The Meaning of Dreams

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The Meaning of Dreams

Chapter 3: Of Fretting, Suspicions and Very Bad Days

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There were days that should be erased from the calendar.

That was Harry’s firm belief by the time his roast beef materialized on the Gryffindor table at Hogwarts’ Great Hall. He was sitting totally rigid from the tension and with his back strategically turned to the Slytherin table, Hermione calmly eating her meal at his left.

The rest of the table was empty.

As a matter of fact, the rest of the Hall was empty.

And there was, of course, a very easy and very logical explanation for all this solitude.

The student-less state of the tables was due the fact that they had both arrived very early to have lunch, as a consequence of Harry’s Malfoy-avoidance plan.

He had resigned himself to the fact that there was no way he could escape from seeing the Slytherin that afternoon that didn’t involve skipping Care of Magical Creatures. And since it was Hagrid teaching that class, he didn’t have the heart to stand up the huge man.

But until then he would be sure he didn’t have to face Malfoy at all. He was too young to end up in Azkaban.

Hence the ridiculously early hour at which he had dragged Hermione to the Great Hall to have lunch.

He was really —and he meant really— grateful to Hermione, who had been playing bodyguard for him all morning. She had changed her usually immovable academic patterns for him and had shared his desk in all their morning classes to spare him unwanted confrontations with his male friends.

As much as he loved Ron and the others, he didn’t delude himself into thinking that they possessed more tact than a bull in a china shop.

Much less, any kind of discretion.

The way they had kept throwing not-so-subtle glances at him when they had arrived for History of Magic that morning, had told him that they were curious about how much he had confessed to Hermione. So they would take the first chance they could get —pretending they weren’t doing such a thing— to thoroughly interrogate him.

And Harry was so not in the mood…

Having Hermione with him had beautifully served the purpose of keeping the male Gryffindors out of his range. It really was amazing, the power of intimidation she held over the male population of Gryffindor tower —and if he interpreted the looks correctly, over most of the male students in Hogwarts, Slytherins included. Such a slender girl needed only a hard look to make a boy cower in fright.

And she had one hell of a right hook.

Malfoy could give his opinion on that…

Harry winced at the not totally unexpected –if the recent past was any indication– and most unwelcome reference to Malfoy.

Oh crap, Harry mentally whined, not again…

And the thing was that this had been happening quite often during the morning hours. Malfoy popping suddenly into his mind to torture him and threaten to render The Boy Who Lived to a pile of gibbering goo. At the most unexpected moments too.

He had really tried to fight it, being the valiant and fearless Gryffindor he was. He had gone to the extent of actually trying to pay attention to what Professor Binns had been explaining in the always captivating History of Magic class.

On the plus side, that had even earned him an approving glance from Hermione, and a share of stunned expressions from the rest of the class.

Good to know that hellish personal situations dealing with blond Slytherins could improve one’s academic achievement.

On the minus side? It hadn’t worked on said Snobbish Git situation.

The annoying Slytherin refused to leave his spot in Harry’s brain and flashbacks of the dreams had been the order of the day all morning long.

Maybe it had been due to how exciting the lecture was. Maybe it had simply been that he was losing his mind. But truth be told, Harry hadn’t been able to erase the feeling of the dream all morning, and remembering the warmth colouring the silvery gaze of his dream visitor (or was it intruder?) distracted him from any pretence of concentration.

Thanks to Hermione’s theory he had managed to get a handle on his most turbulent emotions. The girl’s explanation had sounded plausible enough as to not force him to do something drastic at being dream-defiled by the Slytherin.

But nonetheless, he couldn’t push the dream away either. And that disturbed him to no end.

Distractedly poking his food around the plate, Harry sighed in resignation and allowed himself to wallow in self-pity.

Didn’t he have enough in his life with Voldemort that now he had to deal with a blond, not-quite-reptilian version of a Dark Lord-in-training, tormenting him both in dreams and real life?

He cursed the moment he had decided to try Jenkins’ extra assignment and, right then, he would have given anything to be able to change places with Ron.

Although, Harry silently pointed out, he seriously doubted his redheaded friend would be of a mind with him on that particular subject. Had this happened to Ron they would have had to pry him away from Malfoy’s throat. That, or impede him from presenting himself as a freckled dessert to the Giant Squid, of course.

“Harry.” Hermione’s voice brought The Boy Who Brooded back to present time.

“Uh?” was the eloquent response.

Hermione looked at him sternly, undisguised concern in her brown eyes.

“Eat.”

Harry stared helplessly at his plate.

“I’m not hungry.”

He cringed inwardly when he saw his friend’s gaze harden and he knew, without any kind of doubt, that Hermione had gotten into Full Motherly Mode.

And there was no way in hell to escape from that.

“Harry Potter, you are not leaving this room until you’ve finished your meal,” she directed one slender finger at him. “And since you’re trying to avoid any kind of human contact I’d suggest you chew. Quickly. The rest of the students will arrive at any moment and I suppose you wouldn’t fancy an encounter of the Malfoy-esque kind, right?”

Harry shuddered at the possibility and decided Hermione had a very valid point. He might not be hungry, but anything was better than having to face the usual confrontation with the Slytherins at lunch hour.

What at other times he had found entertaining and even something to look forward to, now served to send him spiralling into heart-clenching fear and apprehension.

He could not face Malfoy in a state like this.

Routine was such a bitch sometimes...

The raven-haired teenager started to eat his meal with obvious distaste but a determined look on his face, ignoring the little nod of approval Hermione directed at him. He wanted to be out of the Hall as soon as possible and anything would be done to achieve that goal.

It was then when he heard the first voices of those who were arriving at the Great Hall.

Harry’s eyes widened and looked at Hermione with frantic intensity.

“Hermione,” he started rather shakily.

“Not until you finish that roast beef.”

“But-“

“The longer you talk the less time you have left, Harry.”

He directed a baleful glance at his dictatorial friend, but knew better than to openly defy her. With a grimace he proceeded to munch and swallow his – much hated in that instant – roast beef.

Sadly, he wasn’t in time to finish before Ron let himself fall on the chair across from him.

“Hey,” the redhead greeted his two friends.

Hermione returned the greeting while Harry chewed even more quickly. He hadn’t missed the inquisitive gleam in Ron’s eyes and he instinctively knew that an interrogation was coming his way.

He had to get out of the Hall, now!

“Geez, man, you sure are hungry today. We almost didn’t see you up at the Tower, you passed by so fast.”

The raven-haired boy mentally groaned. Here we go…

The entire Hogwarts population was aware of Ron’s appalling lack of tact. The way the tall boy threw himself into things was one of his more recognizable characteristics. However, there had been times when, in a most un-Ron-esque way, his friend had tried to show a certain amount of subtlety and gather information without looking too obvious. From what Harry had witnessed, the success rate was dismal, but that didn’t keep Ron from trying to do it from time to time.

Unluckily for Harry, this was one of those times. And as per usual Ron was spectacularly failing in accomplishing any degree of subtlety.

The hard look in his blue eyes gave away the tall boy’s intentions in full detail.

Knowing perfectly well the way Ron’s mind usually worked, Harry realized that he was feeling left out of the situation. Hermione had been the only one to follow him that morning, and Harry could bet that Ron hadn’t expected that he was going to tell her anything.

And now that it was obvious that the exact opposite had happened in that empty classroom, Ron felt he now had the right to know what was going on with his friend.

“Hmm,” was the noncommittal response. If Ron wanted information, he was out of luck. Harry had had his quota for soul-baring-confessions already covered with Hermione.

He pushed the last two pieces of roast beef into his mouth, ignoring the way Ron’s eyes hardened a little more, and was still chewing on them when he got up from his seat and grabbed his bag, deciding to escape. Hermione offered him a slightly exasperated look, but said nothing about the hasty retreat.

“Sorry,” Harry said around the last mouthful, “but I have to revise my notes before the next class, so I’d better get going.”

He walked quickly towards the exit, not looking back towards the table, where he knew Ron would be sporting a highly annoyed expression. Harry suspected he was going to have a very interesting night up at Gryffindor boys’ dorm.

On his way out he threw a surreptitious glance at the Slytherins. Parkinson and Zabini had already arrived but there was no sign of Malfoy. A feeling of foreboding washed over Harry. He had to get the hell out of the Great Hall before Malfoy…

…decided to make an appearance at lunch and block his escape.

“Look who we have here, boys,” the blond boy drawled with just the right touch of sarcasm.

Harry felt horror spread through his body when two steely grey eyes locked on his and the dream made itself present once again. He tried to push the disturbing feeling away and closed his hands into fists, nails digging viciously into his flesh.

“Potty is all alone today,” Malfoy chided, a nasty smirk curving his lips, “have your little sidekicks abandoned you? It’s a wonder you find your way around the school without them.”

In any other situation, that would have more than enough to start of one of the typical Slytherin-Gryffindor parrying matches at mealtimes. But right then Harry was far too occupied fighting his inner turmoil to come up with a nasty comeback to shoot at the other boy. It seemed that trying not to stare too intently at the Slytherin was a difficult task indeed, and he was starting to notice his eyes glazing over.

He shook his head in a desperate attempt to clear his mind.

“Get out of my way, Malfoy,” Harry hissed through clenched teeth, “I don’t have time to waste with you.”

With an abrupt movement, Harry stormed pass the blond and his cohorts, not before catching the surprised look on the Slytherin’s face. He knew this wasn’t the way he was expected to behave, but in life everyone had to have his priorities clear, and in his mind, avoiding Malfoy at any cost ranked number one in that moment.

Harry hurried through the Hogwarts corridors in long and angry strides, using all his will to control himself. Having the other boy front of him made it nearly impossible to ignore all those characteristics the dream had so easily pointed out.

The ones that fell in the physical realm didn’t bother Harry too much, since anyone with eyes could tell the Slytherin was fairly attractive. Malfoy had those snobbish aristocratic looks that made half the female population of Hogwarts sigh whenever he ran a hand through his pale hair or raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in disdain.

It was the characteristics that had brought to light the soft and caring emotions that worried him the most. Mostly because they were completely unrealistic.

Everyone at Hogwarts knew that Malfoy was a cruel and sadistic bastard who only found entertainment in making others suffer. Even his own housemates were aware of this, though it didn’t help that most of them were the same.

So conjuring up images of the evil blond smiling softly or looking at him with warm eyes was about as far from reality as imagining that Voldemort might one day appear at the castle and ask Dumbledore for a Sherbet Lemon.

He sighed dejectedly and wandered aimlessly until he found what anyone would think was his personal favourite classroom.

Why, History of Magic, of course.

He seemed to be spending an awful lot of time there today, didn’t he?

Actually, Harry really needed to go to Gryffindor Tower and gather his things for the afternoon classes. In the rush to get to lunch early, he had dragged Hermione through the dormitories in lightning-like speed, having as a result one Boy Who Lived seriously lacking notes and materials for the upcoming lessons. However, he knew that chances were high that he would stumble upon someone and Harry really wanted to avoid any human contact right now.

He sulkily sat on one of the empty chairs of the classroom not pleased at all with the situation he had found himself in. Well, he mused, he could always use one of the secret passages he had discovered thanks to the Marauder's Map. That would allow him to avoid unwanted meetings.

Liking the idea, Harry relaxed into the seat, enjoying the silence and solitude of the room. In his present state of mind, this environment was the one that suited him best.

He stayed there, staring sightlessly at the board, letting the minutes slowly tick by and trying with all his will to drive away unwelcome images of pale hands, warm kisses and smouldering silver eyes.

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Something was seriously wrong with the world that day.

That was the undeniable epiphany that hit Draco Malfoy between bites of his deliciously bloody Filet Mignon. Frowning menacingly at the meat in front of him, he munched viciously whilst going through his ‘Ways to disembowel a Gryffindor without getting blood on your clothes’ personal list, earning worried and slightly panicked glances from some of his housemates.

An angry Malfoy wasn’t a Malfoy you’d like to deal with, and much less sit next to.

The blond ignored the attention he had drawn towards himself and kept on plotting revenge against his least favourite person in the whole world: The Boy Who Had Gone Bloody Missing.

He threw a resentful glance towards the Gryffindor table, where the red-and-gold fools were enjoying their meals. Draco felt his anger increase another notch when he fixed his eyes in the vacant spot next to Mudblood Granger.

How dare Potter not make an appearance and give him the chance to avenge the humiliation suffered the last night? Meals were sacred periods for inter-house rivalry! Besides, no one stood up a Malfoy and got away with their health intact! Even if they didn’t know they were standing anyone up!

Being every inch a well bred Malfoy, Draco had arbitrarily chosen to ignore the fact that the last word in the little verbal fight with the Gryffindors the previous night had been Weasley’s. He simply refused to acknowledge that the Weasel could be considered a worthy rival when he had been wearing the same robes for three years in a row. It was most off-putting to argue with someone whose red-haired calves were visible under the hem of his robes.

Draco pursed his lips in disgust.

What the blond Slytherin could not get out of his head was the barely perceptible expression of disappointment that had crossed Potter’s face when the Gryffindor had walked away towards his House Table the night before.

It had been fleeting, it had been faint.

It had been so short no one but he had noticed it. Not even worth the attention, really.

The mere memory made his blood boil.

“Draco, dear, you’re scaring your meal.”

The blond turned around and offered Pansy Parkinson an irritated scowl. She raised an eyebrow at him but remained otherwise unruffled by the display of overwhelming Malfoy power.

“If you keep frowning so much, you are going to get all wrinkled before you even finish school,” she remarked somewhat airily, throwing a gold lock of hair over her shoulder. “Will you tell me why you’re in such foul mood today, or do you prefer to keep practicing torture methods with your food?”

Draco wished she would spontaneously combust, but he knew better than that. Parkinsons were as well bred as Malfoys and always had displayed an annoying ability to fend off bone-melting glares with the typical aristocratic ‘Go ahead, glare. I couldn’t care less’ skill.

“None of your business, Pansy,” he retorted icily and stabbed his Filet Mignon with vicious precision.

She shot him a suspicious look.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you haven’t managed to find Potter all morning, does it?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Draco stated dryly not taking his eyes from the plate.

Pansy let out an exasperated snort.

“For Merlin’s sake, Draco. You’ve been watching the corridors all morning like a hawk, and I somehow suspect that you weren’t waiting to be swept away by the image of McGonagall in her new teaching robes, were you?”

Draco shot Pansy a look of profound horror, his mind overwhelmed by the visuals the girl’s comment had evoked.

“No!” his voice cracked an octave higher than its usual tone and half the table turned to look at him. He quickly recovered, for he was a Malfoy and hence he had an iron mind, not easily breakable by hair-raising images, and snarled at them. “What? Do you need me to teach you how to chew? Shoo!”

The first years looked ready to hide under the table, whilst the older Slytherins comfortingly patted their shoulders trying to calm them and whispered in their ears they shouldn’t be afraid, that it was simply Malfoy having one of those days. Again.

Making sure to show obvious distaste, Draco pushed his food away a little bit too dramatically and glared at Pansy with icy grey eyes.

The girl stared right back, totally ignoring the chill coming from her housemate’s eyes that threatened to turn her into a walking icicle.

“You only need to wait until the Oversized Hairball’s class to pick a fight with him, Draco. I don’t see why you’re showing such impatience today.” She shrugged elegantly.

“As I’ve said before, Pansy, it does not bloody concern you.” Draco pushed his chair back and stood. “You’d better stick your refined nose in your own business.”

For the first time in their conversation Pansy lost the cool attitude she always sported and glared daggers at the other blond. Draco smirked knowingly. He knew how much any mention directed at her less than aristocratic and quite sharp nose irritated her.

The blond started walking towards the exit and sound of chairs told him Crabbe and Goyle were about to follow him. He stopped them with a vague gesture of his hand.

“You stay here,” Draco ordered haughtily, “I don’t want company.”

“Can I have your meal then?” Crabbe questioned in an eager tone.

Draco rolled his eyes in exasperation at the single-mindedness of his friends. “All yours, Vincent.”

He quickly exited the Great Hall, not paying the least bit of attention to the relieved sighs that came from the Slytherin table at his departure. Draco had much more important things on his mind, like plotting what kind of devious action he would take in Care of Magical Freaks that would metaphorically (or literally) drag Potter through the mud.

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Infamous Last Words: How will Harry react to the much awaited face-off with Malfoy at CoMC? Will his Blond Evilness finally find an answer to his questions? And what do you think the Freckled One would do if he learned about Harry's secret? All of this (maybe) on MoD 4 *Grins*