@drarrymicrofic | prompt: dream | wc: 500 | rated: mild m
The dreams had begun years earlier. Sometimes lurid, all sweat-slicked skin and desperate moans. Sometimes sweet, hands clasped on dates—one time they went to the zoo. Sometimes a litany of nightmares: the tower. The bathroom. “I can’t be sure.”
The strange thing was, he always dreamt through Harry’s eyes. His own face, lust-blown pupils and pink cheeks; Harry’s thumping heart. Feeling a leap of hope in Harry’s throat as saw himself bite his lip, eyes shining down at a ring as he nodded. The same nightmares, tempered by Harry’s sympathy, regret, pride.
The dreams were an unconscionably cruel move by his subconscious. His mind healer suggested a dream diary; he stopped after a year. It hurt too much, seeing what he could never have, feeling things he knew Harry would never feel. He didn’t need a book about it.
A knock distracted Draco from his calculations; he scowled as Harry strolled in.
“Do the Unspeakables need a potion?”
“If they did, I don’t know why I’d know,” Harry said, grinning. Draco rolled his eyes. Less subtlety than an erumpent in a dollhouse.
“Why are you here, then?”
“For you,” Harry said, then flushed.
Draco stared, heart racing. He didn’t let himself speak.
“Right,” Harry said. “What do you know about dreams?”
Draco swallowed, refusing to remember the previous night’s dream: Draco in Harry’s body, licking his own scars with a lascivious groan, whispering into his own ear, with Harry’s voice, how he wanted to—he shook himself.
“Do I look like a dream expert?”
“No. But Hermione is. And I was doing some research”—Draco scoffed—“and she. Well. She found out. When I explained, she gave me a book.”
Draco leant back, arms behind his head. “And you need me to read it to you?”
“No, you tosser, I managed.” Harry’s smile faded. “But … I think you should read it too.”
Draco frowned, heartbeat thudding in his throat. “It’s about dreams.”
“Yeah. And … other stuff. Anyway, I just—here. I’ll need it back, Hermione’d flay me alive if I—I’ll go.”
Looking far more cowardly than any Gryffindor should, Harry shoved the book across Draco’s desk and fled. Draco tugged it closer.
A Short Treatise with Various Observations and Theories on the Metaphysicks of Soul-Bonds and Certain Peculiarities of Shared Dreams
Draco stared, mouth dry, before noticing the scrap of parchment tucked inside.
Draco—
If I’m wrong, this might be the creepiest gift you’ve ever received. I hope I’m right. Can we talk? Tonight, 7pm, my place.
—Harry
Draco sat, hands shaking, and opened the book to the first page.
At 6:59, Draco stood, book in hand, at Harry’s door. He took a breath and lifted his fist to knock.
Harry opened the door, rumpled and beautiful. He looked hopeful. He looked frightened.
“They’re your dreams?” Draco blurted. “I—they’re your dreams.”
Harry smiled and reached out. His fingers threaded through Draco’s like on the trip to the zoo they hadn’t yet taken. “They’re our dreams, Draco.”
