Unofficial Portkey Archive

Pub Night

By Tawny Spitfyre

Part Ten: The Dream

For safety reasons, and mostly to keep the annoying but smart Quidditch fans away, Harry and Hermione had cast anti-Apparation wards on their flat and agreed to Apparate to a point outside. Harry arrived with a crack and made his way to the door, using his enchanted key to let himself in. It didn't take long to ready himself for bed, the lingering effects of alcohol threatening to put him to sleep where he stood if he didn't lie down very soon.

He took his glasses off, set them on his bedside table, and extinguished the lamp. The darkness enveloped him and he welcomed the calm silence; a stark contrast to the loud and bustling atmosphere of the pub. Snuggling into the soft, comfortable blankets, he pulled them up tight under his chin and breathed deeply, attempting to become one with the bed. As he lay there, trying to summon the magic of sleep, his mind floated its way to that mysterious place that resides between consciousness and dreams.

"Harry," a sultry voice echoed in his head. It was calling to him, luring him, and he envisioned a cloudy but delicate hand beckoning him in slow motion. He walked toward it, trying weakly to see its source through the haze.

"Harry," it called again, in a near whisper. He felt a warm rush of air on his cheek and ear, and involuntarily closed his eyes, feeling goose bumps rise on his arms and the nape of his neck. He was paralyzed.

"Don't be nervous, Harry," the voice whispered in his ear. A warm sensation overtook him, and he had the feeling that someone was standing behind him, but not quite touching him. Hot breaths were floating past his cheek, making his hair tickle the edge of his ear. It was strange; something told him he knew the voice, but for the life of him he couldn't place it.

"I've read all about this…" it said, and he felt the heat move from behind him, around his side and radiate against his face and chest. Harry tried desperately to open his eyes, but found himself nearly blinded by a bright, golden glow. Willing himself to overpower the force around him, he managed to open them just enough to see the silhouette of a person…or was it an angel? His eyes, like everything else, moved in slow motion, and made their way up the unfamiliar face before him until they rested on something familiar; a pair of eyes. He couldn't keep his own eyes open, however, and before he could place the ones before him onto a face he knew, he was once again seeing the insides of his eyelids.

"I've read all about this," the voice said again. "I know exactly what I'm doing." The heat around him rose so quickly that Harry suddenly felt like he was on fire. Every inch of his skin tingled and burned at the same time, but it wasn't painful or unpleasant. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He was gasping for air and yet a tranquil feeling of peace washed over him. The flames grew, and he became acutely aware of his cheeks, then his lips, tingling with the burning sensation.

Just when he thought he would combust from the overwhelming heat, there was a blinding flash and the warmth dissipated. With a jolt, he sat bolt upright in his bed, panting and sweaty. Once again he was in the dark, and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the small sliver of light that danced on his dresser; moonlight was creeping in through the window and flickered as the trees outside swayed. The fuzziness that comes when one is startled awake was fogging up his brain.

His heart was already pounding, but it doubled in speed and he jerked when he heard a light knock at his door.

"Harry?" a soft voice said. It was Hermione.

"Harry, are you alright?"

He took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his face. "Yes, I'm fine," he called out shakily, his voice raspy from sleep.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

A stream of light came in from the door as Hermione let herself in and closed it behind her. She walked over to his bed and quietly sat down on the edge. He lay back, pulling the blanket up with him, and rolled onto his side to face her. Although he was sweaty, he felt a slight chill from the coolness of his room and he shivered a little.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight, and even without his glasses, he could see that she was dressed for bed and had her hair pulled back. She looked at him searchingly, seemingly trying to appraise his condition.

"How long have you been home?" he asked.

"Not long," she said softly, resting a hand on his arm. "I only left about 20 minutes after you. I was just about to go to bed when I heard a noise. I thought you were having a nightmare." She sounded worried and her hand moved gently up and down his arm.

He smiled weakly and said, "No, it wasn't a nightmare." He paused for a moment, then asked, "Did I really make a noise?"

"Yes." He saw her mouth draw up into a small smile. "Sort of a moan, actually."

"Oh." He was glad it was so dark, because the heat he was feeling then was definitely from a blush making its way across his face. He tried to think of something, anything, to excuse his "moan" without letting her know what his dream was really about. He actually wasn't quite sure himself what it had been about, and he certainly wasn't sure how he could describe it without it sounding a bit salacious.

Harry let out a quiet laugh and said, "Well, I guess I can't always win the Quidditch Cup in my dreams."

Hermione smiled. "I'm sure you'll win it next time." She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. "Sweet dreams, then." She rose and made her way to the door.

"Hermione," he said as she turned the doorknob. She stopped and turned around. "Sweet dreams to you, too."

She smiled again, and a breeze outside moved a tree branch just enough that the moonlight flickered across her face, lighting up her eyes…those eyes!

"Goodnight, Harry."

She slipped out the door and closed it quietly, and Harry's heart was once again pounding in his chest. That was her in the dream, or not-quite-dream, or whatever it was. Those were her familiar eyes, and that was her voice, although he'd never heard quite so sultry an intonation from her. And those words…of course! The pick-up line.

"I can't imagine any guy in his right mind turning that one down," he heard himself saying again. He shook his head and rolled over, taking a deep breath and trying to squelch the odd feeling that was growing in his chest. I should have switched to Butterbeer much earlier, he thought, blaming the warm and fuzzy sensation on the alcohol. But as he drifted off to sleep, the small smile that was fixed on his face betrayed the feelings churning deep inside him, that even he didn't realize were there…not yet, anyway.

A/N: Ok everybody! That is the official end of Pub Night. I know you thought it ended before, and it did, but so many people were asking questions that I thought I'd carry it out through this point. However, I know I still haven't answered your question about what Ginny and Hermione were talking about…and all I can say is that patience is a virtue. J And I know there's no serious Harry/Hermione action yet…but come on…do you really think they'll get together that fast? Ok, well maybe you do…but please just be patient. J

Next I'll be uploading the first part of this whole story, or the prequel to this scene. It may take a week or two, what with PoA-mania striking my household…but not too much longer. Thanks for all your positive comments and critiques!