I'm dreaming of a memory. I, of all people, should know how dangerous a memory can truly be. Yet, I let it flood my mind as soon as my head hits the pillow, caressing me like the familiar touch of a lover.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time I met Charlie, with his broad shoulders and broader smile. I can see his skin, tanned from his many months outdoors taming dragons in Romania. His red hair is darker than the other Weasleys, cropped tight against his scalp like a Royal Marine officer. He's the shortest of his brothers, but he makes up for it with the breadth of his muscled frame.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time I heard him speak, with his soothing voice and disarming timbre. The words he spoke were spells; they bound me with invisible chains.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time I touched him, a friendly shake of the hand. They were rough and calloused, like a Quidditch player's. His grip was firm and comforting, as if he was used to handling delicate things that needed to feel protected and safe. Our hands lingered together, longer than customary yet quicker than desired.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time I caught him staring at me, after a rumbustious night of celebrations at The Burrow. I stole away to have a Jimmy behind one of the gnome-riddled bushes in their garden. I felt eyes follow me as I walked and turned to find Charlie watching me. That was also the first time I saw him blush through his tanned and freckled skin. He quickly looked away, embarrassed.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time Charlie touched me, trying to get around me in the kitchen to reach for a drinking mug. His fingers grazed my hip and lingered there far longer than necessary. His chest and stomach pressed against me as he leaned forward, as if the cup was beyond his reach. His crotched rubbed along my backside, his feet on either side of mine. I was engulfed completely by him, swallowed whole. It wouldn't be the last such touch over that summer at The Burrow.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time I saw Charlie shirtless, freshly wet from the shower. Wrapped around his waist, the towel hung low on his hips, allowing me to see the smooth, well-formed muscles that divided his stomach into eighths. My eyes fluttered as I followed the trail of dark, reddish-brown hair that disappears into the fabric. I wanted to see more. My mouth slipped open and I began to lick my dry lips. I saw the bulge under his cloth twitch.

My dream turns into fantasy; Charlie grabs my wrist, pulling me into the foggy 'loo. He captures my lips, forcing them open with his tongue. His hands rove over my body as he makes his way to the bottom of my shirt, lifting it over my head. He presses himself against my bare chest and I marvel at how my soft body feels against his, hard as steel.

"You're so young," he whispers in my mouth as we kiss, "Tell me to stop and I will."

But I won't tell him that.

"Say you don't want this..."

But I do.

"Say the word and this will end..."

But I would say anything to make sure it doesn't end. I'd browbeat him with every hex I know – or don't know – to keep his lips on mine. I'd tell him the sky was brown as tea and the moon made of porridge to keep his tongue in my mouth. I'd threaten to snuff the stars in the sky to ensure that his hands remained on my body, exploring me.

I reach down to my trousers. Not bothering to unzip them, I push them down in one swift motion, revealing my hard cock. His hands grab at the small of my back before sliding down to my arse as I kick away the clothes crumpled at my feet. He sucks on my tongue and bites at my bottom lip as I claw at his back, losing myself in the moment. His cock grows hard between our stomachs and I feel him pull me into him tighter, his fingers inching towards my hole. I want more of Charlie, more of his kisses. I find myself on my back, legs wrapped around Charlie's waist as he grinds our cocks together. He pulls away, taking in a deep breath. His eyes look deep into mine. He grasps both of our cocks in on hand, stroking it in long, slow, sensuous caresses.

"Do you want me to –?"

"Yes," I answer, breathlessly.

"Are you scared?"

"Yes."

And I am. I know what he's asking, what he wants. Although I want it, probably more than he, I still can't help worrying. What if I'm no good? What if I mess up or, worse yet, make a mess? What if he doesn't like it? What if he doesn't like me?

"It might hurt," he offers, with gentleness in his eyes like I've never seen before.

"I don't care."

He smiles, almost as innocently as I do. However, it slowly becomes lecherous before finally turning malicious. His dark skin goes pale and grey as the winter sky. His blue eyes are now reddened slits, like a lizard or a... basilisk. The fingers that were once bristled over me like an expert painter's brush on canvas are now digging into my flesh with sharp, razor-like talons.

I'm dreaming, but it's neither memory nor fantasy. I try to scream; my mouth opens but nothing comes out. I try and pull away, but his grip is unyielding and unbreakable. He laughs a cold, wicked cackle that sends shivers down my spine. It's bitter and high in timbre, full of nothing but hate and animosity. I can hear the sound of my skin being ripped, pulled and separated from my bones in much the same manner as my shirt moments earlier. I can see nothing but red as blood splatters the walls and covers my face. I can smell my exposed muscle being burned from flames that have come from nowhere.

"Now, youngling," Charlie says in that familiar, high-pitched voice, "you are truly beatific!"

•Š•

Finally, I scream, waking wake up in my four-poster. Covered in sweat with my cock still in my hand, I jerk and spasm as my orgasm is ripped from me like a stolen prize, spraying over my stomach. The menacing laughter from my dream fades as my hitched breathing slows. I can hear feet trampling about and realize that people are scrambling towards my bed. Ron yanks back the coverings of my bed just after I pull the duvet up to my chin to hide my mess.

"Harry," he asks, frenzied, "are you alright?"

"Crimeny! That scream—" Seamus says from behind him, scratching his head.

Even Neville' doe-eyed expression seems more pitying than worried.

It takes me a moment to calm down enough to speak, "I'm... sorry... I had a... nightmare, is all."

Ron's eyes narrows, unsure of whether to believe me, "Are... are you sure, mate?"

"Y-Yes... I'm fine."

Begrudgingly, he lets the coverings fall back into place, leaving me to my breath... and my fear. I try to close my eyes to better relax myself. Despite my slowed breathing, I can still hear that laughter, the horrible, mocking hysterics that manages to say 'I won' without so much as a word. I want to cry. I want to go home. But Hogwarts has always been 'home' to me. And it's that realization that truly frightens me. I'm not safe here, not safe from the nightmares that torment me. I've never been so scared to go back to sleep in my entire life.

•Š•

"Oh, no! A rat!"

The house-elf screamed as though being tortured. A rodent making its way into Malfoy Manor was sure to send her to The Chamber, where many disobedient and incompetent house-elves entered, yet few returned.

She scuttered along the kitchen in a vain attempt to catch the vile beast. She scooped at the floor, but it was no use; the rat was too quick for even her nimble reach. Another elf opened the swinging door leading to the main corridor and the rat scurried into the hallway, leaving the two house-elves to ram headlong into each other.

Methodically, the rat darted along the corridors, stopping at each room and sniffing the air that escapes from the crack where the door doesn't quite reach the floor. Finally, it stopped, hearing the sound of murmuring from further down the passageway. Two voices, both male, one gruff and hurried, the other smooth and calculating.

From behind, Tinkling snatched at the rodent with a resolute 'aha' escaping her lips. Despite catching the rat unawares, it proved no use as the beast once again evaded all attempts at capture. It dashed towards the sound of the two men with the resolute house-elf hot on its heels. Just as the rat reached the room where the two men were speaking, the door swung open, catching Tinkling directly in the head and knocking her to the ground. She lay sprawled on her back holding her bruised face as Lucius Malfoy towered over her, eyes darkened with rage.

"What is the meaning of this?" Malfoy demanded, one hand on the doorknob and the other clutching his walking cane.

Tinkling dared not tell her master about the foul rodent that managed to enter the Manor even as the rat skittered past his feet. Her bloodshot, bulbous eyes bulged in fear, watering at the ends as she fought to find the words.

"Speak, elfling," Malfoy hissed through gritted teeth, striking her with his cane.

"I is sorry, sir," she finally managed, cowering into a foetal position, "I's did not mean to interrupt you and Mr. Nott, sir. I is sorry for my...OW!"

Malfoy struck the house-elf a second time as he continued to reprimand her, "I told you that I was not to be disturbed while I was entertaining my guest. I am warning you, elf..."

Tinkling stood up, back still hunched forward and eyes wide with fear. Bowing deeply as it backed down the corridor, she continued with her pleas.

"Oh, yessir. Tinkling promises to be quieter, sir. Tinkling will be a good house-elf."

Malfoy gave her one last foreboding look before turning on his heel and walking back into his study, closing the door behind him.

Aud Nott sat in the large, leather chair in front of Malfoy's mahogany oak table. One foot propped on the pouffe, he smirked at Malfoy, amused at the man's aggravation. Malfoy stopped before reaching the opposite side of the davenport.

"You find something amusing, Nott?"

"Quite, actually," he replied.

Malfoy sat behind his desk with an inquisitive expression on his face.

"So, as you were saying...?"

Nott sat up in his seat, resting an arm on the desktop.

"Well, it's simply a matter of realities and legacies, is it not? What do you want for young Draco? Power of some three thousand wizards?" he asked, leaning further onto the desk. He spoke as if he were afraid of prying ears, "I, for one, have far more grand designs for Theodore."

"Oh, really?" Malfoy asked, with an exasperated release of breath. "And what, pray tell, are those... 'designs'?"

"Why control just wizarding Britain when you can control all of Britain?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, "And how do you propose to do that?" he asked. Although he sounded nonplussed by Nott's suggestions, in truth, he was intrigued.

"Well, I've found out – and I'm surprised you didn't know this – that the Minister of Magic always communicates with the Prime Minister of Britain, whose chief aides are predominantly magicians... or squibs."

"Your point?"

"My 'point' is simply that, if other countries can integrate Muggle and Magical government, why not Britain?"

Malfoy scoffed, "What, you mean like the Germans? Or better yet, the Americans?"

"You laugh, Lucius, but the American Malfoys are doing far better than you lot."

Malfoy's smile vanished quickly. Nott could see the irritation quelling in his eyes.

"The Dark Lord is gone, Lucius. He's not coming back. It's time to think of the future... and the future of our children. Don't you want greatness for your son, for your name?" Nott asked as he stood.

Malfoy's eyes didn't follow his guest as he made his way to the door of the study.

With his hand on the doorknob, Nott turned to face Lucius, still gazing weightily at his stacks of books along the shelved wall.

"Think about it, Lucius. The time has come for us to aspire to greater things other than following madmen to their doom. The Dark Lord lost his battle... and he lost it to a one-year old boy. Is that who you want to swear your allegiance to?"

If Nott wanted an answer for this, he didn't wait. In a short second, he was out of the study and off Malfoy grounds.

Malfoy remained seated, fingers pressed together at his lips. His eyes darted around the room; clearly he was thinking heavily about Nott's proposition.

He shook himself out of his reverie and exclaimed, "No... it's preposterous! It could never be... it would never work... The Dark Lord–"

"—Can be dealt with, most assuredly," came a high-pitched voice, squeaky and strained.

Malfoy stood, wand at the ready, pointing at the source of the voice in the corner to his left.
"Who dares...!"

Peter Pettigrew cowered, hands stretched out.

"Peace, brother! Peace!" he exclaimed.

Malfoy eyed him warily before speaking, "My, my, my. If it isn't Peter Pettigrew. I thought you had been obliterated by that beast of a man – Sirius, was his name?"

Peter's arms fell lightly to his side as a smile stretched across his lips, revealing his bucked teeth.

"I am not without my resources, Lucius," he answered with a slight bow.

"Obviously. Killing a dozen or so Muggles, framing Black for it... I'd have thought you neither the power nor wits to accomplish such things."

Malfoy secured his wand back in his pocket, before turning his back on Peter and walking to his liquor case and pouring a glass of firewhiskey.

Peter took offence to the slight, "I had wits – and power – enough to stay alive, well hidden from those Death Eaters who wanted me dead. Not to mention doing it right under the nose of Albus Dumbledore... for little over eight years, I might add." His puffed out his chest at this, tossing Lucius a brazen smirk.

Malfoy took a dram from his whiskey. "Yes. And remind me why I shouldn't kill you for your treachery?"

"I only betrayed two people that night, Lucius. And they remain dead. The Dark Lord, however, remains in my care."

Malfoy's eyes widened.

"How much did you hear...?"

"Oh, you mean of your and Nott's impending coup?" Peter asked, taking a seat in Lucius chair and propping his feet on the desktop. "I heard it all."

Malfoy's heartbeat quickened. A thousand excuses came flying to the front of his mind, each as unconvincing as the last. Peter laughed at Lucius' discomfort.

"Ah, yes. The 'lump of a boy' finally has something on the great Malfoy. It's priceless, that look on your face!"

Malfoy scowled, his lips drawn tight against his teeth.

"What do you want?" he asked in a dangerously low voice.

Peter took his feet off the desk and stood.

"I want..." he trailed off, "I want to make a deal with you Lucius Malfoy."

"A deal?" he asked, suspiciously, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes. A deal. One that will give you – and me – everything you need to make your ambitions come to fruition."

Malfoy smiled, "Oh? And what do I need for that?"

The silence was deafening as Peter stood, still. His eyes radiated with hunger and greed. He licked his dry, chapped lips as steadily walked to stand in front of Lucius.

They stared at one another, unblinking, until Peter broke the silence, "A world without The Dark Lord."