When We Dream - Chapter 2

This didn't happen last time- was the thought that reverberated in the pounding skull of one Harry James Potter as he lay cramped and restricted- one leg pushed unceremoniously and awkwardly into his pained chest, while both arms wrapped protectively around the gilded cage of his avian familiar. He should have seen it coming though- Uncle Vernon didn't take kindly to the destruction of Aunt petunia's finest china plates.

A spider scuttled across his unbound foot, and after twitching in recognition, he smiled ruefully.

Some might hate the Muggle relatives that beat and starved him, the madman that had placed him there, the megalomaniac murdering half-snake hybrid that had killed his parents- or even the traitor that had given them up to be slaughtered, but Harry Potter didn't Hate.

He'd given up on Hate a long time ago. In a world with scant hope and broken dreams and children that would be born to war, who had the time or energy to hate anyone?

Harry potter got things done. Efficiently, kindly, heroically. It's what people loved about him, and what brought about hope in others. He'd seen enough death to know that it was irreversible, and that to hold on to those that were gone was a ridiculous notion. Those that stayed behind...the ghosts... they lived a mockery of a life in misery, always asking themselves what it might have been to move on, but being too terrified to face it, whatever it may be. He had mourned and moved on when it came to many people- Sirius- his parents, Dumbledore- the childhood he'd never had...

But that time had passed. He had mourned them, and they were gone- but with this new chance came the opportunity to meet and create relationships with people that he would make sure were totally different- He would make sure that Sirius didn't eat rats- and Remus wasn't alone on the full moon. He would make sure that his best friends didn't- (he chuckled breathily) wait until what they both thought their last moments to confess their love, only to find themselves with time to live - however short lived it may have been cut. And he would not wait forever to find out what love was. Not when it was so close to him.

Struck from his musings by his ability to see the spider crawling up his leg, he turned his head painfully to the side to see a glowing, miniature, clownish doll. With a white painted face, and a curling hat and little silk clothes, it was captivating.

Shifting to grasp it, he found that it was no longer or larger than his hand- and settled into his palm easily. It made his fingers tingle somewhat like they would if his hand were to fall asleep but with a much more pleasant taste than the pins and needles that came about when you try to stand up only to notice your hand has fallen asleep during one of Binn's lectures because your head was laying on it. - And if that was a little puddle of drool, who but Hermione would notice? . As he lifted it from the floor, glowing granules of sand drifted down, glowing briefly brighter upon contact with the floor of the cupboard before blinking out of existence. Looking towards Hedwig, He saw that she was watching it entranced, the glow reflected in her voluminous eyes.

Deep, heavy, resounding steps echoed coming down the stairs, adding to the hustle and bustle that sounded from the kitchen as Dinner was about to be served, and startling both Harry and Hedwig out of their contemplation of the little figure. Eyes wide, Harry struggled to stuff it somewhere that the glow would go unnoticed, and succeeded in shoving it into the crevice between his lap and Hedwig's cage, before bunching up the material of his shirt to block out the last vestiges of light from the hallway's rather dim atmosphere.

He was just in time, as his aunt Petunia came charging to the cupboard and slammed open the door, just as his cousin walked by, a curious expression showing on his face.

He didn't quite remember his Aunt cutting such an imposing figure before- but there she stood- arms crossed, one wooden spoon hanging half-limply from her right hand over her left elbow, covered in red sauce - pink frilly apron with coinciding stains, and a scowl so heavy that her forehead knotted up from the weight of it. Shadows lay deeply within her furrows and frown lines, and underneath her shrewd and pinched nose. Her eyes were drawn forward and seemed to pierce into him, as if she had pierced into his very soul, to find all his secrets.

It was a disconcerting thought.

A scowl crossed her features and she started snapping out orders- to go upstairs and get dressed and washed up, while she snapped up Hedwig's cage to reveal- nothing. The doll was gone.

Petunia kept rambling off epithets and orders, seemingly oblivious to her nephew's shock, though as Harry Potter trudged up the stairs, she could be seen standing in the dim hallway looking after him with a contemplative face turned in his retreating direction.