Catharsis

"A Dream Journal?" Hermione looked intrigued. "Harry that's brilliant! I've read about these things - they're really valuable. But if Dumbledore gave you one of those... Harry, he must think there's something to your dreams. He wouldn't give it to you for no reason."

Privately Harry had wondered if Dumbledore had only given him the journal to set his fears to rest and give him an outlet for dealing with the feelings the dreams generated. He had written only one entry before meeting with Dumbledore the following Saturday, and the dream itself was not significant, Dumbledore agreed. Harry found it perverse that now that he had a mechanism for recording and analysing his dreams, he wasn't having any.

"But that's good, right?" Ron looked up from his transfiguration essay. The common room was empty except for them. "If you're not having dreams, then at least you're sleeping better."

Harry grinned ruefully. That, at least, was true.

"So, Harry," Hermione began, sidling up to where he sat on the couch. He looked at her nervously. Hermione was never anything less than direct, but she appeared almost coy, flipping her hair back with one hand. "What have you dreamed about recently?"

"Err, nothing," Harry replied truthfully.

"So, how many entries have you made?" Hermione smiled at him encouragingly.

"Um, three," he said uneasily. "Why?"

"Three in nearly three weeks?" Hermione looked surprised. "Harry, would you...." She bit her lip and glanced at Ron. "Would you be willing to let me see your dream journal?"

"Why?" It was Harry's turn to look surprised.

"Well," Hermione hesitated before plunging in. "I've been reading about interpretation of dreams..."

Ron laughed loudly. "Hermione! I'm surprised at you. Didn't you know that dream interpretation is a branch of Divination?"

"Ron!" said Hermione, turning rather pink. "Don't you dare make fun of me, or you won't get any homework help for the rest of the week." She glared at him. "Speaking of which - don't you have an essay to finish?"

"Shutting up now," Ron stifled a snigger and turned back to his work.

"I don't know..." Harry winced, remembering the first entry he'd made - the dream conversation with his mother. "It's kind of, well, personal. You know?"

"Harry," Hermione managed to look sympathetic and firm, simultaneously. "I know you're showing these to Dumbledore, but I really think it would help to have another knowledgeable point of view."

"In that case you'd better take it to Professor Trelawney," Ron chuckled under his breath, earning another warning glare from Hermione.

"Really, Harry," she continued. "You know you can trust me. I won't tell a soul."

"I know that, 'Mione," Harry protested. "I trust you. It's just... personal."

"Oh, you're having naughty dreams, then?" Hermione and Harry both stared at Ron, horrified. He grinned and rolled up his essay. "Just finished now."

"Then you might as well take yourself off to bed," Hermione said firmly. "Now."

"Aw, you're no fun at all," Ron grinned apologetically. "Sorry, Harry. I'll stop giving you a hard time now."

"You'd bloody well better," Harry retorted, not really angry.

"Good night," Hermione called, shooing him toward the stairs.

"I think I'll turn in too," Harry said, jumping to his feet in an attempt to escape Hermione. She tapped her foot and looked at him impatiently.

"Harry," she said firmly. "I think you should let me see that journal before we go to bed."

"Let me sleep on it, please Hermione?" Harry didn't like to refuse, but he wasn't particularly excited about giving up his privacy.

The next morning, Harry came downstairs to the common room and handed Hermione a small leather-bound book. "It's unlocked."

She looked up at him gratefully. "I'll just take this to the library," she said quietly. Harry nodded and stepped out the portrait hole to go to breakfast.

Later that morning, Harry found Hermione in the Library. She had taken over an entire table, which was covered with books, including 'Unfogging the Future', 'The Interpretation of Dreams', and 'Dreams and Visions'. Harry picked up a book titled 'Lucid Dreaming' and flipped through it before setting back on the table.

"Any luck?" he asked tentatively.

"Not really," replied Hermione, pulling her hair in frustration. "Oh I'm no good at this. Ron was right. I'm hopeless."

"Don't say that." Harry patted her on the shoulder. "I really appreciate you trying."

"You mean that?"

"Of course." Harry sat next to her, suddenly noticing a familiar name among the stack of books. "Freud?" He raised one eyebrow.

"He's been tons more useful than most of the divination books I've read so far," said Hermione, defensively.

"Okay, okay," Harry held up his hands, placating. "So what have you discovered?"

"Well," Hermione took a deep breath. "You've got three dreams recorded here. The Quidditch dream is just nonsense. No offence." She glanced at Harry apologetically. He nodded, and she continued. "The other two are more interesting. The conversation with your mum, and," she pushed her hair out of her face again, "the dream about Cedric."

"As I read it, in the case of the Quidditch dream, you've got your basic wish-fulfillment. Your dream with your mum indicates some kind of communication with your intuitive self. And the Cedric dream is all about your feelings of guilt and remorse. They're probably not prophetic, any of them, and certainly not clairvoyant." Hermione sighed. "Sorry I couldn't do better."

"And then there's Malfoy..." Harry's mouth snapped shut suddenly.

"You've been dreaming about Malfoy?"

"No! No," Harry replied quickly. "It's just curious. He's... different this year." Harry chewed on his bottom lip. "I talked to him, you know."

"You did?" Hermione looked sharply at Harry, who was watching his finger tracing the wood grain on the library table. "About what?"

"Nothing much." Harry sighed and ran his hands through his hair, making it even more ruffled than it already was. "He didn't say much. Had a great summer. He said he didn't want to come back here." Harry looked at her. "I don't know why."

"Why what? Why he didn't want to return to Hogwarts?"

"That. And why he did."

"Well that's curious," Hermione said thoughtfully. "I would have thought he wanted to come back. He's doing well in his classes."

"Oh?"

"Yes, but then he's always gotten high marks - that's nothing new." She frowned. "But I never see him talking to anyone. He seems really isolated, and I don't understand that. It doesn't make sense for Lucius Malfoy's son to be socially disconnected." She handed Harry his journal. He tucked it into a pocket in his robes. "And Harry?"

He looked down at her as he stood to leave. "Yes?"

"Your mum's right. We're proud of you."

Harry squeezed her shoulder silently.

"I won't say a word to anyone, Harry." Hermione looked at him seriously.

"I know, Hermione. I trust you." He turned to go. "But I'm not going to do this again, alright?"

* * * * *

The following Monday, Harry stopped Draco outside of Potions. Draco tilted his head to one side, regarding him curiously. "This is getting to be a regular affair, Potter. What is it this time?"

"I just want to talk to you," Harry replied nervously. "Got a minute?"

"I don't really want to miss tea," said Draco, arching one eyebrow. "But yes, I have a minute."

By unspoken agreement, they walked to the same unused classroom they had met in a few days before. When the door clicked shut, Harry turned to face Draco. "I was thinking about your problem," he began. Draco grimaced, but gestured for him to continue. "You really need to talk to somebody about this."

Draco shook his head slowly. "I think not."

Harry paced the room. "You do, and this is why." He started ticking off points on his fingers. "You're in over your head here and you need help. I know you don't want to be convinced of that, but it's true and it's time you recognized that. Your father will force you into joining the Death Eaters, and you can't stop him alone. But Dumbledore can help you - I know it. He has protected others from the Death Eaters." He stopped pacing and looked at Draco expectantly.

"Is that all?" Draco found it disconcerting that Harry had obviously put some time and thought into his argument. Why would he care? He shifted from one foot to the other and folded his arms into his robes. "If so, my reply goes something like this: I can manage my father better than anyone I know. I've grown up with Death Eaters as family friends - no one understands the situation better than I. The risks of discovery far outweigh any possible benefit. And finally, Dumbledore can't protect me from my own father. I'm here only because he insisted on sending me here. He can remove me from this school any time he chooses." He looked at Harry. "I think that about covers it."

"Well you've got to talk to somebody, that's all I'm saying." Harry frowned. "You can't just fumble your way through this. You've got to have a plan."

"Yes, of course, Potter," Draco snapped. "What do you think I've been doing for the past three weeks?"

Harry looked dissatisfied. "So what's your plan?"

"I admit I haven't got it entirely worked out yet," said Draco, reluctantly. "But it's coming along nicely, thank you. Not that I don't appreciate your taking the time out of your busy day to think about me..."

"Malfoy!" Harry shouted. "Be serious! If you want to get yourself out of this situation, you're going to need some help."

"Oh and you're quite the expert at seeking help," Draco shot back, irritated beyond all measure. It was infuriating, having Potter make him out to be a brainless git. "I seem to recall that Harry Potter likes to solve his problems on his own. He never goes to anyone for help. Always the hero."

"I have no idea why I even tried to talk to you," Harry fumed, turning to the door. "Just let me know when you've gone and got yourself killed, okay?"

"Oh yes. I'll be sure to add you to my list of people to be haunted after I die, shall I?" Draco called to Harry's retreating back, wincing as the door slammed shut. Suddenly a thought occurred to him, and he wrenched the door open and ran down the hall, grateful that everyone else appeared to be at tea already.

"Potter!"

Harry didn't slow his angry march.

"Potter, wait!" Draco grabbed Harry by one arm.

Harry glared at him. "What?" he snapped.

"Potter, you're not planning to tell him, are you?"

Harry was shocked by Draco's flustered appearance. His hair flew around his head in disarray, and his normally pale skin had gone dead white. "Tell who?"

"Dumbledore," Draco hissed. "You can't tell him. No one must know."

Harry stared, gaping, as the full enormity of Draco's situation suddenly became obvious to him. Of course Draco didn't trust Dumbledore. He didn't trust anyone. He couldn't afford to, with the stakes so high. If his father were to learn that someone was helping Draco, it would reduce any chance he had for escape from slim to none. But he told you, a small voice in Harry's head reminded him.

"Look," Draco continued, composing himself. "You've got to keep this to yourself. This is something I have to work out on my own. Surely you, of all people, can understand that?"

Harry understood perfectly - the desire for privacy, the need to take care of things himself. Despite his better judgement, Harry found himself in complete sympathy with Draco's reasoning.

"All right, Malfoy," he agreed slowly. "But if you don't come up with some kind of workable plan before Halloween, I'm going to tell Dumbledore myself. It's not just about you, you know. This could endanger all of Hogwarts."

"You mustn't tell anyone," Draco insisted, shaking Harry's arm for emphasis. "Nobody."

"All right! I won't say a word," Harry agreed. "Not to anyone."

An expression of relief flitted across Draco's face, shifting quickly to smugness. "Good. That's good." He dropped Harry's arm and eyed him appraisingly. "You know, Potter, you're more like a Slytherin than I originally thought."

Harry laughed. "Coming from you, should I take that as a compliment?"

"Take it however you want, Potter, just keep your mouth shut about this," Draco smirked, once again the picture of self-confidence.

"You've got three weeks," Harry replied seriously.

* * * * *

The following evening, Draco sat in his dorm room, numbly re-reading his father's most recent letter. His only company was a tapestry depicting the founder of Slytherin House, Salazar Slytherin.

This was it, then. At first, he thought he must have misunderstood. Then, slowly he realized that, no indeed, he had not. His father was coming for him. He would bring him to Durmstrang, where Draco would have the Dark Mark placed in his flesh. An eternal promise of loyalty, given by his father to the Dark Lord.

Draco thought furiously, pacing the floor in front of the tapestry. What would Salazar Slytherin have done? Would he have allowed anyone to dictate his actions? Would Slytherin have placed duty above his own personal ambition? Certainly not, Draco concluded, the thought somewhat reassuring. But how? How was he going to get out of this without directly going against his father and incurring certain punishment? He had no illusion that his father would not force him to go through with ceremony. He stopped pacing and nervously nibbled on a manicured fingernail before he realized what he was doing. He glared at his finger in disgust, as though it was at fault. What was he going to do? Think, Draco, think!

An hour later, Draco still had no answers. He had considered half a dozen possible scenarios, and rejected them all. Run away from home? Strictly a last-ditch resort. Consult a solicitor? He wasn't of age yet, and besides all the best wizarding solicitors were on close terms with his father. Make his father so angry he would deny him the Death Eater's initiation? Draco couldn't imagine anything he could do that wouldn't lead to worse consequences than what he faced now. Strategic hospitalisation? Too extreme, and too easily overcome. Draco nearly laughed as he imagined Madame Pomfrey explaining to Lucius Malfoy that his son was too badly injured to travel. There wasn't much she couldn't heal, he had to admit.

Much as it galled him, Draco had to admit he had no idea what he was going to do. His anger had given way to panic, which in turn had faded to despair. With no real solution in sight, he found himself slipping upstairs to the source of his solace.

* * * * *

It was Friday night, and Harry was dreaming again.

He could vaguely remember a time when he enjoyed his dreams. Nightscapes that used to feature flying and Quidditch (and the occasional snog with Cho Chang) now were populated with Dead Cedric, Dying Cedric, Cedric's Accusatory Parents and a student body that turned against him. Occasionally, he dreamed of his mother and father.

Tonight's nightmare was different, however. Harry remembered his dreams from fourth year very well - before Voldemort's return, before Cedric's death, he dreamed true dreams about Voldemort's activities. The dead Muggle. The snake. Wormtail. Dumbledore had said at the time that there was some kind of connection between himself and Voldemort. Harry felt queasy remembering that.

Tonight's nightmare proved to Harry that the connection was still there.

At first, he was flying. It was nice, flying in the dark. The sky was moonless, with an occasional star peeping out from behind the cloud cover. He wondered where he was - the landscape was unfamiliar to him. As he flew, pine trees and rolling hills gave way to more rugged terrain. A lake appeared in the distance.

He felt himself descending, and it seemed odd that he wasn't directing his flight himself. He looked around for anything that might be familiar, but came up with nothing. His broom moved down through the trees, and a small hut came into view. As his feet touched the ground, the door burst open and a group of people rushed out.

Harry stood shocked as a woman pelted down the hill from the hut toward the lake. She was clutching a bundle. As she got closer, he realized it was a child. Behind her raced four dark, hooded figures. "Hey!" Harry shouted. "Over here!" The woman continued past him down the hill, but Harry could see the others would catch up with her any minute. One of them stopped and pointed a wand at the fleeing woman, shouting "Petrificus!" She went down hard, rolling to spare the child.

Harry stared, horrified, as two of them picked her up, one on each arm, while a third snatched the bundle from the ground. It was squalling loudly. Harry could just hear them from where he stood, rooted to the spot. "Throw it in the lake," the fourth figure said coldly. The figure with the child took the fussing bundle down the hill to the lake. The woman would have collapsed had she not already been suspended between the two hooded figures. She was sobbing and swearing wildly.

"No!" Harry dropped his broom and ran down the hill after the child's captor. He arrived at the lake just in time to see the bundle sink, thrashing, beneath the surface. Without a second thought or backward glance, he dived in after it. The water was murky, and he had to go down three times before he found the bundle. It wasn't moving. He tried to pick it up, but he couldn't get a grip on it - it was as though his hands passed right through the thing.

That was when he realized he was dreaming.

Coming to the surface for the last time, Harry trudged numbly to the shore. His dream self couldn't touch anything here. That's why they hadn't reacted when he yelled, why he hadn't been seen when he plunged into the water.

Harry realized these were dark wizards. The place reeked of dark magic - it made his skin crawl. He suddenly remembered the woman, and ran back up the hill determined that if he couldn't do anything, he could at least bear witness. She deserved that much.

When he reached the hut, he found his broom on the ground but the people were gone. He walked cautiously to the door and peered in through the front window. He could just make out shapes in the room beyond. How to get in? He pressed on the door, and it seemed like his hand went into the door. Encouraged, he pressed harder, and yes, his hand was in fact going deeper into the door. He closed his eyes and pushed with all his might. There was a sudden intense pressure and then it released, just as suddenly. He opened his eyes. He was inside.

Almost immediately, he was sorry he was there. The hut had one big room, with a loft above. The four Death Eaters - for he was now convinced that's who they were - had their hoods off and were talking with each other. The woman who had fled with the child was now suspended by her wrists and ankles from the large main beam that ran the length of the hut. A man's body lay on the floor by the fireplace. The absence of blood made the scene all the more eerie.

"He specifically instructed me to question them, and now you've ruined it." The cold, clipped tones belonged to a women, who was obviously the leader of this group of Death Eaters. It was the same cold voice that had ordered the disposal of the child in the lake. "I'm going to let you explain to him why we didn't get the information we came here for."

Harry shrank back as she spoke, forgetting they couldn't see him here.

"He wasn't here," one of the men replied.

The woman looked at him sharply. "You're sure?"

"He told us." The Death Eater gestured to the dead man on the floor. "After she ran." He chuckled. "Seemed to think we would spare her if he did."

"Ah." The woman considered this information carefully. "More the fool he." She turned to the other two men who had been outside with her. "Question her properly. Confirm his story, if you can."

Harry couldn't help it - he closed his eyes as the other woman's screams filled the small hut. Moments later, he was awake, panting with horror, his trembling fingers fumbling for the dream journal.