Azure

You Would Better Love a Dream

After his hands had stopped shaking, quieting to a small tremor, he closed his eyes and let the dark take over. When he rolled around to sleep, he didn't dream at all. His mind was blissfully blank.

With the thick comforter nestled around him, it was easy to sleep. It washed over him like a calm wave, or a beam of light. His breath turned normal, no longer painful to feel it blow over his hand. Harry focused on his breath. In, out. In, out. He fell asleep to the soft cadence.

The land of dreams was so different from the calm peace he had fallen asleep in. It was dark, stormy, and all of the cliches, but it claimed Harry as prisoner and shackled him inside his mind. A thick fog swirled and misty orbs became apparent. He was back in the Department of Mysteries.

Growing up in a muggle background, Harry had seen the view on wizards in a neutral light. They were grouped as wand waving oddballs, turning teacups to mice and pulling rabbits out of hats. The magic the muggle world dreamed of was all showy- it did not consider magic as a way of life.

One thing he had noticed was the way wizarding life was described. Wizards were covered in black robes, and witches had long warty noses and wore tall pointed hats. They had cats as dark as night, and they ate children after brewing in their cauldrons.

Knowing the truth now, the stories made popular as fantasy seemed exceptionally bizarre. Perhaps the only person he knew who came even a smidgen close the fitting the image was his hateful potions Professor, and even he was still far from the lense.

But wizardry was stereotyped, as something dark and misty and incredible. It was a widely accepted view  that would have no reason to be reconsidered for muggles. Yet, the Department of Mysteries that was currently opening up in his dreams may have been a figment of a muggle's imagination rather than an actual room; it fit the muggle view so perfectly. Dark, misty, incredible. He focused on that thought and tried not to let the place swallow him.

From the corner of his dreams came Harry as he approached the room with weary apprehension. Luna tailed close behind, followed by Hermione and Neville, and finally Ginny and Ron. Luna was shaking slightly, trembling in the dark. Neville nearly tripped in his anxiety.

"Who's there?" He demanded in his dream. Harry sounded more sullen than hostile. As he saw his face, he couldn't help but feel sunken- there was no trace of bravery nor defiance on it. He looked like a lost child who would topple with a breeze.

He saw the crew examine the room in an awkward fashion. They didn't know what was behind doors or what the boxes contained- they could only judge in the name written on them.

After awhile of this, death eaters flooded the room. The prophecy was nestled in Harry's pocket.

The Harry observing this in his dreams began to shake in real life, trying to block out the following scene. He twisted as if trying to escape. Why couldn't he wake up? Was this still a dream? Harry turned till his one leg hung outside the bed frame and his arm dangled dangerously close to the ground.

The dream sequence continued. Order members began to rattle the doors, and it sounded like a sledgehammer.  In one sudden blow, a stream of them came in with their wands up for dueling. They had matching expressions of determination, and among their faces was Sirius.

And Harry knew what would happen, as it had happened  all the nights after the battle. He saw what he would see in undeniable terror. Fear clawed the  back of his throat, and it closed painfully. He could barely breathe, and he needed to breathe to see what was surely coming.

Bellatrix laughed her maniacal laugh, and Harry looked at her with pure loathing, his hands burning up in some unidentifiable fury. He saw her raise her wand, and yet he could scarcely warn Sirius. Pure frustration was coursing through him. Night after night he viewed his godfather's death, and he could only watch helplessly and wake with tears numbing his eyes.