Harry shifted uneasily in his sleep. He was having one of those weird dreams he got every few weeks – the dreams that made his scar ache.
Darkness. Warmth. A heavy stench, like garlic. A frightened voice.
"Master, I can't find anything. Not even the Restricted Section. There's no way past the beast."
Another voice, colder, which seemed to come from his own mouth.
"You fool! There is a way, you just aren't looking hard enough. The troll ought to have given you plenty of time to deal with the creature."
"I was with the other teachers, Master. I tried to slip away, but Snape followed me. Master, please do not be angry…"
"Silence! You will find a way past the beast. I must have the Stone it guards!"
"You will, Master. I swear I will get it for you. But–"
"What is it, you incompetent buffoon?"
"Snape. He suspects me. He's been asking awkward questions, following me around."
"Does he know anything for certain?"
"He doesn't seem to…"
"Then it does not matter what he suspects. See that you do not fail me, Quirrell. The Philosopher's Stone will be mine."
"Yes, Master."
Harry's eyes shot open. True to form, his scar was burning. It felt like a white-hot wire was being pressed against his forehead. To anyone listening, he seemed to hiss in pain, but he was actually cursing in Parseltongue. These dreams were so bloody painful!
As far as he knew, he'd been having them ever since he was a baby. He'd never talked about them, except to tell his aunt he'd had a nightmare if he woke up screaming. For years it was just intense pain, somewhere in a jungle. A few times he seemed to be some kind of animal, usually a snake, but other times he couldn't sense any sort of body. Sometime this year, the dreams had changed. Now he was in a dark place that reeked of garlic.
He hated garlic.
And now there were people talking, one of whom seemed to be him.
Why had Quirrell of all people been in his dream? Who was the Philosopher, and why was his or her Stone of any importance? Why would Snape be suspicious of Quirrell?
"It's just a dream," he muttered aloud. "It's not real." The words Philosopher's Stone echoed relentlessly within his skull as he fumbled with his glasses. "No harm finding out what that is, though, I guess." He slipped out of bed and started digging around in his trunk, carefully neutralizing the defensive spells he'd put on it first. He wasn't sure how much he still believed of Slytherin's reputation as the darkest house, but as a prankster he'd always been careful to ensure his own things couldn't be tampered with. He seized a pen and his notebook at last, and carefully removed the spells he'd encrypted the book with, (because who could resist a peek into the mind of the Boy-Who-Didn't-Snuff-It?), before finding a blank page and scribbling away.
Every time he had a 'scar-dream', as he called them, he wrote it down as soon as he could find a pen. He'd begun to do this when he was about eight. There wasn't any particular reason for writing them down – certainly it didn't ease the burning pain in his scar – but recording the dreams gave him an illusion of control. His notebook was full of hastily scrawled memories and sketchy pictures, drawn in half-lit rooms before the images faded away completely. Harry didn't bother sketching this one, since he hadn't been able to see anything, but he did make a note about the garlic – he'd never been able to smell anything in the dreams before.
Author's Note: Yes, I know, it's too short. I just felt guilty about taking so long to update. Please don't pressure me, stress gives me writer's block.
Anicrazy: If you'd read chapter three, you would know that yes, Drake is Draco Malfoy. I know what you mean, things just won't be the same without Wraithlord.
