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His dreams that night were dark and ugly, filled with faceless monsters who spoke in Lucius Malfoy's saccharine, superior drawl. Hands were all around, grabbing him, holding him down to be tortured. It wasn't hot needles that lanced into him, though, this time it was blazing hot pokers like Uncle Vernon used to use back before the fireplace had been bricked over. Thick, iron pokers, searing with heat, and Lucius was plunging them into him, over and over, laughing. Cackling, chortling, guffawing... and then Draco was there, too. He wasn't laughing. He was filing his nails, the sound grating on Harry's ears as Draco said in utterly bored tones, "He's screaming again, Father. It's so vulgar. So very Muggle."
The scene changed, and his wand was flying through the air in an arc that seemed to span all England, flying out of his hands to soar out over the Atlantic, then plunge down to a watery grave. His wand that twinned Voldemort's, the only real weapon he'd ever had... and it was gone. Gone forever, as Lucius Malfoy kept laughing.
And then the hands were back, clawing at him this time, shredding his skin. No hot pokers now; the hands themselves were forged in fire, burning the muscles they unsheathed.
Harry screamed, his back a raw mess, only to find that somebody was holding him, stroking salve across his injuries. An herbal scent rose from the steaming wounds, the smell of healing potions, and Harry relaxed into the arms around him. It was all right to be touched, just now. But at the same time those hands were so caring, so loving, yes, loving, voices were echoing all around him. Or rather, one man's voice, a dark sardonic drawl casting contradictory comments on the wind, until they spun and whirled in Harry's mind.
I care nothing for what a sixteen year-old whelp thinks of me..... You are not alone..... Trust is necessary to fight the Dark Lord effectively. We failed last year, Mr. Potter..... You will know not to question me again.....We'll work on your pathetic inability to lie convincingly another time, Gryffindor......I do believe I prefer you insolent, all things considered......Let him suffer. I certainly can't bring myself to care.... You may wake me anytime you have need, any need.
That last phrase started circling his thoughts, taking hold of them in a stranglehold, refusing to let go. You may wake me anytime you have need, anytime you have need...
But he couldn't, could he? Because Snape hated him now, didn't even want to brew his potions, was letting Malfoy help with them! Snape had promised to come to talk to him, and he hadn't, not once, not even after Harry sent the apology!
Still that voice kept talking, though: You may wake me anytime you have need. Any need. Any need...
Inside his dream, Harry started shrieking, his throat on fire as he poured all his pain and anger and fear into one word. One word, but he screamed it ceaselessly, over and over, his body aching to be touched and held again, even while his mind rebelled against that very prospect. The whole horror of Samhain coalesced into a single name as he flailed on the bed, his dream bleeding out into the hospital wing, into a life where people heard him and came running, footsteps all around, hands trying to calm him.
Hands he couldn't stand, hands he couldn't trust.
The margin between dreams and real life shattered, then, and Harry came awake, but he couldn't stop flailing, or stop his screams for Snape.
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Coming Soon in A Year Like None Other:
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Long After Midnight
Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight
Chapter 29: Long After Midnight
http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.php?no=5036&chapter=29
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A Year Like None Other
by Aspen in the Sunlight
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Chapter Twenty-Nine: Long After Midnight
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The windows in the hospital wing shattered into millions of tiny shards as the stone walls abruptly buckled, then righted themselves.
And still Harry screamed, even as he felt another enormous surge of magic washing in him and over him and out through his skin. The walls all around began to blaze with such fierce, unnatural light that Harry could feel it even if he couldn't see it.
The world began collapsing all around him, and the only thing that was real were his screams. Beyond desperate, they were begging, pleading, frantic, and this time, there was more than a name to them. Snape. Now. Now. Now. Snape. Now!
A litany, pouring through his brain and out his teeth.
Then other noises broke through his frenzy, even as he flailed and kicked and batted hands away. He heard the whoosh of a Floo, and solid footsteps coming towards him, and a voice he recognized shouting, "Harry!"
But Harry couldn't tell if Snape was calling his name from inside the dream, or from just beside his bed. He couldn't see to find out, either. It felt like darkness was consuming him, like it wasn't just something surrounding him with endless black; it was deep inside him, too, running through his veins, lodged within his marrow. Panic taking over completely, Harry convulsed and screamed again, behind it a horrified gurgling noise, for he could feel a third surge of magic beginning to gather deep down in the pit of his bones---
"Harry, I'm right here!" The voice came again, louder, as strong fingers snatched up both his hands and squeezed them. Hard. He'd fought the other people reaching out for him; he'd thrashed like an enraged basilisk, unable to bear it, screaming all the louder every time they tried to grab him. But this touch was different. Some part of him recognized it, even though the grip was so fierce it actually hurt. That wasn't important. All that mattered was one thing: this touch brought him back to a consciousness of himself. He became Harry again, not a mindless well of need that lashed out at everyone with fists and voice and magic, all at once.
This touch tamed his wild magic.
Snape's grip leveled off the moment he stopped thrashing. Harry felt like he'd just been trampled, but his hands held securely in his teacher's, he started to calm down. He'd been breathing for forever through his mouth, it seemed; screaming so much it actually felt dry inside. Closing it finally, rolling his tongue over his teeth, he sucked a breath of air in through his nose, and at once smelled something so rank and awful that it made him think he'd lose every bit of food he'd ever eaten.
He didn't know if his face had turned puce, or if his queasy groan told the tale, but Snape realized the problem at once. "Albus, my robes!" the Potions Master commanded, his hands still locked to Harry's. "Vanish them away, inner and outer both! And apply a freshening charm to my clothes."
The air near him tingled with magic, and as the awful smell vanished, Harry inhaled a scent he'd come to know in Devon. His scent, laved by spells and charms until there was nothing left but just the clean smell of his clothes, and the man inside them. To Harry, it was a scent that meant care and comfort; warm buttered oatmeal and honeyed water; and restfulness instead of panic, even while his injuries had ached and the world all around was endless dark.