Author's Notes: An attempt to delve into the world of dreams and what could happen if one wants too much to make dreams reality.
What Dreams May Come
Chapter 1 - A Pilgrim on the Edge
The dialogue in his dreams was murky at best. Like grey-purple milk after the last dregs of sugarcoated cereal have been rescued from the bowl. And it was fragmented too. Almost as if someone had dropped the cereal bowl and all its cloudy contents onto the flagstone floor to admire the pattern of broken glass and sugary soup.
'You just barely caught that snitch, Potter. You can't gloat over a near miss. So wipe that smirk off your face and let a frown be your umbrella,' a cool voice would hiss.
'Takes one to know one. And it's not even raining, so why would I want an umbrella? Your insults are shallow like a wading pool in the sun,' he would reply.
'Crazy like a fox. A fox in the forest. Forbidden at that. You're raving mad.'
'Leave the forest out of it. Let's settle this like adults. Give me back my Chocolate Frog, you soulless, insufferable git. You're annoying. And you have stupid hair.' And then Harry would wake up. It never seemed to matter where he was when he awoke. It was always the same. The dim sense that he needed to open his eyes to get a better view of his verbal assailant followed by the bemused disappointment at realizing that the images before him became annoyed professors or perturbed friends instead of lithe blondes.
His dreams never really had a rhyme or reason. His dream conversations were based only very loosely on reality, though sometimes they seemed almost completely fantastic. They were no more or less than a mosaic of half-facts held together with some sort of Surreal-O Glue born of erratic sleep patterns and bizarre food combinations. But they were his, and he relished them if for only one reason: he was most certainly enamored with the dream- person who returned his banter.
"Erm, Hermione? Harry's slumped into his kippers again. Should I wake him? He looks awfully serene." Ron's voice slowly infiltrated an intense argument Harry was having with the dream person over whether or not Voldemort had any chance at beater for Puddlemere United. Harry contended that the evil wizard would never gain a decent fan base while his opponent argued that the All-powerful One could exterminate those who supported other teams.
"You'd better. He'll be angry if he finds we've left him in the Great Hall through History of Magic when he could have been sleeping soundly in Binns' room where he belongs."
Harry nearly leapt out of his seat upon being jabbed sharply in the ribs. He returned to himself rubbing vigorously at his smarting side.
"Bloody hell! What was that for? Can't you let a bloke lie in once in a while? I wasn't bothering anyone. And why do I have sodding kippers in my hair?"
Hermione sighed and returned to reading The Priestess at Delphi: The Witch Behind the Myth. Ron snickered before helping Harry to remove his breakfast from his wild, raven hair.
"Come on Sleeping Beauty. It's time for Binns' class. You can doze there if you like. Honestly, if you'd learn to sleep at night instead of thrashing about like a mad pony you might just be able to maintain consciousness through your morning meal." With that, Ron rose from the table, tapping Hermione's book to alert her that it was time to leave. Hermione drifted back to reality from the world of ancient magic and shot a bewildered look at Harry who appeared to be drifting himself. She guessed that the boy probably had not slept soundly through an entire night since fourth year, but lately it seemed his nights were even less restful. The world behind closed eyes is such a lonely one, and no one can reach you there to understand what upsets your subconscious peace.
"Blah, blah, blah 15th Goblin Rebellion this half hour. Yadda yadda Googenheimendeburgen the Swedish Banshee Enchanter and his pack of Cheery Chaps. Not to be confused with that Muggle who-se-whatsits Robin Hood the British Woman Beguiler and his tribe of Merry Men...
Harry looked out over a pristine ocean scene. Waves rolled in like a rhythm to a ballad and roared onto the shore with a power that one might suppose was bestowed upon it by some god pleased with the majesty of such a vast entity. Harry struggled to comprehend the awesome beauty of the sun setting on the horizon, turning the blue-green water to a pool of shimmering mercury. He gazed absently at the distant silver even as he fought for breath against the whipping wind, stiff with sea mist and the matter of eons. He bent further over the rocky cliff to see tiny objects leaping toward the setting sun. He fell gracefully with a feeling of unbridled freedom, the silver substance rushing toward him. An almost white fringe of light darted across his suddenly sterling range of vision. Harry welcomed his sweet collision with the placid light and swirling silver until he felt a tremor and an emotionless voice...
...Etcetera etcetera, so on and so forth, fifteen eighty-seven. Garble, gibberish, twaddle, founded a colony in Salem, Massachusetts in the United States. Hum-de-ho-hum born in Liverpool. This will all be on your exam. See you tomorrow."
"WHAT???" Harry yelped as soon as he had crossed the threshold into the corridor, "I didn't hear a word he said except something about a Swedish banjo and Liverpool, Massachusetts. Why does he have to drone consistently for a whole hour? It's bloody impossible to stay awake."
Hermione rolled her eyes and began toward Transfiguration wondering what could be bringing on Harry's sudden bouts of narcolepsy. More so, she wondered why he always looked so very cheerless upon reawakening.
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