HARRY POTTER AND THE UNFORGIVEN

A Sixth Year Harry Potter Fanfiction

BY

Jayiin Mistaya

"Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus."

...never tickle a sleeping dragon


COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter. Those rights are held, exclusively, by JK Rowling, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here possessing legal rights to the aforementioned books and/or trademark.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: More information on Harry Potter and the Unforgiven can be found at my website, which is linked in my Author Profile.

Feedback of any kind is always appreciated.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Thanks to Elusive Evan for making me continue to post this.


CHAPTER THREE

Dreaming of You

Ginny Weasley was home from Hogwarts.

She was home, but she didn't feel any different.

She got ready for bed the same way she always had. She took her shower and put on her nightshirt, her long red hair wrapped up in a towel a bit less fluffy and a bit more ragged than it used to be. Her Hogwarts uniform joined the rest of the dirty clothes in the badly abused hamper in the corner of the cluttered bathroom; she brushed her teeth with the muggle toothpaste Hermione's parents had sent her for Christmas.

She went into her room - a room she'd spent less and less time in since her eleventh birthday. A room stuck between belonging to a simple little girl and a complex young woman. Bare walls of dark and pale greens mottled and dappled together in that way only faux finishing by hand could create. Her bed was pale white wood adorned with flowery scrollwork dusted with pastel pink and pale yellow highlights.

She threw the towel to the thin carpet and slid between sheets patterned with a smorgasbord of butterflies and dragonflies and chubby little dragons, wondering why she wasn't any different.

Something should be different.

She had gone with them this time; faced danger and been part of the adventure. She'd held her own against the Bad Guys, at least as much as any of them had, except Harry. Her mother was beside herself with worry, and her father was quietly proud of her. And she had finally struck back against the taunting voice in the dark that hadn't left her alone since her first year at Hogwarts.

It had felt good. She'd felt vibrant, alive – and in those brief hours of tension and fear and violence, she had not been alone.

But nothing has changed. We came back from the Department of Mysteries and nothing was different. Nothing is the same, but nothing is different.

It was a subtle thing, being alone. A quiet, creeping grayness that blurred the edges of the world the more you lived in it. It was insidious in that once it began, it was hard to stop.

It had started her first year – how could she make friends while under the control of a Dark Wizard thought long vanquished? In the years after, how could anyone be friends with the quiet girl who might be capable of turning around and killing them?

Her brothers treated it alternately as a joke or an excuse to be overprotective of 'little Ginny'. The threat of the twins pranking anyone who would be her friend, combined with Ron being Harry's friend made her all-but-untouchable.

Unless you're a boy who wants a kiss and cuddle to brag about!

Michael Corner had proven that. Dean Thomas wasn't much better – although he didn't know that she knew – she knew he was dating her because Seamus Finnegan had told him he couldn't handle a redhead.

I should show them both why they should be afraid of redheads!

But she wouldn't. Just like Luna wouldn't lash out at her housemates who stole her things, she wouldn't lash out at the boys who used her. If she did, even that much acceptance might be gone.

She shivered a bit, letting herself wish for just one moment, that just one thing had changed. But it hadn't.

Ginny Weasley blew out her candle and pulled the covers over her head.

She never had any trouble falling asleep; it seemed as soon as she closed her eyes she was drifting off.

But the dreams were always waiting for her.

- 0 -

...Harry's eyes. Burning green.

A cold laugh.

A voice. She knew that voice. Warm. Open. Accepting.

A seductive lie. A beautiful truth.

Whispering to Harry.

"...and you will take your proper place at my side..."

Flicker.

... It was a beautiful house, really. Dark wood; classically designed, seamlessly melding the baby-boomer era with the modern times in an architectural statement of refined and understated elegance.

She was standing in the kitchen.

Harry was sitting at the table.

His back was to her; he didn't seem to know she was there. But the dreams were the only times she was ever alone with him.

She took a step closer, her bare feet shuffling over the painfully clean linoleum, and she saw him clearly; he was shirtless, and his pale skin was marred with long red welts, swollen and puffy. Some were oozing blood.

"Harry?" She asked, not sure she trusted her eyes; her voice was a whisper that seemed to echo around the room, as if speaking made the dream itself vibrate with the sound.

He turned around and looked at her. Ginny gasped.

His face was dark and swollen. Black circles around his eyes. He clenched his fist; she saw he was wearing the black, fingerless glove she had given him – only he didn't know she was the one who had left it on his bed.

"Ginny?" He asked softly, surprised to see her, not believing it was her, that she was there.

"It's me." Ginny looked away from him and tugged at her nightshirt, wishing she'd worn more to bed. Or less. She was too confused about the dreams to really know what she wanted from them anymore.

He shifted in his chair and looked at her. His eyes were dull, lifeless.

She hadn't seen any life in his eyes since coming back from the Department of Mysteries. Since Sirius had died. She missed it. She missed him, even if she'd only had him at a distance, by watching him.

She took a step closer and reached for him.

Harry scooted the chair back.

Ginny pulled her hand back, swallowing her sudden tears. Even here, in her dreams, she wasn't allowed to touch him, to be a part of his world.

She could deal with that. He usually wasn't like that in the dreams, only in the real world. But if she could deal with it there, she could deal with it here.

"So, this is where you live?"

He shrugged.

"Yeah."

"It's nice. Elegant." Ginny ran her fingertips over the real wood molding.

"I suppose it is." Harry almost smiled, his eyes looking at the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. "I don't know if Aunt Petunia would be pleased or horrified a witch called her house 'elegant'."

Ginny tried to force herself to smile at his weak sally. He hugged himself, shivering.

"You've got to be colder than I am," he said. "Come on, I'll turn on the heat."

He stood and turned towards her, looking like he might reach out for her.

How could he be cold? She was almost uncomfortably warm, and all she was wearing was her thin cotton nightshirt.

"I'm not cold." She took another small step towards him, her bare feet sliding across the linoleum with a sound much louder than it should have been. He flinched, but he didn't pull away. "I'm kinda warm, actually."

He was still shivering. "I'm freezing. How can you be warm? I've never known Aunt Petunia to keep things so cold."

She reached out again, her hand moving without any conscious thought. He froze, but didn't pull away. His lifeless eyes watched her hand as her fingertips brushed the bare skin of his chest.

His skin was smooth and cool with only the barest hint of warmth, of life. She could feel his pulse under her fingertips, slow and steady but doing nothing to pump warmth into him.

He gasped at the contact, his hand grasping hers, pressing it to him. "You're so warm...it's always cold in my dreams. Except you. You're always warm."

Another tiny step closing the distance between them. "Always? Do you remember other dreams of me?"

Her voice was light, teasing.

He shook his head, raking his free hand through his unruly hair. "I think so. I don't know. Maybe it was you...maybe it was my mother." He smiled slightly, the first real, full expression he'd shown. "She had red hair...not as dark or as long as yours."

His hand went from his hair to hers, running down the edges of it.

She shivered, but not from cold. How could she ever really give up on him when she dreamed of him like this?

Every summer since the Chamber, she had dreamed of him.

She desperately wanted the dreams to be real.

His hand tightened on hers, as if to make sure she was still there.

"I hope it was you." He said, and it was her turn to be surprised. "You're alive, despite everything I've failed to do."

He let go of her hand, and turned away. Her arm stayed where it was, and her fingertips grazed his skin as he moved.

"You can't...you don't..." The idea was too much to bear. "Your parents' dying was not your fault. Neither was Sirius, or Cedric."

He took a step away, and whirled back to face her. This time his eyes were alive, jade burning with impotent rage.

"Yes! My fault! I killed them, just as surely as I killed Cedric, as I killed Sirius! Because I was born! Because I'm the bloody Boy Who Lived!" He stopped, and tried to reign himself in. "A dream. A dream doesn't matter, does it?" He seemed to be talking to himself.

A dream only matters when someone dies because of it.

It was his thought, but they both heard it.

"They died because of Tom!" Ginny was still whispering, but her voice sounded more like it always did.

"No, Ginny." Harry pulled back into himself, withdrawing from her, from the dream. "They died because of me. Because I'm not strong enough."

He was hugging himself again.

She walked closer again, reaching out to touch his face, his arms, his shoulders, hoping some of her warmth would seep into him. Her fingers traced over his cold skin, finally coming to rest on a bruise.

"Who did that?"

He halfway turned away from her, reluctant to pull away from her touch, but not wanting her to see his face. "No one. It's nothing. These things just happen."

The words fell flat. They were lies, and they both knew it.

He winced and jerked forward, holding his hand to his scar.

As one, their eyes fell on the open window. Outside, there was a pair of blood-red eyes glowing in the darkness.

Those red eyes bored into her, and she felt a breeze ripple over her, carrying the hissing syllables of Parseltongue.

Harry straightened and faced her, looking very sad, as if he were about to give up something he never thought he would lose. His voice was deep and quiet; there was a quality about it that reminded her of Dumbledore, or her father.

"It's not safe in my dreams, Ginny. You shouldn't be here where he can see you."

Ginny started, and blinked at him. "What?"

Your dream? She silently asked him. This is my dream.

Harry sighed. "Ginny, you shouldn't be here. Voldemort will see you."

She closed the distance between them, staring into his green eyes; they seemed somehow brighter, almost glowing.

Her fingertips rested against his chest.

She saw it in his eyes. He didn't want to give up the dream anymore than she did.

His face was set in fierce lines of determination. He was going to send her away.

He was all too aware of what dreams had cost him.

"I can't let him see you here."

Ginny saw the pain etched on his face. Emotional scars his dream-self would never lose. She reached out with a hand and cupped his bruised cheek, wanting to take some of that pain with her.

He smiled and leaned against her hand. He reached out and touched her face gently.

"It's time to wake up, Ginny."

There was a flash of light.

Flicker.

"Harry, no!"

Ginny snapped awake with a gasp, reaching out for one last chance to touch him, but her hand found empty air. Sucking in breath, Ginny sat up, blinking away the tears.

He was hurt. He's never been hurt in the dreams before.

She remembered the red eyes watching them; the red eyes of Voldemort – the Dark Lord who had once been a boy named Tom Riddle.

Okay, Ginny. Think about this logically. The simplest explanation is you had a nightmare. The dream wasn't real. You were angsting like a Slytherin drama-queen before bed. Of course your dreams are going to be bad.

She slipped out of bed and opened her window, letting the cool night air in. She was still uncomfortably warm.

It had to be a nightmare. Because if the dream was real that means either I was in Harry's dream...or Voldemort can see into my dreams.

Her mouth was suddenly dry; it was one of her deepest, most private fears. That the connection between her and Tom Riddle still existed – and the Dark Lord could still touch her.

If the dream was real...

Part of her ached for that to be true, for Harry to have reached out for her like that, even in what he thought was a dream.

If it was real, then Voldemort really saw me there. Saw Harry...and saw that he was hurt. If it was real, then Harry was really hurt.

For the first time since her first 'Harry dream', Ginny wanted the dream to be nothing more than a dream.

She sat there for a time, staring into the darkness. She didn't want to go back to sleep. She didn't want to dream again, and at the same time she desperately wanted the dream to come back.

So she did what any insomnia-ridden Weasley would do: she went downstairs to the kitchen to make tea. Her bare feet were silent on the stairs. All of the Weasley children had mastered the knack of walking down the rickety staircase without it creaking or moaning, and with an ease born of lifelong habit, she set about making herself a cup of tea in the dark. The time it took the water to heat felt like both a brief second and an eternity, but before too long she was carrying a mug of hot tea with her to the couch, to sit in front of the fire her father never let go out – the Burrow was currently the Order's makeshift headquarters, and the floo had to be constantly accessible.

She stared at the fire as she sat down on the couch – and onto something warm and soft that made a surprised 'oompf' sound.

"Gerrof! Ugh, can't a girl get any sleep around here?"

Ginny jumped away with a muted squeal nearly sloshing tea onto her hands.

Tonks sat up, blinking and rubbing sleep from her eyes. "This is an ungodly hour to be awake, Ginny-girl."

Glaring at Tonks, Ginny put her free hand on her hip. "And just what are you doing sleeping on the couch?"

Looking abashed, Tonks gave a self-conscious shrug. "Er, well, nothing, really, just stealing a night's sleep, you know, came in off my shift buggered out and all that."

Ginny let out a breath very slowly. "I really wish everyone would stop acting like I'm stupid. You were here watching the floo and you fell asleep."

If she was wrong, Tonks didn't try to correct her. With another sigh, Ginny waved a hand at her. "Go back to sleep."

She sat down on a cushy armchair almost big enough for Hagrid, curling up like a cat, holding her mug in both hands.

The Order has someone sleeping on the couch. Someone to guard our house.

Ginny felt a tingle of fear creep through her, coiling in her stomach, an icy lump she couldn't make go away with all the hot tea in the world.

She had been wrong, earlier. Everything had changed, and it would never be the same again.

- 0 -

Harry sat and stared into the darkness. Could the darkness around him eat everything he was feeling? Could he feed it the fear, the pain?

Maybe that's what Voldemort did. He fed the darkness with himself until it took the place of what he fed it.

He didn't understand why Ginny Weasley had appeared in his dream. In some ways, he knew they should understand each other. She, like him, had stared true evil in the face and turned back around to tell everyone else what it looked like.

He had become increasingly aware of that connection since she had reminded him of it that past Christmas.

Only he had no idea what it might mean; what they could do for each other.

It wasn't the first dream he'd had of Ginny. He'd dreamt of her more than few times after Christmas, almost always a day or so after an Occlumency lesson with Snape.

That part made sense; he felt his lessons with Snape had ripped his mind open instead of closing it. Rescuing Ginny from the Chamber had created a magical connection between them; it was also when he first began to see the connections between himself and Voldemort. It made sense she would become a face of his subconscious – he sometimes thought she expressed the subconscious of Gryffindor house itself. She always seemed to understand which way the current was moving, how people were feeling, reacting.

But there were other things he didn't understand. Why he had felt warm when she touched him? Why he hadn't he wanted her to move her hand...or why it had been so hard to send her away.

He knew even if he wanted to explore the connection between them, he couldn't.

Lord Voldemort could see into his mind, and it was far too dangerous for any of his friends to appear in his dreams. Or too often in his thoughts.

Harry clasped his wand in his hand; it was an empty comfort, but it was at least something.

I should have tried harder to master Occlumency. I have to find a way to clear my mind and keep Voldemort outside my thoughts.

He sat and stared into the darkness, and knew he would have to be careful how much he slept this summer.

End Chapter

Revised 8-11-9