Disclaimers: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters. I am making no money from this. It is purely for
Notes: Someone is dreaming of horrible things. But are they really just dreams? This will be a slash fic, male/male
relationships. Don’t read if you don’t like that kind of thing.
Shadows of Truth
Pain. Fear. Darkness. That was all that was around him. Hurt and suffering consumed him and ate away at his body, mind,
and soul. The room was almost totally devoid of light, the flickering of torches casting dark shadows that twisted and turned,
writhing along the walls. It was almost as if they were alive. Wait . . . they were alive, and coming closer, slinking along the
walls and floor, their sharp edges reaching out to him, wanting to hurt him, trying to cause him more suffering.
Then it happened. His body was grabbed by forceful bruising hands, his wrists bound and ankles chained. He was laid,
splayed across a hard, uncomfortable surface, spread out and vulnerable, fearing what would happen to him next. And then
the pain began. Painful lashes struck him, tearing his skin open. Harsh blunt strikes fell on his quivering, pale body, eventually
to leave ugly dark bruises.
Why was he being hurt like this? Had he done something wrong? He didn’t understand what was happening, why these
shadows were attacking him so harshly. A cruel, cackling laugh rang through the room, echoing in the dungeon-like
atmosphere. He knew that laugh . . . but from where?
Blood dripped into his eyes as he looked around. He watched, wide-eyed as the cuts began to cross his sweaty skin. Along his
arm, a long agonizing cut traced from his shoulder to his wrist by the sharp blade of a silver knife, twisting and curving now
and then but staying straight for the most part. He cried out at the pain, having failed in his attempts to hold his cries back.
The shadows were doing this, but he couldn’t see their faces. He only felt the pain they gave to him, the cuts they traced along
his body as if he were a canvas and they were creating some horrendous vision of artwork with deliberate, long strokes.
It hurt, everything hurt. Then a face appeared above him. It was Voldemort, the Dark Lord, his snakelike features contorted
into a cruel smile. The dark wizard raised his wand, aiming it straight in his direction. A hand, another wizard's hand, grabbed
his chin, forcing his mouth to open.
“Drink!” Voldemort hissed, barely a moment before a foul brew was forcibly poured down his throat.
It was awful, the liquid stinging the insides of his mouth, feeling as if it were eating away at his flesh from the inside. He
nearly choked on it, but finally managed to swallow the acidy substance, although his stomach threatened to expel it. It was
like snakes were coiling in his stomach, twisting and curling. It felt almost as if they were going to slither back out through his
mouth or nose, that they would try to escape him. He groaned, screwing his eyes shut as he fought the urge to retch, barely
hearing as a muttered spell was cast upon him. He wouldn’t have recognized it anyway, the words were unfamiliar to him.
He opened his eyes as a hand sharply slapped his cheek, blearily looking up at the Dark Lord who loomed above him. Hair fell
into his eyes, pale blonde hair. It took a moment before he realized that the hair was his own, that it had fallen loose sometime
throughout this ordeal.
“Good boy, Draco.” Voldemort whispered, his hand lingering along the side of his face. “We’ll finish this spell in time . . . for
now, you will rest.”
There was no request. It hadn’t been a quiet urging. It was an order. He closed his eyes, doing as the Dark Lord had
commanded. Then, quite suddenly, the room shifted. It became the grounds of Hogwarts. He was stranding on one of the
high towers, looking out over the vast expanse of the dark, nighttime scenery. The moon was high in the sky, casting the only
illumination in this dark night since the clouds obscured the stars. Snow fell, covering everything with a blanket of white, a
pure covering of the fragile flakes. It was beautiful, like diamonds falling from a black velvet sky.
He spun around, thinking that he had heard something behind him. He looked up, but this time he wasn’t Draco . . . he was
looking at Draco. What was this, he wondered to himself? What had happened to the dungeon and the shadows? Where was
Voldemort? And why was he looking at Draco, when just a moment ago he had been him? He didn’t understand this, not at all.
Draco held out his hands, tears streaming down his pale face, his fine blonde hair whipping around him in the chill winter air.
His robes were loose about his body, showing the green silk pajamas that covered his slender frame.
“Please, help me?” Draco whispered, taking a step backwards, his hands always reaching out to him. “Please, before it's too
late?” Draco cried, his expression vulnerable and open, his eyes full of terror.
“What do you want from me?” He found himself asking, before he had known that he had opened his mouth.
“If you don’t help me . . .” Draco whispered, standing still, his eyes boring through the soul of the one watching him. “I'll
have no other choice.” With that, Draco took one final step and fell backwards off the tower, his arms spread wide as he
allowed himself to fall.
“No!” He screamed, rushing forward far too late. He heard the thud before he had reached the edge and looked down. Draco’
s blank, dead eyes stared up at him from the ground. His body lay in a twisted heap, his legs and arms bent in unnatural
angles. A halo of blood rapidly spread out around his head, tainting the purity of the snow.
It was then that Harry awoke. He shot straight up in bed, gasping as sweat ran in rivulets from his skin, his scar burning with
an intense fury. He shivered, a sudden chill breeze caressing his body. What the hell was that all about, he wondered. Maybe
he was going crazy. Why else would he dream of such horrible things? But then again, why would he care what happened to
Draco Malfoy of all people? The bastard was always tormenting him. But still, Harry couldn't help but worry. Had that really
been a dream?
He looked around the room that he was in, his eyes blurry as he saw that Ron was still asleep in his own bed. It was the last
night of summer break. Tomorrow they would go to the train station and head back to school for their last year. He hoped it
would be a good year.
Wiping his hand over his forehead, idly rubbing his aching scar, he lay back in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He highly doubted
that he’d be getting any more sleep tonight. Not after that horrible nightmare. He couldn’t help but continue to dwell on it.
What the bloody hell did it mean? Was Draco in danger of some kind? He didn’t understand . . . not why he was dreaming
about Draco, not why he was even caring about this. He just did not understand this. What if it wasn’t just a dream?
To Be Continued . . .