Chapter One
The Flying Bathtub On Wheels
Come here... Pretty please... Can you tell me where are you? You... won't you say something? I need to get my bearings. I'm lost... And the shadows keep on changing-Poe, Haunted
In the shadow world where imagination and reality blend, where one can both observe and participate, Potter dreamed...
He was in the waiting room, pacing back and forth. His father hadn't wanted him to come because it was a Muggle-place, but he had to see Joanie. It was Muggles that had found her and, consequently, a Muggle hospital they'd taken her to. Her parents had wanted to take her to St. Mungo's, where they could heal her face without leaving a scar, but there was just no way to do so without revealing their magical status.
He could hear Mr. Avery screaming in the next room... Screaming at his wife about 'How could you have let this happen?' Screaming to the doctors about the poor treatment his little girl was getting. Just screaming in general. Every now and then he would go off in a rant about just what he was going to do with that 'bloody little bastard'.
Mrs. Avery was coming back into the waiting room. The Dreamer could tell because she always wore the same sort of stiletto high-heels, and they always made a distinctive 'tck-tck-tck' as they tapped against the floor, like water droplets in the marble bathtub.
The door opened and there she was, mopping the tears up with a handkerchief so damp it was doing more harm than good. He helpfully fished out his own and offered it to her.
"Thank you," she said with a pained smile, and dabbed her eyes. "My, but you're a sweet little boy... I'm so glad Joanie has friends like you. I really am. Coming here - and I know your father despises Muggles even more than my husband...And staying here, too. It must be midnight by now, am I right?"
"Three, Mrs. Avery," He said tonelessly. He didn't care for Joanie's parents, or anyone else, really. He was not a people-person, as they said. Joanie was all right, because Joanie never bothered him when he didn't want to be bothered. This seemed to be a talent she alone possessed.
"Such a dear boy," she whispered, still dabbing away with his handkerchief. "And you've been a miracle for Joanie, really. She didn't have any friends to speak of before you came. Besides," the woman said with another grimace that passed for a smile, "you're one of the only other magical families in the neighbourhood... If Theo didn't love the manor so much, I'd insist we move to Hogsmeade... The damn Muggles are like vermin. No matter which way you turn, they're always there making a nuisance of themselves. Why, if it had been a wizard or witch that found her, Joanie would be healed already. Can you believe they're trying to sew her face back together? Of all the ridiculous, painful things..." Mrs. Avery gave his now-sodden handkerchief back to him /then/, preferring to pace the floor instead.
"I'm sure everything will be fine, Mrs. Avery. And after they let her go you can heal her injuries magically," he said gently, but she would not be consoled.
"If only the blasted Ministry of Magic weren't such mudblood lovers," She burst out, her pale blue eyes flashing, "if only they were proper wizards! They wouldn't even allow us to take Joanie away and modify a few memories! We must be content to sit in a Muggle hospital and twiddle our thumbs while our daughter is subject to their strange rituals and pointy objects!" He had to wonder if she knew how ridiculous she sounded.
"I'm sure Joanie will be fine," he said dutifully. He felt as if he had won a bit-part in a very bad play.
"And we just stand here doing nothing," Mrs. Avery continued as if he had not said anything at all, "nothing! While the maniac that... did that to her... is let to roam free and prey on other innocent witchlets! He should be locked up in Azkaban! This is why I wanted to move to a nice little wizarding town like Hogsmeade - this kind of thing never happens over there! But no! We had to live in a Muggle village! And look what it's brought Joanie!"
Pierce, he thought, Douglas Pierce. He was the reason Joanie was being harassed by incompetent Muggle doctors. Pierce...
"I think I have to go now," he said gently, "I'd stay until I know she's in St. Mungo's safely, but I have to get home before dawn." He had no intention of going home, but she wasn't to know that.
"Of course," she said, "yes, of course. Lucius and Narcissa would be worried, wouldn't they? Yes. Yes. Go home, indeed. I'll owl you when she's safe, shall I?"
"Please," he said, before giving her a courteous nod and walking out the glass doors of the hospital.
Pierce lived a few miles away, but the Dreamer had a broomstick and his grandmother's invisibility cloak
(If I ever catch you touching that, boy, there'll be serious trouble...)
which would allow him to be there in no time. And then Pierce would pay.
Pierce will pay for what he did to Joanie... How he hurt Joanie... "Stupid Mudblood-Muggle," he muttered, and his hands clenched. He suddenly found the urge to curse as much as possible. "Stupid Mudblood! Stupid FUCKING Mudblood. Bastard Muggle son of a bitch arse! Mudblood, stupid, stupid, stupid Mud-fucking-blood."
He stood there, gasping. He felt as if someone had ripped his throat out and lined the remnants with sandpaper. Crescent-shaped marks of blood gleamed on his hands, were the nails had pierced through, and sweat was pouring down his forehead, stinging as it dropped into his eyes.
He was in utopia. A guilty, rebellious utopia, but utopia nonetheless. He had never cursed before. It was something 'little gentlemen' didn't do, and Mother had made sure that he was a 'little gentleman'. Some of his classmates would curse, but it was fake for them. Casual words used not out of passion but ignorance. Words that would make them 'cool', part of the crowd.
"Mudblood," he whispered, but the word didn't hold the power it had a moment ago. He tried it again - "Mudblood," - but it was dead.
A low, grinding noise, and the sprinklers behind him sprang to life, sputtering slightly as the water whooshed out of them in great powerful streams, soaking through the Muggle clothes he wore and plastering his hair to his skull.
He shook himself into action and traipsed over to where he knew he had propped his broom, his shoes squishing slightly as the water inside them shifted. He had left his broom propped against the enormous tree around the corner of the hospital. It had, of course, been covered with his (no, his grandmother's) invisibility cloak.
He felt around a bit, his fingertips brushing the rough bark of the tree (he didn't know what kind it was, but for some reason his mind said 'oak') until it connected with a silk-like, filmy substance. The cloak.
He slipped it over his shoulders, mounted his broom, and made sure the extra-large-size cloak (his grandmother had been a very large woman) was covering both himself and the Asteroid 180. It was.
He kicked off superbly, sailing into the air as if this was his natural state. He loved to fly. His father would forever lecture him on his technique, ("No, boy, your hold is all wrong! How do you think to accomplish anything that way?") but that was because Lucius cared about Quidditch, rather than the flying itself.
Quidditch was noisy and confusing. It took all the joy out of flying itself. Quidditch was so messily, confusingly human compared to the graceful, bird-like qualities of true flying. But Quidditch was what Lucius wanted, so he was forced to give in.
At least he was Seeker, and spent most of the game out of the bustle, flying and looping and being almost-free. And it gave him an excuse for those long hours on the broomstick.
The Asteroid was an excellent broom - top o' the line, as the man who sold it had said. Well, that was two years ago. His father had promised him a new broom for his upcoming birthday, (probably the new Comet) but he didn't really care one way or the other. The speed didn't matter - they all went fast.
Speaking of fast, he was closing in on his destination. He could see Pierce's house just ahead, the tall hedges marking it unique among its picket-fenced neighbours.
Ah, yes, Draco thought, you wouldn't want too much attention, would you, Pierce? Picket fences are no kind of shelter when you want to mutilate a girl three years younger and half your weight, are they, Pierce?
He landed his broom with all the same grace he had possessed taking off and reluctantly climbed down /from his broom/, hanging the cloak over it. It was time... to make Pierce pay.
He walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. He didn't really expect an answer - it was three-thirty in the morning, after all - but he got one. The door opened and he was faced by a woman wearing a flower-print dress and a miserable expression. He guessed her to be Mrs. Pierce.
"Could I talk to... to Douglas, please? It's urgent."
She looked at him a moment. Her mouth opened and he could see quite a few of her teeth were missing. The rest of them were pearly-white. "Ye-es," she said in a voice that sounded like it hadn't been used in years, "ye-es. You'll be one o'... o'... o' the Jenny girl's friends."
"Joanie," he said as if it was critical she remembered it. "Her name is Joanie."
"Yeah," she said, and he realised she had an odd accent. Irish, perhaps . Or Scottish. Or something.
"Well," he said, "um." A short pause as he looked at the woman. "Um. Yes. That was the plan."
"Yeah," she said, "well, don't get your hopes up, laddie. I respeck you an' all, an' I fully s'pport your cause, bu' my son is one big, mean, sonuva bitch. That bitch being me, o' course. An' most of all, he's big and you're, well, not, laddie. M' dog is bigger 'an you, an' Max's not 'zactly a Great Dane, ta be shuur, ya know?"
"Yeah," he said, "I know."
"G'luck, kiddo," she said, "he may be m' son, but I'm rootin' for ya."
"Thank you," he tried to say, but she was gone already, the front door flapping loosely in her wake like some sad windsock.
She was back a moment later, and Pierce was with her. Pierce with his too-close-together brown eyes and his rather greasy brown hair. A red stain stood out on his grey shirt, (it had originally been snow-white) and for a moment the Dreamer had thought it blood. It wasn't. Just food.
"Hey, Malfoy," Pierce said good-naturedly, "Let's take a stroll, Malfoy. Let's take a long stroll. A real walk, eh, Malfoy? Let's get to know each other real well, eh? Group hug and all that happy shit. Come on, Malfoy... you scared?"
Yes, he was scared. He was practically shaking, but he sure as hell wasn't going to admit it.
"No," he said, "I'm not scared, Pierce. But you... you're going to die."
Pierce burst out laughing. "Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiie," he wailed, the word shrieking past his lips as he doubled over in laughter, " diiiiiiiiiie?" The braying, horrid sound continued.
He clenched his fists again and the nails bit into his skin. How he wanted to punch Pierce, kick Pierce, kill Pierce, but that wouldn't be right. Not here. Not right here. No, he wanted to go down the street a bit. Down the street, behind that old brick building with the month-old garbage rotting in its can, stinking it up so badly that hardly anyone came by there. Except for when Pierce had thrown Joanie's book bag into the trashcan, and she had slapped him...
Pierce was still laughing. "You think you could kill me, Pansy-boy? Hah. Look at you - you're half my size an' you've never fought in your life, an' you think you could kill me?"
They had reached the building. Here. Right up against the brick wall. Here. He fancied he could see a blood-smear three-quarters of the way down, but that was ridiculous. When Pierce had slashed Joanie's face, when he had broken her nose and bloodied her face beyond recognition - that had happened on the pavement. Pierce had only fractured her skull against the wall, and he had pulled her away too quickly for there to be any kind of blood. Besides, someone had cleaned it up afterward. He was sure they had.
"Hit me, prissy! Hit me good! Kill me, ya little bastard! But if ya so much as touch me, I'll haul your arse through a worse beatin' than I gave ya little whorebitch!" Pierce's mother's accent was staring to show through now, as he got more worked up. "Come on, ya fuckin' pansy-boy! Hit me!"
And he tried, oh, he tried. He lunged forward, caught Pierce a magnificent blow to the nose, and he was sure he had broken it. (there had been a rather satisfying, though horrid, crunch as his fist connected) He kicked out, trying to catch Pierce in the crotch, but the larger boy was too fast.
Pierce grabbed his leg and yanked, sending him crashing to the pavement. Joanie, he thought, I'm going to end up just like you. If only I were bigger... And stronger...
Suddenly, Pierce crashed to the ground. There was no reason behind this, but the boy fell all the same. And Pierce tried to get up... and couldn't. It was as though he had been glued to the pavement.
"Malfoy," Pierce shrieked, "Malfoy! What did you do to me! It's no fair fighting dirty! Ya can't fight like that! Let me up, Malfoy! Malfoy! Fight like a man, ya fuckin' pansy-boy! Come on ya bastard, lemme up!"
The Dreamer's hands curled into fists as he climbed to his feet. He punched Pierce. He kicked Pierce. And then he kicked him again. The punches, the kicks, the slaps and the screaming seemed endless. He kicked and he hit until Pierce was crying, begging forgiveness as the tears and mucus ran down his face.
"Tell it to Joanie," he said, and slammed Pierce's head into the pavement one last time, knocking the boy out. "Tell it to Joanie and... tell it to Joanie and..." He was aware that a great line should follow this, a truly sinister one. They always did, in the world of fantasy, (and this certainly was fantasy, he was sure of that) great little remarks that the enemy would remember forever. He couldn't think of one, so he simply finished it with, "Tell it to Joanie and maybe you'll live."
Then he turned and walked back. Everything would be resolved in the morning. Pierce would be in the Juvenile Delinquent Centre or whatever-they-called it, but the Dreamer wouldn't. He wouldn't because Pierce would have no memory of this incident.
Somehow, he was sure of that.
"Potter? Potter? POTTER!"
Potter jerked awake, panting heavily. His pyjamas and sheets were soaked with sweat and his hands ached from clenching them throughout his sleep.
Malfoy was standing over him holding a lit wand. The boy looked slightly frightened and very cross. "Potter?"
"Y-yeah?"
"What the bloody hell were you dreaming? You were groaning and cursing, screaming some... And you look like you just climbed out of the bath! Hell on a half shell, Potter, what were you dreaming?"
"I-I was you, and there was a girl... Joanie Avery... somebody named Pierce hurt her... I was... nine? That sounds right. Nine. And I was waiting in a Muggle hospital... I had to get my revenge on Pierce... tracked him down and got him behind a building... Used my magic to pin him and beat him up... Beat him up badly..."
"Shut up!" Malfoy looked half crazed. The wandlight glinted off his eyes and hair, giving him an almost ethereal appearance. Compounded by the black silk pyjamas and the state his hair was in, he looked mad. "Shut up! Shut up-shut up-shut up-shut up!"
Potter stared at him. "It-it actually happened, didn't it? Didn't it, Malfoy?"
"Ye-es," Malfoy moaned, "yes, it happened... I... had to. He hurt Joanie! She slapped him for ruining her book bag and he almost killed her! He deserved it!"
"What happened to Joanie?"
"Durmstrang. She went to Durmstrang..." Malfoy was breathing raggedly. "She went to Durmstrang... But... how did you know about her? How did you know about Pierce? You said... you dreamed of them... but that's impossible!"
"What did you dream about, Malfoy?" Harry asked gently. The boy might still be so off-balance he would actually answer the question.
No such luck. "Certainly not you, Potter."
"Malfoy!"
"I dreamed... about a fat man and a skinny woman and a positive monster of a boy. My age, believe it or not. Except I was... younger then. And so was he. I mean, he was the age I was then. Anyway, this boy... He wanted to beat me up. Reminded me of Pierce, sort of, only fatter... Anyway, he was chasing me, and suddenly I was on top of the roof of the building we were at. It was a school, I think. Anyway, I went home and the man started screaming at me. He put me into this awful cupboard under the stairs..." Malfoy trailed off as he noticed the expression on his rival's face.
"Oh bloody hell," he muttered, "please say it's a major coincidence and not some psychic phenomenon or a dark and sinister plot."
"That's my life you're dreaming of! Of course it's not a coincidence!"
"Didn't think so," Malfoy muttered hopelessly, and sat down in a chair that had just materialised. "So we're dreaming of each other's lives. Can we think of any good reason for this?"
"No," Potter sighed.
"Okay. So we'll chalk it up to the weird place we're staying in - that being your mind, of course - and forget about it."
"Malfoy, we're dreaming each other's memories. We can't just forget it. We have to..."
"No," Draco interrupted, "no, we don't. We will forget it. And we will go back to bed and go to sleep like semi-normal people. And then you'll discover yourself and we can get out of here. Thank you and goodnight."
Potter glared at Malfoy, crossing his arms over his chest. "No wonder Slytherins never save the day."
"No wonder Slytherins live longer," Draco quipped.
Potter rolled his eyes and flopped back onto the bed, then closed his eyes firmly. "Go 'way," he muttered and pulled the duvet over his head.
He could hear what sounded like Malfoy snorting and affrontedly stomping out of the room.
Draco dreamed...
"Harry!" He was abruptly enfolded in Hermione's warm embrace. "Harry! Oh, I'm so glad to see you... Lavender sort of invited herself over and I don't know what to do to get rid of her... She's looking for someone to cement her beauty products on, so I hope you're good at throwing pillows... When's Ron coming?"
"Um." He said firmly. "Er. In a few hours, I think. Sorry, but I had to leave at dawn so the Dursleys wouldn't see me go, and I just got here. I hope I'm not..."
"Haaaaaaaary!" A small, stick-thin body slammed into him. Lavender Brown.
"Blast," Hermione said.
"Harry, oh have you been staying with those awful Muggles all summer..."
"A-hem," coughed Hermione.
"Oh, sorry, no offence. But you must agree they're awful."
"You've never met them, Lavender," he reminded her gently.
"Nevertheless, I've heard such stories, you know. But don't just stand there, Harry, come in!"
Hermione sniffed from somewhere directly behind his left ear. "You'd think this was her house..."
"Sit on the couch, Harry! Relax! Hermione, would you be a dear and get something to drink? It's a bit early - and a bit hot - for tea, so maybe some butterbeer? Or that delicious fizzy Muggle stuff? Or that other thing, lemon-maids or something?"
"Lemonade," Hermione growled, and flounced into the kitchen, muttering indecipherable curses.
"Kick your shoes off! Did you walk the whole way, poor dear?" Lavender looked very sympathetic. Pretty as well, but he didn't notice that so much.
"Er," he said, "no. I rode the Knight Bus."
"Well, still. Awfully long way. Make yourself comfortable!"
"Er, I am. But Lavender, do you think you might just be able to back up a couple of feet? I don't mean to insult, but you're sort of... hovering."
"Oh, of course," she said, leaping backward. Miraculously, she completely missed knocking over the little table.
Hermione reappeared, holding two glasses of some kind of cola. "Harry," she said, handing him one. "Lavender."
The other girl graciously pushed the glass back into Hermione's hands. "No, I couldn't. I've been so rude, barging into your house and parading about like some sort of royalty. I'm dreadfully sorry, Hermione."
Hermione flushed deeply, terribly embarrassed. She must feel like dirt, after all of those malicious little anti-Lavender comments she'd made to him. "It's quite all right," she said, "I know you didn't mean it. But take the soda, please."
Lavender beamed, set the drink on the table, and hugged Hermione. "Thank you," she whispered, "thank you."
The doorbell rang, and Hermione sprang back. "Oh look, the door! I'd better get it. My, is Ron early."
The Dreamer climbed unsteadily to his feet, taking a sip of the soda (coke, it seemed,) as he did so.
He set the soda down next to Lavender's on the table and turned toward the door.
Small hands curled around his shoulders, pulling him down to her level. Small lips brushed against his own, fastening on and holding, hands now running through his perpetually messy hair.
"Harry!"
He leapt backward, hands shoving against Lavender's shoulders and sending her crashing into the table.
A flailing hand knocked the drinks over and set the glasses rolling off the table and onto the carpeted floor. Her hip and head cracked dreadfully against the little stand, her long blond braid bouncing pitifully against it.
"Lavender!" This time the shriek was amplified three-fold. Ron had joined Hermione and Harry.
"I'm okay," she said, climbing unsteadily to her feet, "I'm... okay... it wasn't Harry's fault... I surprised him and you did too, when you said his name... He just reacted." She rubbed her cheek, which was beginning to colour slightly. "I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault, Harry. Harry? Harry?"
But he was already out the door and running.
Dumbledore came first, flanked by McGonagall and Snape. Hagrid followed, carrying both teenage boys in his arms, Sprout and Flitwick scurrying along beside him. The other staff members darted here and there in no particular formation, dodging around Hagrid's bulk for a better view.
Gently, Hagrid set both Harry and Draco at the centaur's feet, bowing as he did so.
"We do not think you will be able to bring Mr. Malfoy out of his... trance, but it has been theorised that you might provide some insight on as to what they are doing... in there, Firenze. Would you oblige us...?"
Firenze nodded his assent and Dumbledore thanked him gratefully. The centaur knelt to place his palm on Draco's forehead.
A bed, black sheets... closet... doorway... walking... Harry Potter... pyjamas... breakfast...toast... food fight... wrestling on the floor...
He removed his hand and stood once more, tail flicking out of the way of his hooves. "They are in... a house," he said, "or something like one. They are having a... the boy called it a 'food fight'?"
Muffled laughter from somewhere in the crowd. Firenze's head whipped around, only to catch a light brown blur hiding itself behind the sinister-looking man with the hawk's face. Ah, yes... Severus Snape, the man with the dark past.
"Wherever they are," he concluded as if he had not noticed, "they are in no danger. As long as you keep their bodies in good health, they should be fine until such time as they find their way out. Good day, Albus, Minerva, Severus, girl-who-is-hiding-behind-Severus-so-I-will-not-know-who-she-is.
Another slight laugh, and the girl stepped into his line of vision. He had seen her before, he was sure of that... Several years ago and not for very long...
Yes. In the forbidden forest.
"I'm Hermione Granger," she said, "and I'm sorry for laughing at you before, but a food fight is so typical of Harry and Malfoy... They can't even act seriously when they're comatose, can they?"
"I suppose not," Firenze said, slightly bewildered. He didn't have the slightest of clues as to what Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy did in a normal environment. He knew a lot of things, but the actions of adolescent human males was beyond him. "I'll be going now."
He cast a glance over his shoulder only to see the girl beaming at him, contrasting spectacularly with the sombre man she stood beside.
Firenze decided that next time the humans requested the presence of a centaur he was going to ask Ronan to go instead.
Potterwas grinning broadly as he climbed to his feet. He had awakened from a surprisingly good memory-dream of a picnic with Mrs. Malfoy, proceeded down to breakfast where he accidentally (Well, sort of. In a manner of speaking. Okay, on purpose.) launched a spoon of boysenberry jelly at his arch-nemesis and was then brained with a piece of heavily buttered toast.
They were both saturated in apricot and boysenberry jelly, crunchy with ground-up toast, and elated from making the other so. Malfoy was positively beaming, which was quite an unusual (though not at all bad) look for him.
"Truce, Potter," the boy said, holding out one ultra-sticky hand.
"Truce, Malfoy."
They both tried to flip the other at the same time and ended up slamming into each other, clasped hands held into the air as if they were partners in some sort of exotic dance.
Draco blushed deeply and leapt backwards, letting go of his fellow prisoner abruptly.
Potter himself seemed unaffected. "Hah. Shows you can't trust a Slytherin. Or a Gryffindor, for that matter."
Malfoy attempted to brush himself off, realised what he was doing, and imagined the entire place clean instead. The room rippled, as if beset by a heat wave, and straightened into such perfect cleanliness that even Filch would have been impressed.
"Nice, Malfoy."
The boy offered an uncharacteristic grin and dipped into a mock-bow. "My pleasure, Potter. It is only fitting that The Boy Who Lived be doted upon."
Potter threw a pillow at his head. "Shut up, you," he said, grinning.
"Alas, I am unable to do so. As a very young child I was cursed with the ability to never be quiet. No, look, I'm serious! It was supposed to be a blessing - 'may he entertain all he is around' or some such ridiculous thing, only it went wrong and you wouldn't believe how hard it is for me to shut up some times."
Potter's eyes widened. "Really?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes and threw his hands into the air. "NO! Sweet bastard son of a chimera and a manticore, Potter! Gryffindors are so gullible."
Potter snorted, dissatisfied. "Ah, you say that now, but someday, Malfoy, I shall trick you!" He paused then, considering. "Why is it that even though I've trounced you more times than I can count, not one of them was through my own trickery? Half of the times you were humiliated it was your own fault!"
"I told you - Gryffindors are not good at being devious."
"Well then," Potter said with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Slytherins aren't good at carrying out plans. You always manage to get yourself in a worse situation than you started out in. Example: The dragon thing in first year. Example: The Dementor thing and the hippogriff thing in third year. And half-a-dozen others I can't think of at the moment as well."
"Bad luck."
"What did you do, then? Break a mirror? I suppose you must have, considering even seeing your ugly face would make one shatter."
"Invent better insults, Potter. Yours are clearly lacking something in the way of ego-piercing terror."
"Sod off."
"My lord?"
"What is it?"
"You, um, called for some Dementors? Avery and Nott have them outside and they're getting restless..."
Red eyes flashed in the darkness. "How many did you bring?"
"Er, well, fifty, milord."
"Fifty," The Dark Lord hissed, "fifty. I asked for a few, Wormtail. That means, oh, five or six. Not fifty. I am not planning a full-scale invasion, Wormtail. The key is stealth. Fifty Dementors is not stealth. Fifty Dementors is a bleeding stampede!"
"I'm sorry milord. Please don't hurt me, milord. I thought the more the better milord. It was Nott's fault milord. He told me as many as I could get. I was against it from the start. I'm sorry milord!"
White hands moved languidly toward their wand, then paused. "No," the Dark Lord said, "I shall punish you later. Send Avery and Nott back with forty-five of the Dementors. Put them back where you found them, I suppose. Take the remaining five into the Invention Room. And get out of my sight."
"Yes, Milord. I'll go tell them right now. It shall be done, Milord. And thank you for your mercy!" The small, rat-like man scurried out with these parting words.
"Mercy," scoffed the Dark Lord, "I give no mercy. I only postpone agony."
"Professor Snape?"
"Yes, Miss Granger?"
Hermione clamped her jaw until her teeth stopped chattering. This was Snape. Not the abominable snow monster. This was Snape. Not the bogeyman. Snape. Well, on second thought, Snape was a bit of a bogeyman, but he had never hidden under her bed. Well, probably not. Hopefully not. What a horrid thought.
"Um, Professor, Harry's behaving oddly."
The Potions Master looked at her as if she had just proclaimed Neville Longbottom Head Boy and Quidditch Captain. "Miss Granger," he said, "he can't behave oddly. He's asleep. And while I'll admit that Potter can do strange things no matter what ailment is affecting him, I'm afraid I have to draw the line at him saving the world by sleepwalking."
Hermione glared at him, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Professor, will you be serious?"
Snape returned the glare for a moment before shaking his head. "At this point I could make a very overused joke about being serious - as in being solemn - and being Sirius - as in Black. Fortunately, I am not that far gone. But I digress. What is Potter doing?"
"He's... twitching. And clutching his scar. And making these really disturbing moaning noises. And he keeps saying 'Voldemort's coming, Voldemort's coming, let me out of here.' I'm getting concerned, Professor."
Snape rolled his eyes. "He's probably having a bad dream. It happens. But... I'll come look anyway. We wouldn't want anything to happen to the Boy Wonder, would we?"
"No, Professor," Hermione chirped happily as she followed him out of the door.
"Hey, Potter? Wake up! Wake up! Wake-bloody-well-up, Potter! Potter!" Frustrated with his wasted efforts, Draco gave the sleeping boy a resounding and ultimately satisfying slap. "Wake up!"
"Whu... Malfoy! Did you... slap... me?"
"Yes," Draco said, his eyes shining, "and it was wonderful. I've been wanting to do that for, well, forever, I suppose. And everyone slaps me but I never get to return the favour! And now I know just why they do it so often! It's such a... a marvellous feeling! Your palm stings softly with the feeling of complete superiority! Hah! This is doing wonders for my ego! Die, Potter!" He accompanied this last comment with yet another ringing slap.
"Malfoy," Potter said, "if you don't stop doing that I will have to choke the life out of your scrawny neck very, very slowly. And your ego doesn't need any wonders. It's already absolutely enormous."
Draco shrugged, unaffected. "Whatever you say, Potter. But what the hell were you screaming about?"
"Um," the boy said, "er. Volde-well, sort of. I mean, it was quasi-Dark Lordish sort of dream, really. Nothing to be scared about. He was just thinking evil thoughts about me really loudly. He's not planning any devious plot involving five Dementors and a scary dark invention-thingy. Really."
Draco stared at him.
"Really!"
"Look, Potter," Malfoy began, giving him a disbelieving look, "I knew Gryffindors were bad at lying, but that was a little much, even for you. What scary dark invention-thingy?"
"Erm," said Potter, "I don't know. No, I mean, the dream cut off before I found out!"
"Anything else?"
The Boy Who Lived thought for the moment and then nodded. "I looked up at the ceiling, only instead of a ceiling it was like looking out from inside a bubble. I could see Hermione's face up there... She looked worried."
Draco shook his head. "Cliché as it might sound, I don't like the sound of that."
Potter blinked. "Er, why not?"
"Look, Potter," Malfoy growled out, waving his hands for emphasis, "the Dark Lord is plotting your death in his evil Fortress of Doom, and it has to do with Dementors - to which we know you react badly - not to mention you seeing the head of one of your best friends floating ominously where the ceiling should be! Not to mention that when you wake up from a scary dream that has the previously mentioned Lord of All That's Evil or Even Just Slightly Bad it usually means that it's true! This... is... not... good. Got it?"
"Well, yes, but he can't hurt us in our minds, can he?"
"Potter, think. He's got Dementors. Dementors get inside your mind and wreak havoc, right? They drive people insane with their mere presence. They suck out your soul if they bleeding kiss you! And some weird invention-thingy - as you so eloquently said - that probably projects their general creepiness over to us! This is not good!"
"Damn right," James yelled, leaping through a seemingly solid wall. "We've got to get out of here now! Those damn Dementors are trying to destroy your mind, Potter! And they're starting with this place! Come on, follow me!" He sprinted over to the other side of the room and launched himself at another wall. This one he hit full-on. He fell to the ground clutching his forehead, which was looking very angry at his treatment of it.
"Um," said Potter, "first of all, I would not recommend crashing into walls. Second of all, I would not recommend jumping through them in the first place. Finally, if you can't get through the walls - and I know we can't - how are we going to get out?"
"I don't know! But... Hold on a minute. Maybe... Imagine a big window right there," his James-self said, and pointed at the wall he had attempted to run through, "and make sure it's the kind the opens easily." A large, easy-to-open window appeared in the wall.
Draco strode over to it and threw it open. A suspiciously handy rope of knotted bed sheets swung gently in the breeze. "How... nice, Potter. But I'm not climbing down on sheets. Try something a little more sturdy, if you will?
A staircase magically appeared outside the window, winding gently to the ground. Draco jumped through the window and onto the structure, beckoning for James and Harry to follow.
They did, and quickly, which was very good because almost as soon as their feet touched the grass the mansion crumbled, leaving only dust where it had once stood. In accordance with the laws of the universe, the toilet was held suspended and completely whole in the air by a network of rusty pipes.
"Um," said Potter, "where is my Harry-self, why did the building just come crumbling down, and does this have something to do with Voldemort?"
"For the first question," said his Harry-self, "I'm behind you. For the second, because the Dementors are trying to destroy your mind, which neatly answers the third question as well. Luckily, all they got was the mansion. The only information destroyed was a couple of books we left lying around. For example, you no longer remember that dictionary your uncle gave you."
"What dictionary?"
"Exactly. But we could spend all day talking about the evils of Voldemort. We've got to get to the Library!"
"Why," said Malfoy as he stared at the three Boy-Who-Liveds, "do I get the feeling that that is Library with a capital 'L'?"
"Because it is. It's basically your mind. Well, not your personality and such - that's in the Vault - but everything you've ever learned. If that gets destroyed, you'll be reduced to an overgrown infant. Which is why we've got to go there now."
A bathtub on wheels squealed to a stop in front of the four teenagers. Someone had secured the curtain to the shower fixture as a kind of mast and sail. A rubber ducky had been glued onto what Potter assumed was the front as a figurehead. The oversized hot-cold turning thing seemed to be a steering wheel.
"Um," said Draco, "what is that?"
"It's a bathtub. Muggle thing. They clean themselves in it. As to why it seems to be our method of transportation I can't say, but as nothing is making much sense I vote we hop in," Harry advised, and grabbed the wheel.
"Harry-person, you are insane. And you too, other Potter-People. We're going to climb inside a Muggle cleansing device and... and go to Potter's brain, which is represented by a Library-with-a-capital-'L'?"
"Yes," said James, and shoved Malfoy into the tub. "Ahoy, Matey!"
The bathtub rocked up onto its rear wheels, provoking many squeals, and took off. Without realising what he was doing, Draco wrapped his arms around Potter's waist and clung, his eyes shut tightly.
The shower fixture abruptly came loose and spun over their heads. James reached up and caught it before it hit the ground, holding in horizontally so that the shower curtain snapped as the wind caught under it.
They were flying.
There was no sudden whoosh, or an explosion of fire or suchlike, because all of this was purely imagined, and the last flying-bathtub cartoon Potter had seen (from inside Dudley's armpit) didn't have any of these. Someone yelled 'Ya-hoooooooooo,' though. Potter rather suspected that it was Draco, who, despite nearly suffocating him, seemed to be having the time of his life.
Unfortunately, the couldn't enjoy their flying bathtub on wheels for much longer. They were right overhead an enormous, dome-shaped building that was most likely the Library-with-a-capital-'L'.
The bathtub plunged downward abruptly, and James shot out of the tub, still clutching the shower fixture in a death grip, hanging in the air in a kind of obscure cross between hang-gliding and parachuting.
The three remaining boys strained their lungs in a scream that would have deafened a heard of elephants. The bathtub hit the ground with a bone-jarring thump, bounced, and came back down again, this time digging into the earth as it slowed to a stop.
Harry's legs dangled over the side of the tub, his head resting on the bottom of it. Potter and Malfoy were entangled in each other, clinging for dear life. James floated gently down from the sky and landed gracefully next to them, grinning broadly as he stretched his arms.
"That was fun," he began, but could go no further before Draco's fist shot up from the depths of the bathtub and introduced itself to James' stomach.
"But," Malfoy continued for the groaning boy, "let's never do that again." He disentangled himself from Potter and clambered out of the tub, falling to his knees as he hit the grass.
"Okay," Harry agreed as both he and Potter hopped out. Ignoring James, they grabbed Malfoy by the elbows and lifted him to his feet.
"Let's save my mind," Potter volunteered, waving at the Library-with-a-capital-'L'.
"Too late," Draco said, but his heart wasn't in it.
"Urrrrrugh," said James.
"What's he saying, Professor?"
"Um," said Snape, as he leaned closer to his favourite student, "it sounds like 'that damn flying bathtub,' but I could be wrong. I hope I am."
"Oh," said Hermione, sounding disappointed, "I thought it was some sort of mystic clue as to how we could save them."
Snape awarded her a disbelieving look. "Gryffindors," he muttered in disgust, and turned on his heel.
"Professor?"
"Yes?"
"Harry just said, 'Come on, let's go save my mind from the Dark Lord's evil Dementors before they render me insane, and don't even comment on that, Malfoy.'"
Snape stared at her. "I think," he said eventually, "I should go and see what Voldemort is up to."
"Good idea," Hermione said, nodding sagely.
"Okay," said Potter, "so this is my mind. Now how do I save it?"
"Well, I was thinking that maybe we could move everything to Malfoy's Library..." Harry began.
"With a capital 'L'," Draco interjected.
"Yes, thank you. The Dementors don't want to hurt him, right?"
"Um, Harry? Look at all these books. We don't have time to move them all."
"No, that's the brilliant part of it," Harry beamed. "Malfoy puts this on," and he grabbed a gold circlet out of nowhere, "and he instantly knows absolutely everything Harry does! We're effectively creating a, well, I suppose you'd call it a backup copy of Harry inside Malfoy! Brilliant!"
"He has to know everything about me? Even things I don't want him to know?"
"What, does Potter still wet the beddy-by?" Draco taunted.
"Sod off, Malfoy. I don't like you. But... everything?"
"Well, yes. I can't be selective and do it quickly, you know."
"Damn," said Potter.
"Put it on, Malfoy," said Harry.
"Urrrruuuuuuugh," said James.
"What did he say?"
"I think it was something along the lines of 'I'll kill you, Malfoy'."
"Ah."
"Aieeeeeeeeeeeee!"
"Oops."
"What did you do to him?"
"Nothing! He just... sort of absorbed you into himself? Unless it's a Hufflepuff, the process is not necessarily pleasant."
"Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!"
"Shut him up!"
"Don't worry, it will be over shortly."
"Aiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee... Ai... Ah. Um. Potter. You. Uh... Wow."
"See?"
"Now let's get the hell out of here!"
"Agreed! Come on, Malfoy!"
Potter and Harry once again seized Malfoy's elbows and dragged him forward and out of the building.
Mind Games - Chapter 3
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