quill in his inkpot. Harry bit his lip. His face was now looking in the direction of where Harry stood. He got up to his feet, his heart pounding as each step brought him closer to Harry.

Shit, he's going to find me.

In the dark, Snape had grabbed his neck.

"Look who it is," he sneered, sounding like Malfoy.

The light was bright enough to showcase his Potter-esque features; that is, the messy hair and his glasses.

His voice was spoken with delight in his tongue, as if relishing sweet revenge.

"Caught in the act. You think I'll be stupid enough to let you go?"

Smirking, he hissed in his ear, "I don't think so."

Fear was running wild, hopping around in his veins, and his stomach, feeling unprepared for this. Snape was going to kick his ass, his conscious told him.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

He felt Snape's fists coming in contact with his stomach, followed by endless kicks in various places, but mostly to his stomach. He had been lost in his thoughts, unguarded, vulnerable...

'You should always be on your guard, Potter,' his inner Snape bitched. 'It does not prove to show how much of a dunderhead you are if someone manages to attack you, even if the odds are in your favor.'

Harry swore he smirked at him.

'Then again, if you are what you call "The Wizarding World's" savior, then you are helpless and pathetic, even by your standards. What a pity this world has gone too.'

He felt his body collapse to the ground, his head keeling over by the hard knock he received. Pain, so much pain, piled onto of him. He let himself be attacked, and thoroughly. And he hadn't even started on hexes yet.

Instinctively, he clutched his stomach, now noticing his glasses had been thrown aside.

"I want to see your face as I give you the hell you've given to me."

Harry's blood ran cold.

Snape was looming over him, smirking, with a triumphant, but ravenous look to him, as if he, Harry, were prey.

He could see the outline of Snape pulling out his wand, Harry's mind screaming obscenely ('Oh fuck, oh shit, oh GOD, he's going to kill me, help me, help me...') when he lit his wand. As the light came closer to his eyes, blinding him, he braced himself for the incoming pain.

Nothing came except a couple of curses from Snape's lips and Snape's blurry reflection kneeling down next to Harry, his expression changed. He felt his hand slap his cheek lightly; trying to redirect his attention to the shame, worry, and outright guilt he could see in his eyes.

"You bastard, you should have said it was you."

Everything was turning blurry at the edges, as pain went through Harry. He groaned; it had all been too much.

"You know you look entirely like Potter, but damnit..."

Curiosity seemed to get the better of Snape.

"How'd you get in here?"

Harry was in no mood for questioning. In fact, he wasn't in any mood at all, except to lie down, and close his eyes, to let everything go away nice and slowly...

Everything faded into nothing, vaguely hearing Snape saying something ("Shit, I've done it now.") before he hit total darkness.



When he did wake up from the dream, the pain was still there, and was still all too real. He recalled that next day happening, as he tried to avoid keeling over from the bruising, not trying to make more.

Only now he could stare blankly at the ceiling. What did these dreams mean? Sure, the sight of Sirius was gone, for which he was grateful—

'Grateful? Maybe because it was your fault he's dead anyway. And remember when you said it was beautiful? You know you did it, you know you want to forget, because in all due honesty, you don't want to remember the feelings that rush in you when you see it happen, again, and again...'

This wasn't his inner voice, just another one of those guilty voices egging him on...so much more different, and with a sneering tone.

He shut his eyes, willing his guiltiness away.

It had been his fault. All these dreams were created so he could get away from it all.

His inner voice returned.

'Why Snape?'

Flashing images glittered in his eyes, flooding him, taking him back somewhere, yet again.

Was it Voldemort this time?



He felt his body heavily sinking in—like the night before last—watching as he felt himself dragging along, Snape not too far away.

"You imbecile..."

Snape tugged at his sleeve, taking him to a darker corner of Diagon Alley.

"If you had walked any further," spitting, sounding like the future Snape, "James Potter and his damn groupies he calls friends would have seen you."

Snape was glaring down at him, but not the perfected glare he was used to. The repercussions of his actions fell down upon his confused mind: after all, he was transported into Diagon Alley when he was still in bed.

He tried swallowing the lump in his throat, as he felt fear rising in his stomach.

"You look too much like Potter, as I'd like to admit," he sneered.

Where had he heard that before? They all said he looked entirely like his father, and had his mother's eyes. Yadi yadi yada. Did he need reminding?

"But if they caught you, it'll be much worse than if you are with me."

He wasn't so sure to that. Then again, maybe they saw him with Snape. That in itself could mean a lot of things for the both of them.

He stared out at the busy people, walking the bustling street, as Snape took out his wand.

"I'm going to disguise you. I'll be damned if I let them catch you like that."

As he heard Snape say several incantations and spells, he felt his face and body molding into a different shape. No doubt he did something with his hair and eyes, but there was no mirror to look into.

Snape smirked at his handiwork as he placed his wand in his pocket. He crossed his arms, black eyes trailing over Harry. And he could feel his gaze looking him over—"Oh God, Snape? Harry, are you really mental?" He could hear his inner Ron say, with a berating Hermione scolding him for insulting a teacher—sending shivers down his spine.

"Fine."

Snape had now stopped looking and turned around.

"Follow me."

He nodded as he complied with his friend's wishes. Wherever they went, Harry did not see much to tell, as his vision swarmed again.



He blinked as he found himself in bed, in the same position he had left in.

He was in disbelief.

Where in hell did that come from?

He shut his eyes, trying to calm down his frantic heart.

'Just go to sleep, Harry,' he told himself. This was all too real, and all too freaky, and just...sudden.

Everything ebbed away into nothing, as he eventually fell back to sleep.

Things only got worse.