The Dragons of Raveana

The Music Room

Gasping for breath, Harry sat up in bed. His pale fingers clutched at the sweat-dampened sheets as his eyes scanned the blurry room. Scrabbling at the night table, he found his glasses and slid them on, blinking as his vision cleared. Around him, his dorm mates slept peacefully. Snores and the rustle of blankets the only sound in the quiet room. He uncurled his fingers and stared at his knuckles, eyes searching for blood. The memory had him swallowing and balling his hands into fists, unwillingly watching the blade slide across the dragon's throat in one smooth stroke. She had done it so easily, killed so effortlessly and efficiently. The blade so light in the palm of her hand.

"Another dream." He whispered into the silence, shoulders shuddering as the fading call of the flute rose up in his mind. The flash of bright emerald eyes and the mass of dark curls had told him everything. She was a Potter. Sighing, he slowly rolled from bed and grabbed his robe. The warmth of the material did nothing to dispatch the chills running up his spine. He halted at the end of his bed and glowered down at the trunk resting there before giving in and opening the lid quietly. The leather journal sat upon a pile of old birthday cards, its creamy cover beckoning. Scooping it up, he held it at arms length and frowned. "What are you trying to tell me?"

Shivering from both the cold and the memories slinking through his mind, he plodded slowly downstairs. He smiled when he saw Hermione perched before the crackling fire, papers and books spread around her. His stocking clad feet whispered over the stone stairs, concealing his presence until he stopped beside the witch.

Hermione's eyes widened as Harry glided from the shadows. Her startled look quickly changing to one of concern as she saw the worn out expression on his pale face. His usually sparkling eyes were shadowed and sad, and in his hands rested the journal. "What happened?"

"I had another dream." Harry murmured, walking around the brown haired witch and shoving some papers out of the way so he could sit down next to her. Slumping into the bawdy red fabric, he settled the leather book on his knee and closed his eyes. "There was a man. He was killing a blue dragon and she killed him. So easily, Hermione, as if his life meant nothing."

Hermione offered him a small smile and rested a light hand on his knee. "I'm sure she only did it because she had too." She said, giving his leg a squeeze before beginning to arrange her papers.

"There were other ways, Hermione. She could have used a spell on him. Could have drawn her wand but she didn't. She pulled a dagger and killed him." Harry stressed, opening his eyes and stretching his toes toward the fire. His shoulders shook as he remembered the cold expression on her face moments before she had plunged the dagger into the wizard's throat. "And the dragon. . . she killed it too."

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed, her grip loosening on the papers she held. Shuffling carefully, she swallowed and set the pile on top of her book. "Sometimes what looks like murder is really mercy. That wizard would have killed more dragons if she had let him go. And the dragon. . . would it have been fair to let it live if it was in pain and unhealable?"

"I suppose." He muttered, fiddling with the journal resting in his lap. The creamy book opened with a click when his fingers fluttered down the spine, seemingly recognizing his touch. Idly, he flipped it open and stared down at the dancing notes.

"I'm finished," Hermione said, pulling a sheet of parchment free of her text and offering it to him.

Harry raised an eyebrow and accepted the paper, flipping it around so he could read her neat writing. "Combine Mage and Maw and you have a power greater then anything ever foresaw." He murmured, frowning in confusion he shook his head and glanced at Hermione. "I don't get it."

"I had one of the seventh years check my translation and they said it was pretty close. It was the line you found in the journal." The bushy haired witch reminded, grinning as his face brightened and he looked at the sentence with a new light in his eyes. Still smiling, she pulled the forgotten journal from his lap and rested it next to another slip of paper. Taking up her quill, she began to write carefully under each note. Pausing every few minutes to confirm what she was writing with her notes before continuing.