Heal Thy Blood

Chapter Six - Dreams & Greengrass Mews

He found himself standing upon a narrow, meandering cobblestone lane, its width barely accommodating three individuals standing abreast. On either flank of this uneven path, a dense shroud of ethereal, silvery mist veiled whatever lay beneath, its expanse seemingly boundless as it stretched away into the horizon. There was no urge within him to cast a lingering glance over his shoulder; his gaze remained resolutely fixed ahead. Before him loomed a circular dais, adorned with eight pillars, each equidistantly spaced around its perimeter.

The architectural aesthetics harkened back to the days of ancient Greece; the stone, a radiant and pristine white, though the pillars bore the scars of time's relentless passage. Yet, these architectural subtleties were not the focal point of his attention. Rather, it was the gentle murmurings emanating from the very heart of the platform that held him rapt.

Within him, two warring facets of his being clashed with fervor. One, a resolute impulse, urged him onward, compelling him to seek out the origin of the enigmatic sounds, even if they remained veiled from his mortal vision. The other, a primal instinct, shrieked at him to flee, for disembodied voices seldom heralded auspicious events. Yet, with an eerie absence of conscious volition, he found himself advancing, not with the ordinary cadence of footsteps, but rather, in a ghostly glide reminiscent of one astride a broomstick, he moved inexorably closer to the source of those beguiling voices.

As he neared the enigmatic circle, a swirl of white vapor spiraled forth from its very epicenter, coalescing into a semblance that began to take form. His instincts clamored for him to draw forth a wand or any defense at hand, yet his senses recognized the ethereal visage that emerged. Before him stood a figure, her figure slight and delicate, a countenance that he knew all too well, graced with a faint, enigmatic smile.

"Hello, Harry," the apparition whispered, her voice initially bathed in hope and kindness, a glimmer of light in the oppressive darkness. "Have you come to save me?" Her words, laced with fragile optimism, hung like a delicate thread in the sinister atmosphere.

But with each passing word, her tone shifted, morphing into a relentless, desperate plea. "Do you have a cure for me?" Her once-hopeful inquiry now dripped with unbridled despair, each syllable reverberating with torment.

And then, with a sudden, bone-chilling crescendo, she hissed, "Save me..." Her voice contorted into a nightmarish wail, her form flickering that tore at the very fabric of his sanity.

"I'm going to die, Harry," she croaked, her words seeping with a terrifying, accusatory tone. "And it is all your fault." The words hung in the air, suffocating him with an overwhelming sense of dread, as if the very abyss itself had opened before him, eager to consume his soul.

Fear clamped down on his heart like an unyielding vice, its grip merciless. The silvery mist, once ethereal and elusive, transmuted into a tempestuous vortex of inky blackness, swirling violently around the path and the platform. His eyes, transfixed by the ominous spectacle, reluctantly returned to the enigmatic figure that stood before him.

As if possessed by malevolent forces, the figure's lips contorted into a horrifying smile, a grotesque distortion that sent shivers coursing through him. Suddenly, a maniacal laugh erupted from those lips, at first high-pitched and eerily feminine, before descending into a deeper, more sinister resonance that struck a chilling chord of recognition within him.

Before his very eyes, the once-slender form metamorphosed into a ghastly figure, draped in obsidian robes, with crimson eyes that seared into his very soul. A foe long dead. It was Voldemort, the embodiment of all his darkest nightmares, and the torrent of emotions within him threatened to consume him, leaving a maelstrom of confusion and rage in its wake.

You thought you could slay me, Harry?" Voldemort hissed, his voice dripping with malevolence. "Strike me down with a killing curse where those before had failed? You foolish boy, my legacy reigns beyond your victory, and while you live, they will remember every pain, every nightmare, and every death I inflicted." With each word, his form seemed to expand, a menacing presence growing more formidable.

Harry's inner turmoil boiled, a desperate urge to scream, to unleash spells, to do anything to defy this tormentor. Yet, he remained immobilized, a powerless witness to the impending doom. Voldemort's sinister laughter echoed through the encroaching darkness, the malevolent mist spilling onto the platform and surging towards them at the center, ready to engulf him.

Then, the sky above ruptured with a thunderous boom, causing both Harry and the grotesque figure to cast their eyes skyward. A radiant, golden light streaked toward them, forcing Harry backward against his will, mere inches from the encroaching darkness, while Voldemort's form screeched in agony.

Moments later, the golden light collided with the twisted figure, erupting into blinding brilliance. When the radiance subsided, a startling transformation had figure stood in place of Voldemort, who looked almost celestial, their form radiant and transcendent. Clad in glistening golden armor that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light, their presence exuded an ethereal, almost divine quality. At their side, a formidable spear stood firmly embedded in the stone, a weapon of celestial power.

From the figure's back extended sinuous tendrils of radiant energy, each strand possessing a purposeful grace, akin to the unfurled wings of a divine being. As Harry met their hooded gaze, he was struck by an eerie realization – there was no discernible face, only a profound and impenetrable darkness that hinted at a profound and ancient wisdom. The figure emanated an aura of profound mystery, as if it were a being from the very heavens themselves, a force to be reckoned with, beyond mortal comprehension.

"In the realm of dreams and nightmares, young one," the figure intoned, its tone feminine and words a soothing yet solemn melody, "your heart's deepest desires and darkest fears converge. Your quest to save Astoria, to break the chains of her blood curse, has led you here, to this crossroads of existence."

The tendrils of light emanating from the figure's form danced with a subtle luminescence, their movement synchronized with its words. "Know this, Harry Potter, for your journey is one not of fate but of choice. The path you tread is a reflection of the choices you make, and the destiny you shape is woven from the threads of your actions."

The dark void where the figure's visage should be seemed to deepen, hinting at an ancient wisdom. "Within you, the power to alter the course of your fate lies dormant, awaiting your awakening. Seek the truth, do not falter, and let your heart guide you through the labyrinth of your nightmares. Only then can you hope to save Astoria and confront your own mortality"

With a profound sense of purpose, the figure delivered its final enigmatic directive: "Find me where magic was bound." The words resonated with an eerie significance, pointing Harry toward the elusive answers he needed to save Astoria and unravel the curse that had ensnared her.

He awoke with a gasping breath, his eyes frantically attempting to adapt to the inky shroud that enveloped his bedroom. He had been forcibly expelled from the clutches of his dream, torn from its eerie embrace with a violent jolt.

—

The lingering images of the dream still haunt his thoughts as he prepared to go to the Greengrass residence for dinner, he had nearly forgotten until Hermione and pulled out a sleek set of robes for him, including a slender emerald green tie. The vivid echoes of the dream lingered in Harry's mind long after he had awoken. He'd lay in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling of his room, trying to make sense of the haunting visions that had plagued his sleep.

"That must have been a dream," Harry murmured to himself, his voice barely louder than a whisper. But even as he said it, doubt gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. It had felt real, too real to be just a product of his imagination.

The image of Voldemort, the grotesque transformation, and the enigmatic figure in golden armor haunted him, its aura was blinding and powerful. What did it all mean? And who was the woman he had seen, the one who had begged for salvation and accused him of her impending doom?

"You know who"

Astoria Malfoy, he thought with a heavy heart. The name had been etched into his mind since the moment he had met her. Her life hung in the balance, caught in the grip of a mysterious blood curse. His promise to himself to help her weighed on him, to find a way to break the curse, but so far, their efforts had yielded nothing but dead ends and frustration.

The dream seemed to be a cruel reminder of his failure, a manifestation of his fears and doubts. Could he really save Astoria? Was he destined to face Voldemort once more, even in his dreams?

With a sigh, Harry pushed himself off the bed and padded across the room to the window. He gazed out into the winter day. It was moments like these when he felt the weight of his responsibilities as a healer, but he had asked for this, he couldn't bemoan that unlike his fame.

But he couldn't afford to dwell on his doubts. Astoria's life was at stake, and he couldn't let fear or uncertainty hold him back. He needed answers, and he needed them soon.

As he dressed for the evening, pulling on the fresh set of robes, his thoughts turned to the Greengrass residence. Tonight, he was going to have dinner with Astoria's family, as her father had insisted. It was a rare moment of respite in his desire to save Astoria, a chance to step away from the relentless pursuit of answers.

As he fastened the buttons on his robes, Harry couldn't help but wonder if the dream had been a message of some sort. The figure in golden armor had spoken of choices and the power to shape his own destiny. Perhaps it was a reminder that he had the ability to change the course of events, to make choices that could lead to a different outcome.

With a determined resolve, Harry left his room and made his way downstairs. He heard Hermione in the kitchen, the clattering of plates and cutlery reaching his ears, he checked himself in the hallway mirror before heading down the kitchen.

"How do I look?" Harry inquired as he stepped into the room. Hermione, engrossed in her efforts to banish a stubborn stain from a plate in the sink, cast a sidelong glance over her shoulder, her expression alighting with a warm smile.

"Well, you've certainly cleaned up nicely," she remarked, her tone tinged with playful banter. "I dare say Ron might even be tempted to trade fashion tips with a dressed-up Harry Potter."

Harry chuckled at the thought. "Please, Hermione, let's not give Ron any more reason to tease me."

Hermione's laughter filled the room as she abandoned her task, setting aside the dish and turning to face Harry. "All right, we'll keep it our little secret."

Leaning casually against the dining table, Harry's gaze grew thoughtful as he broached a more serious topic. "How do you feel about that dream, Hermione? I'm still trying to decide if it was just that—a dream."

Hermione's brow furrowed as she considered Harry's question, her eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and contemplation. Her voice carried a note of uncertainty, reminiscent of the many mysteries they had faced together. "I'm not entirely sure what to make of it, Harry. It did sound like a vivid nightmare, but considering the very real horrors you've encountered in your life, I can't help but wonder if there's more to it."

Harry nodded, appreciative of Hermione's willingness to take his concerns seriously. "You're right, Hermione. It felt... significant, too significant to dismiss as a mere dream."

Hermione wiped her hands free of soapy suds, her gaze sharpening with a newfound determination. "There was one part of it, though, that caught my attention—the mention of finding where magic was bound."

Harry's memory of the dream stirred, and he nodded in agreement. "Yes, that part stood out to me too. It felt like a cryptic message, but I couldn't quite decipher its meaning."

Hermione, with her characteristic diligence, leaned against the countertop, her expression resolute. "I think we should investigate that aspect further, Harry. It might be the key to unlocking the message concealed within your dream."

Harry's gratitude toward his friend swelled as he recognized her unwavering commitment to their shared quest for answers. Hermione had always possessed a unique talent for unraveling mysteries and extracting hidden truths, and he had complete faith that she could decipher the cryptic message embedded in his dream.

"Thank you, Hermione," Harry said sincerely, his voice filled with appreciation. "Normally, I wouldn't read too much into a dream, but this one... it felt different, almost otherworldly."

"We'll certainly get to the bottom of it, I'm sure," Hermione assured him, her tone both comforting and resolute, but tinged with a touch of maternal concern. She waved a soapy hand, as if to shoo him out of the warm and inviting kitchen. "But you'd best get going, Harry. I don't think your hosts would appreciate you arriving late, especially when you're the guest of honor."

Harry protested with a hint of playful defiance, "I've still got fifteen minutes, you know?"

Hermione, not one to be easily swayed, smiled knowingly. "Well, in that case, you've got precisely five minutes to make your grand entrance. Thank Merlin for floo powder!"

With a nod of agreement, Harry turned toward his friend, his hand pinching a small quantity of floo powder from a nearby jar. As he stepped onto the cold stone of the fireplace, he couldn't help but offer a reassuring smile.

"Make sure you relax tonight, Hermione," he urged gently, knowing that they both skirted around the unspoken reality of his terminal condition. The specter of it lingered like a ghost in their conversations. He wanted to ensure that when his time came, Hermione wouldn't have isolated herself from others and would have the support she needed to grieve alongside their friends.

Hermione's lips quivered slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of the weight of his words. "Ron is coming over later," she assured him. "I promise, I'll put the books down for tonight."

Harry grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, good Merlin, I'll be sure to stay out late, then. I wouldn't want to accidentally walk in on you two—"

Hermione interrupted his jest with a hearty laugh. "Go on, Harry!"

With a clear and practiced utterance of the Greengrass address, "The Green Mews," Harry vanished in a burst of vibrant green flames, leaving behind a warmth and camaraderie that transcended the challenges they faced and the unspoken truths that lingered in the air.