As ever, standard disclaimers apply.
Octavius recognized the room though he'd never actually been in it. He also recognized the small choked sobs coming from underneath the table and he crawled under to find and comfort the child not quite hidden there. He carefully patted the younger boy's head without any reticence. The child broke off his wretched crying and looked up. His eyes, large, black, and strangely luminous sparkled in the ethereal dimness. He had a long nose, a bit too big for his tiny five year old face, which face was, besides, rather too angular. His hair was long and straight and peculiarly blue-black. As black as midnight. "Don't be afraid," the boy said in a voice that had no tears in it any more, only a familiar comfort.
The boy was alone in the huge expanse (to him) of room. He lay on his side, curled into an unconsciously comforting position. It wasn't completely dark. But that was not what had awakened him. He'd had a dream about The Little Boy. Not a little boy. The. It was no one he'd ever met before. He was sure of that as he'd not met very many people in the first place and none of them were children.
The Little Boy had hair even darker and blacker than his own. The Little Boy was even skinnier than he was. But they both had dark eyes and scars. And they both were afraid of their fathers however much they wanted to please them. Octavius rolled to his other side, sliding back to the warm spot borne of his own body heat -- the rest of the bed was cold. It didn't matter that the dream child wasn't scary; he woke up every time. He didn't know why. He closed his eyes and waited patiently for sleep.
--
"Well then, what was he like? Why wasn't he in class today?" Ginny asked after they had discussed the classes she had taught this first day. Including her second class which was first year Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Ginny was brushing her hair, already in nightgown and ready for bed. But her husband was still fully clothed and missing every hint that he should be substantially less clothed.
"He's not going to tell us anything." Harry grimaced and ran a hand through his hair in that endearing (to Ginny anyway) manner that indicated more than mild frustration. "He was in no shape to leave Poppy's care."
"But he doesn't look like Professor Snape." She put down her brush and went over to stand behind him and run her arms about his waist.
"He shouldn't, should he? But I see something... Maybe it is the eyes, they're just as dark as Snape's were, I think." He frowned. "Or maybe I just think the kid is following a similar path. I don't know." Harry's arms snaked around hers almost absently.
"But it's bothering you."
"Yes, it is."
"What are you going to do?"
"Well, I wrote up a report for Minerva. I expect she'll want to interview the poor kid. I'll be there of course. But he's not going to tell her anything." He was repeating himself. He turned around to make the embrace face to face and leaned in to give his wife a long soul losing kiss. She purred and started unbuttoning his shirt.
"Had Siri in class today. He needed reminding about his behavior. I wanted to deduct house points but couldn't bring myself to do it." She giggled.
"Can't play favorites Ginny. Not with our own children. That's not sending the right message at all." He nibbled at her velvety soft earlobe.
"Mmmm... I probably wouldn't have taken away points even if he'd been another child. That tickles!"
"Let's go tickle something else, shall we?" he murmured in her ear and quickly pulled off the rest of his clothing...
--
It had been many years since Harry had suffered nightmares as terrible as the one that sent a scream from his lungs terrifying both himself and Ginny into abrupt wakefulness. In fact Ginny was wide eyed and shaking even more than he himself was. He murmured faint apologies and they wrapped their arms around one another and sat shaking together.
At last Ginny lifted her head from his shoulder angling to look into his amazing green eyes. "What did you dream of, Harry?"
"Voldemort." He replied in a husky voice. "The last battle. Snape dying. Snape."
"It's all right."
"No. I'm not sure..."
"Voldemort is dead!"
"Yes. Oh yes. He is definitely that. And his soul--" He broke off, frowning. "I'm missing something, Ginny. I'm missing something and I don't know what!"
"Oh Harry..."
"It's all right," he stroked her sleep mussed red hair soothingly. "I'm all right. Let's just try to go back to sleep."
Ginny nodded and together they lay back down and settled close, twining themselves together for the shared strength of togetherness. Soon one and then the other drifted back to sleep, and their soft snores sang of peace at last.
--
Minerva McGonagall was slumped in the very comfortable chair at her desk in her office beneath the mostly sleeping portraits of previous headmasters, staring at but not actually reading a long and highly detailed report drawn up jointly by Harry and Poppy. She winced at some of the all too graphic descriptions. she'd read the damnable thing, what? Eleven times at least! Doing so again wouldn't change any of it.
"Albus, some things just do not change." She said to the one portrait that was wide awake.
"I wish I could help, Minerva. At least offer you a lemon sherbet." He sighed. "But I don't even know what your problem is." He was sitting at his own desk eyeing a sleeping Fawkes with amusement. The bird appeared to be somewhat off kilter. But it didn't tip or fall. Perhaps it was a comment by the artist who'd painted it.
"Apparently Rodolphos Lestrange is not cut out to be anyone's parent," she told him dryly.
"That should not come as any surprise. What does surprise me is that he is not in Azkaban!"
"He should be, given the contents of this report!" She sighed wearily and rose. "I'm going to bed. I shall have to interview the boy tomorrow and then I shall see what can be done."
"Good night then, my dear. Sleep well." He still hadn't heard what the problem was. But he was only a painting however lively he might seem. And the Headmistress had not left the parchment in the open.