Warning(s): Slash. Implied death.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Hers.
When Dreams Lie
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I'm nervous.
I'm sweating and my hands are shaking, and I feel like I'm going to be sick. I keep telling myself to turn around, that it's not to late to go back, but I can't control my movements anymore. I'm a foreigner in my own body.
I don't know what lays beyond that bend, but at the same time I do. Everything seems so familiar-- the dimly lit corridor, my footsteps bouncing softly off of the stone walls, the sense of forbidding that's consuming my mind. Slowly, I turn and at the same time the few torches in the corridor go out, leaving me in complete, maddening, darkness.
At the end of the hallway stands a large, oak door with a brass handle, and though no light is coming from within, I can make out the shape and distance of it with an eerie clarity that I shouldn't have in this darkness. I swallow nervously, hastily wiping my hands against my trousers. Suddenly, I'm moving again.
It's the same automatic walk as before, only quicker this time, as if my body is growing impatient. In a matter of seconds I am standing in front of the door, unable to turn back, but at the same time, unable to move forward. I shakily raise my arm, my hand hovering over the brass knob. Heat is radiating off of it in galleons, almost as if the door were fire itself. Against my will, my hand lowers, my fingers brushing against the metallic surface. It's cool to the touch.
Tentatively, I grasp the handle and push the door open.
The room revealed is flooded with light and warmth and I can't help but smile, the feelings of nervousness leaving me. My eyes scan the room, landing on each piece of furniture individually until I step forward and turn slightly. There you are, hunched over your writing desk beside the fire, the flame's glow playing tricks with my eyes. Your skin is a light bronze color that seems to shimmer with each breath you take, and I notice your green-clad back is shaking.
It takes me a moment to realize your crying.
I take another step forward, spotting the piece of wrinkled parchment your clutching tightly in his hands. I can't tell what it reads from where I'm standing, but I know it must be bad news to make the you cry like this. I urge myself to step forward and comfort you, but I find that all I can do is stand there and watch.
Suddenly you push your chair back from the desk, the floor groaning in protest and before I know it you're standing, your eyes meeting mine. A shiver runs down my back and I smile softly, opening my mouth to speak but having no sound come out.
Your eyes are full of unshed tears, the usually translucent emerald clouded with grief. You stand there for a moment longer, your eyes boring right through me until you turn and throw yourself at your bed, the piece of parchment falling from your grasp and falling ever so slowly to the floor.
Your breathing is haggard and your now openly sobbing, the soft sounds muffled by the pillow against your face. I reach out my hand to touch you-- you're so close I can almost feel the heat from your body. My fingers hover above your head and I so want to reach down and run my hands through your black tresses in a comforting gesture, but before I can, I pull back. I turn from you, my eyes landing on the piece of parchment near the fireplace.
Slowly I step forward, the dark scribbles becoming clearer but smudged from your tears. I'm nervous again as I begin to read what it says.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are sad to inform you that we have discovered young Malfoy dead in the far garden of the Malfoy estate. We have eliminated the elder Malfoy from our list of suspects and are very sorry that we will not be continuing this investigation as our attention needs to be directed to the rebuilding of the Wizarding commune.
We must ask you not to get involved and try to see through your own supposed sense of judgment. We feel your loss and are very grieved to be the ones to deliver this news to you.
May you find a way to get through these tough times.
Sincerely,
Cornelius Fudge
The Minister of Magic
I turn again, taking a shaky breath as I watch you continue to sob, and I want to scream that it isn't true, that it's all a lie and that I'm standing right here and that I'd never leave you, but I can't. Slowly my vision begins to waver and I fall to my knees, hot tears cascading down my face. It isn't true.
I'm not dead.
I wouldn't leave you.
It's then that I awake with a start.
Sweat is dripping down my forehead and my hair is matted to my skin, my t-shirt clinging to my body as I fight to untangle my legs from the mess of sheets surrounding me. The images portrayed in my dream are all to fresh in my mind for my liking, and I let out a low growl, grabbing the nearest pillow and heaving it at the nearest wall.
Soon after, I pull my legs to my chest and rest my face against my knees, feeling drained from such a simple action as tossing a pillow. My shoulders begin to shake and for the first time in a long while, I allow myself to cry.
It scares me to know that you still have this control over me. I never cried when my father was sent to Azkaban, or when my mother committed suicide, but now I feel like that's all I can do, because my dream was wrong-- it lied. Oh how I wish it hadn't, but it did..
I'm not dead.
You are.
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Fini