JUST A DREAM
His mouth tasted of strawberries and licorice wands; his skin smelt of lavender and some sort of expensive cologne. He felt smooth and warm, light sprinklings of golden hair feeling soft and light beneath his fingertips. His eyes were bright, mercurial; soft and shining. His hair fell in soft waves, tickling his chest, tangling between his fingers; pale and utterly soft and fine, tumbling in straight lines down past his neck, scraping along the top of his shoulderblades.
He spread his hands across that pale chest, and followed the motions of his hands with his teeth and tongue; his hands went one way and then his mouth went another - his hands danced low, drawing gasps and moans from the other, while his mouth met with his lover's and their tongues met, warred, fought for dominance. They fell together into bed, until the sheets tangled about them and sweat ran off their backs.
And just when everything was so very perfect, and he was poised for entrance, another voice, soft and distance, called, again and again, "Harry! Harry!"
He groaned, aggrieved, and tried to stay with his paler, smaller lover; but the shouts grew louder, more worried, and the dream was ripped away, dissolving into blackness, and then the blackness solidified into a dark dormitory, where four boys gazed worriedly at Harry, who sat up and uttered a very aggrieved, "What?"
"You were thrashing in your sleep," Ron said, looking at Harry with the concern only a best friend could have. "Tossing and moaning a bit. It looked like a really rough dream."
He thought of pale, salty skin and soft, pink lips. A rough dream, indeed.
Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead, before turning to go back to sleep.
"Harry?" Ron asked. "It wasn't - You-Know-Who, was it?"
Sighing again, Harry propped himself up on his elbows, and gave Ron an assuring look; his mind floated with images of white-blonde hair and silver eyes.
"No, Ron," Harry said. "It wasn't Voldemort - " the room flinched, and Harry ammended with, " - You-Know-Who. Just..."
A dream. A dream that will never, never come true.
"Just a nightmare, Ron. Go back to sleep; I'm fine."
Ron, Seamus, Dean and Neville nodded, still looking worried, and turned back to burrow in their blankets. Harry mimicked their movements, his fingers tightly clutching the sheets - a few minutes before, he dreamed of them clutching white, strong shoulders; pulling a long, lithe body closer, tasting and touching and becoming lost in endless, perfect sensations. He sighed yet again, more quietly this time, and tried to go back to sleep.
Across the castle and several floors lower, another boy, slim and blonde, stared angrily up at his canopy, trying to forget the neverending dreams of wild black hair and brilliant green eyes.
Fini.