The New Year found Harry back at Hogwarts, tangled in sheets, sweat, and horror as his nightmare dragged him deeper into REM.
His body felt smooth, powerful and flexible. He was gliding between shining metal bars, across dark, cold stone . . . he was flat against the floor, sliding along on his belly . . . it was dark, yet he could see objects around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colours . . . he was turning his head . . . at first glance the corridor was empty . . . but no . . . a man was sitting on the floor ahead, his chin drooping on to his chest, his outline gleaming in the dark . . .
Harry put out his tongue . . . he tasted the man's scent on the air . . . he was alive but drowsy . . . sitting in front of a door at the end of the corridor . .
Harry longed to bite the man . . . but he must master the impulse . . . he had more important work to do . . .
But the man was stirring . . . a silver Cloak fell from his legs as he jumped to his feet; and Harry saw his vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, saw a wand withdrawn from a belt . . . he had no choice . . . he reared high from the floor and struck once, twice, three times, plunging his fangs deeply into the man's flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood . . .
The man was yelling in pain . . . then he fell silent . . . he slumped backwards against the wall . . . blood was splattering on to the floor . . .
His forehead hurt terribly . . . it was aching fit to burst . . .
"Harry! HARRY!"
He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was covered in icy sweat; his bed covers were twisted all around him like a strait-jacket; he felt as though a white-hot poker were being applied to his forehead.
Ron was standing over him looking extremely frightened. There were more figures at the foot of Harry's bed. He clutched his head in his hands; the pain was blinding him . . . he rolled right over and vomited over the edge of the mattress.
"Your dad,"he panted, his chest heaving. "Your dad's . . . been attacked . . ."
"What?" said Ron uncomprehendingly.
"Your dad! He's been bitten, it's serious, there was blood everywhere . . . "
"I'm going for help," said the same scared voice, and Harry heard footsteps running out of the dormitory.
"Harry, mate," said Ron uncertainly, "you . . . you were just dreaming--"
"No!" said Harry furiously; it was crucial that Ron understand.
"It wasn't a dream . . . not an ordinary dream . . . I was there, I saw it . . . I did it . . . "
He could hear Seamus and Dean muttering but did not care. The pain in his forehead was subsiding slightly, though he was still sweating and shivering feverishly. He retched again and Ron leapt backwards out of the way.
"Harry, you're not well," he said shakily. "Neville's gone for help,"
"I'm fine!" Harry choked, wiping his mouth on his pyjamas and shaking uncontrollably. "There's nothing wrong with me, it's your dad you've got to worry about--we need to find out where he is--he's bleeding like mad--I was--it was a huge snake,"
"Harry," someone called softly, rubbing his back, Harry sighed at the touch, something that wasn't painful.
"Come on, Let me take you to Dumbledore," the voice said just as gently, grabbing his arm to help him up. The pain receded some, enough for him to make out Professor Emrys, Ron, and Professor McGonagall.
"Weasley," McGonagall called," gather your family, and come to the Headmaster's office," Ron nodded and left the room as Emrys helped him into his dressing gown while he put on his glasses.
They didn't talk as they hurried down the corridors to Professor Dumbledore's office, Emrys still holding on to his arm. McGonagall entered the password so the stone gargoyle would leap aside bowing its head as they past.
Professor McGonagall rapped her knuckles on the door waiting until it opened by itself before entering.
Harry and Professor Emrys followed behind with an out of breath Weasley family and Hermione on their tails.
The room was just how Harry remembered it from the whizzing and clanking babbles to the old portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses to the Phoenix sleeping on his perch. Emrys pulled out a chair for him to sit in which he did gratefully, still sore and aching from pain to stand for much longer.
Harry's eyes finally settled on the headmaster he had not seen of the majority of his fifth year. He wore a purple and gold dressing gown over a white undershirt, looking wide eyed and not at all like it was three in the morning.
"Mr. Potter had a nightmare," McGonagall starts but Harry cuts her off, it was time sensitive if they were going to save Mr. Weasley's life.
"It wasn't a nightmare,"
"Very well,"McGonagall concedes, "you tell the headmaster about it,"
Harry suddenly finds himself nervous with over ten pairs of eyes on him, what if he was just dreaming. But it had felt so real, it had to be, he could never live with himself if he was right about his dream but never said anything.
". . . well, I was asleep . . . "said Harry and, even in his terror and his desperation to make Dumbledore understand, he felt slightly irritated that the Headmaster was not looking at him, but examining his own interlocked fingers. "But it wasn't an ordinary dream . . . it was real . . . I saw it happen . . . "He took a deep breath, "Ron's dad--Mr. Weasley--has been attacked by a giant snake,"
The words seemed to reverberate in the air after he had said them, sounding slightly ridiculous, even comic. There was a pause in which Dumbledore leaned back and stared meditatively at the ceiling. Ron looked from Harry to Dumbledore, white-faced and shocked.
"How did you see this?" Dumbledore asked quietly, still not looking at Harry.
"Well . . . I don't know," said Harry, rather angrily--what did it matter? "Inside my head, I suppose--"
"You misunderstand me,"said Dumbledore, still in the same calm tone. "I mean . . . can you remember--er--where you were positioned as you watched this attack happen? Were you perhaps standing beside the victim, or else looking down on the scene from above?"
This was such a curious question that Harry gaped at Dumbledore; it was almost as though he knew . . .
"I was the snake,"he said. "I saw it all from the snake's point of view,"
Dumbledore said nothing after that, just turned to the portraits calmly ordering the previous headmasters to look into the matter and have the 'right' people find Mr. Weasley. Eventually, an agonizing ten minutes that felt like hours past and Everard returned, explaining that they found Mr. Weasley.
"He looks bad," Harry has to close his eyes to stop his panic, his dream was real and he is not looking forward to what that meant. A hand squeezed his shoulder but he didn't look to see who it was, just grateful for the grounding presence.
A few minutes later one of the portraits sent to St. Mungo's reports back that Mr. Weasley has made it safely and have the best healers working to get him stable.
"What about Molly?" Emrys asks. Harry startled having forgot the professor was still there.
"She might already know with that clock of hers," Emrys nodded, slightly confused but said nothing else.
Harry knew Dumbledore was referring to the clock that told, not the time, but the whereabouts and conditions of the various Weasley family members, and with a pang he thought that Mr. Weasley's hand must, even now, be pointing at mortal peril. But it was very late. Mrs. Weasley was probably asleep, not watching the clock. Harry felt cold as he remembered Mrs. Weasley's boggart turning into Mr. Weasley's lifeless body, his glasses askew, blood running down his face . . . but Mr. Weasley wasn't going to die . . . he couldn't . . .
Harry stopped that train of thought in its tracks, instead focusing on Dumbledore puttering about a cupboard and getting out a kettle that turned blue and back to black. Dumbledore then went to another portrait.
"You are to give him the message that Arthur Weasley has been gravely injured and that his wife, children and Harry Potter will be arriving at his house shortly. Do you understand?" Dumbledore starts off, after yelling at the framed man to wake up.
"Arthur Weasley, injured, wife and children and Harry Potter coming to stay," repeated Phineas in a bored voice,"Yes, yes . . . very well . . . "
"How're we going?"asked Fred, looking shaken. "Floo powder?"
"No," said Dumbledore, "Floo powder is not safe at the moment, the Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey," He indicated the old kettle lying innocently on his desk. "We are just waiting for Phineas Nigellus to report back . . . I want to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you--"
There was a flash of flame in the very middle of: the office, leaving behind a single golden feather that floated gently to the floor.
"It is Fawkes's warning,"said Dumbledore, catching the feather as it fell. "Professor Umbridge must know you're out of your beds . . . Minerva, go and head her off--tell her any story--"
Professor McGonagall was gone in a swish of tartan.
"He says he'll be delighted," said a bored voice behind Dumbledore; the wizard called Phineas had reappeared in front of his Slytherin banner. "My great-great-grandson has always had an odd taste in house-guests,"
"Come here, then," Dumbledore said to Harry and the Weasleys. "And quickly, before anyone else joins us,"
Harry and the others gathered around Dumbledore's desk.
"You have all used a Portkey before?" asked Dumbledore, and they nodded, each reaching out to touch some part of the blackened kettle,"Good. On the count of three, then . . . one . . . two . . . "
It happened in a fraction of a second: in the infinitesimal pause before Dumbledore said "three", Harry looked up at him--they were very close together--and Dumbledore's clear blue gaze moved from the Portkey to Harry's face.
At once, Harry's scar burned white-hot, as though the old wound had burst open again--and unbidden, unwanted, but terrifyingly strong, there rose within Harry a hatred so powerful he felt, for that instant, he would like nothing better than to strike--to bite--to sink his fangs into the man before him--
". . . three,"
Harry felt a powerful jerk behind his navel, the ground vanished from beneath his feet, his hand was glued to the kettle; he was banging into the others as they all sped forwards in a swirl of colours and a rush of wind, the kettle pulling them onwards . . . until his feet hit the ground so hard his knees buckled, the kettle clattered to the ground.