Title: And the Clock Keeps Ticking

Author: Nherizu

Warnings/Content Notes: minor character death—despite whatever you may find later in the story, I really mean minor, so don't worry *winks*. Add a few minor OCs, too, and repeated use of a strong potion (but only for pain relief).

A/N: Thank you so much to my brilliant beta and first readers, as well as my lovely britpicker and cheerleaders (Pionie, Eyms13, Annalisemarie99, Finite Farfalla and Dannyfranx) for their help in polishing this story to be more presentable. Also thank you so much to Vaysh for the prompt. Last but not least, I used Amor Fati's stock photo for the cover image.

And the Clock Keeps Ticking

One

Harry opened his eyes slowly. He tried to move his fingers against the duvet, clenching them into fists to control the shaking in his limbs. He reminded himself to breathe, the ache at the back of his head growing more noticeable. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed blindly over the sheets and duvet, knowing he must have tossed his glasses off carelessly on the bed before falling asleep like usual.

"Fuck." He grimaced as even the slightest of movement caused his stomach to coil with nausea. Putting his glasses on, he waited until his vision stopped spinning before he shoved apart the curtains surrounding his bed. He quickly shielded his eyes from the blinding sun slipping inside from the wide, open window across his bedroom. ". . . Kreacher," he whispered, not even bothering to turn when he heard the loud pop beside him. "The window—don't open the bloody curtains. I must have told you millions times already, haven't I? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to kill me."

"Kreacher is old, Master, but twenty three times are far from millions," said Kreacher, and Harry could almost hear the smirk that accompanied his words. "Young wizards nowadays sleep until noon," Kreacher continued muttering lowly under his breath. Harry clenched his jaw angrily.

"Whatever. Bring me that potion," he hissed as another pain shot through his head. "Quick."

"Yes, Master," said Kreacher before he Disapparated. When he came back, Harry was sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing a hand over his face. He quickly took the vial from Kreacher's hand and downed the contents. He counted to thirty until relief washed over his head and down his spine. He sighed contently.

"Thanks."

"Does Master prefer to have his lunch in bed?" asked Kreacher. His tiny, bloodshot eyes narrowed expectantly while he waited for Harry's answer.

"No proper wizard would still be in bed at this hour, would he?" Harry said grudgingly, catching the corners of Kreacher's lips curl up slightly. "Fine, I'll be downstairs in ten minutes."

Kreacher Disapparated without an answer, but Harry knew his lunch would be ready in exactly ten minutes. Standing up, he went to the bathroom to wash and brush his teeth. As he went through the routine, his mind wandered, now that the headache had left him. He was sure something different was there, in his dream today. Usually he woke up with only a headache and a vague feeling of nausea, but today he was shaking like a five-year-old watching a horror film. But the random patterns of waves and spirals and colourful lines were still bemusing. Harry wondered if he was actually remembering any of his dreams at all, or if the recollections were only the result of a disoriented mind.

The first time Harry started having those dreams was nearly half a year ago. He had dismissed it, thinking that he was only suffering the side effects of the stress he went through at the time. Considering how the case could affect the whole Wizarding population, it was only natural that Harry felt under pressure. Being an official Auror for only two months before facing that big a case would unsettle anyone . . . not to mention his own personal connections to it. Yet as time went on, he couldn't shake his suspicion any longer. He still had the dreams, and judging from the increasing frequency from once every other week to almost every day, he knew that either he really was barmy, or the dreams had a meaning. Now if only he could make out what he was actually seeing in his sleep . . .

Running his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to fix it, Harry stared back at his reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes were so visible that Harry was certain Hermione would fuss over him later. Perhaps it would be wise to tell her about the side effects of his dreams, or be honest with her that he couldn't sleep without falling into those dreams lately. Then again, perhaps she would scold him instead for taking a very strong potion on a daily basis. And that reminded him—he had to go to Knockturn Alley soon to restock his supply. Hermione's wrath was the least of his concern, when he was facing the unpleasant fact that he could barely control his body each time he woke up. It felt as if he had been apart from his body the whole night and forgotten how to use it.

Sighing, Harry shook his head. He walked out his bathroom door, snatching his Auror robes from on top of the sink on the way. He was going barmy indeed, thinking something as impossible as leaving his own body like that. But again, he was Harry Potter, and if something impossible could happen, it was guaranteed he would be the one to experience it. Suppressing a groan, he pushed all troubling thoughts to the back of his mind and descended the stairs.

The aroma of coffee greeted him as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. Hovering over the small table, Harry buttoned up his robes while peeking at the headline of Daily Prophet, beside which a full plate of roast chicken and buttered bread sat. Harry took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sinking feeling upon seeing the photograph. Hermione would drill him with the information later, so he wouldn't be able to escape from it even if he tried. With that thought, he resigned himself, taking a seat and preparing to read the news. He just hoped he still could maintain his appetite while doing so.

. .

. .

"This and this," said Ron as he unceremoniously dropped two scrolls of battered parchment onto Harry's desk. "You know that bloke in Devon? He finally came to us this morning. I know you were dead tired from your stakeout last night, but you're lucky you didn't have the early shift. He was a nightmare!"

Harry sighed, rubbing his cheek with a hand. "I need strong coffee," he said.

"No luck there, mate. Williamson drank the last of it."

"Tea then. A cup of tea will be nice," said Harry, already unrolling one of the scrolls. "Why does it look like someone has puked on this?" He scrunched up his nose at the revolting smell and the yellowish stains.

"Actually," said Ron, "that Lorellei bloke puked on it after we fed him the Veritaserum. Apparently he's allergic to it."

"Remind me again why we can't spell this parchment clean." Harry rolled his eyes. It wasn't the first time something nasty ruined their investigation files, depending on where they collected them. Sometimes it was slime, mud or even blood. But Robards insisted that no magical influence was allowed to touch the parchment, unless it was strictly necessary. Until now Harry thought the reason was a bit forced, but Hermione had agreed with Robards. She had said that finding someone's magical signature in the case of fake reports would be much faster without other people's magical signatures in the mix. And who was Harry to deny that logic?

Sighing, Harry continued to skim over the report, vaguely aware when Ron ordered a Trainee Auror, a quick-thinking girl who nevertheless wouldn't say 'boo' to a goose, to bring them tea. When Harry reached the last sentence on the parchment, he groaned. "This is not helping."

"Well, he couldn't exactly digest the Veritaserum, so of course he could still lie. What do you expect?"Ron snorted. Harry could hear Hermione's voice echo in his head, reminding Ron that Veritaserum was not supposed to be digested, because the magical quality in it would go straight to their veins before it could reach the alimentary canal, or something along those lines. Ron seemed to have the same mental image, too, for he quickly made a face.

"Anyway." Ron coughed. "I think Hermione wants to see you."

"Oh," said Harry, deflating a bit despite already expecting it. "Must be about the Daily Prophet."

"They never get tired of bringing that one up, don't they?"

"Sadly, no."

Ron's eyes softened a little. "But I think Hermione has other things to say."

"Yeah," Harry said, nodding in defeat. "Yeah, I'll meet her. She's in her office?"

"The one and only." Ron snorted. "I'm starting to think that she thinks of it as her home."

Harry gave him a sympathetic look, fully aware that Ron felt neglected even after he and Hermione had gotten their own flat. But Harry was in too terrible of a mood to listen to Ron's sulks, so he quickly rose and strode to the door. "Sorry, Ron, tell Rosemary I'm sorry for not waiting for the tea."

He was already out of the door when he heard Ron mutter, "I thought her name was Jasmine?"

Shaking his head, Harry briskly made his way to the lift, and squeezed himself into the already crowded car. As soon as he reached Level One, he freed himself from the collection of busy officials, mentally rolling his eyes at how pretentious they all were. Perhaps working on Level One made them that way, and it reminded him of Percy. Silently he thanked Hermione for still being his beloved Hermione, not a stuck-up important Ministry worker like Umbridge. He shuddered at the thought.

Before he realised, he was already in front of the door that led to Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic office. Slipping inside, it only took him a split second before he spotted Hermione's door in between the other doors, with expensive-looking and neatly organized work cubicles stretched before them. He knocked three times, but didn't bother to wait for an answer.

"Harry, it's good to see you." Hermione beamed, looking up from the thick tome in her hands while Harry claimed a seat across her desk. But when Harry only shrugged half-heartedly in response, she frowned. "You look awful."

"Aw, thanks."

"Oh, shut up, you know what I mean." She closed the tome and entwined her fingers on top of the desk. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Yeah, I always sleep like the dead. And Kreacher keeps on punishing me for not waking up." At Hermione's disapproving look, Harry wanted to bite his tongue for saying that last bit. To Harry's relief, though, she didn't pursue the House Elf matter further.

"It's the dreams, isn't it? That's why you're always tired?" she asked. "Do you get them more frequently now?"

Sometimes Harry didn't know whether he should be thankful or resentful for Hermione's sharpness. "Every bloody night. I've tried taking Dreamless Sleep and your other suggestions to calm myself before sleeping, but they didn't work."

Hermione bit her lip, looking thoughtful. "Actually, Harry, there's one more thing you haven't tried."

Harry groaned. "If you're telling me to meditate or empty my mind, I can't, Hermione. There's a good reason why I suck at Occlumency."

"And there's a good reason why I'm your best friend." Hermione rolled her eyes. "I'm not suggesting you to meditate. I'm suggesting that you should do some research."

"Er," said Harry. "Doesn't being my best friend tell you that I suck at researching, too?"

"Of course I know that. Honestly." Hermione huffed impatiently. She swivelled on her chair, facing the bookshelf on the right. She took no time to haul a leather-bound book that looked familiar, but somehow, Harry couldn't quite put his finger on where he had seen it before. "That's why I searched for this book," she said, pushing it towards Harry across the desk. When Harry merely raised an eyebrow, Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Harry."

"Fine," he said with a scowl, accepting the book. It looked a bit old, and the leather was soft to the touch. Upon reading the title, however, he announced in disbelief, "You're kidding me."

Hermione shrugged. "I wish I were. But Harry, that's the only thing we haven't tried yet. Unless . . ."

"Unless?"

"Unless you think the dream has connections to our case," said Hermione softly. Harry drummed his forefinger on his thigh, fighting the urge to grit his teeth as the memories of the dreams he had years ago came over him.

"No," he said, "he's dead, he can't be inside me again."

"He might be dead, but . . ."

". . . his magic isn't," Harry finished for her. Hermione nodded, her lower lip trapped between her teeth. Harry sighed. "It's different, Hermione. I know him, I know his magic. This is—" he paused, striving to find the right word, but in the end he just shrugged, "—different."

Hermione looked worried, but she didn't argue. "The book then."

"The Dream Oracle, Hermione?" Harry teased, grateful for the chance to lighten the atmosphere. "And here I thought you hated Divination."

"I don't hate it. I just think it's unreliable. And most Seers are—"

"—frauds."

"Yes," said Hermione.

"I don't think I have a good opinion of prophecies either," said Harry dryly. "But if there's something we could learn from the last war, it's that prophecies can be a big deal."

"Even change the world," Hermione agreed. "Look, Harry, I'm sceptical about the book's pertinence, and I hate to say this, but the only books I haven't read that talk about dreams are Divination books. The others are not helpful for your condition, so . . . for now we have no choice." Hermione swallowed, seemingly in pain for even admitting that. "But I promise I'll try to look it up again. There's this new bookshop I haven't—"

"Hermione," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Calm down, I never said I wouldn't read it."

Hermione took Harry's hand. "We'll sort it out."

"Yeah."

"And that brings us to another matter," said Hermione, her expression turning grim. She rummaged inside her drawer and fished out some pieces of parchment, held together with a black, Muggle paperclip. "I was able to get this from the Unspeakables. I'm sure your Head Auror will inform you soon, but I think you would want to know first what this means, Harry."

Nodding in resignation, Harry took it from her and shuffled the pages. He skimmed all the contents. "Two more ex-Death Eaters this time?"

"The Prophet only knows about one, but the Unspeakables found another one this morning."

"And they both died with their left arms burnt . . ."

". . . just like the other ex-Death Eaters," confirmed Hermione. Closing his eyes in defeat, Harry crumpled the edge of the parchment, while Hermione continued, "I think it's nearly ended, Harry."

"How many more?" asked Harry, refusing to open his eyes.

"Two. If the list we found half a year ago is right."

Finally Harry opened his eyes, reading the last piece of parchment and sensing weariness in his bones as he threaded all the alphabets together into names.

"It's Thorfinn Rowle. We have information that he's currently in South America," said Hermione. She stared at Harry with a pained expression, her forehead creased a little. "We can still maybe—do something. But as for—"

"Do something, Hermione?" Harry snapped, slamming the parchment down on the desk. "How? We couldn't fucking do anything all this time, and they were Death Eaters. They knew what they'd get for following a madman. They got what was coming to them."

"Harry," said Hermione, her expression distorted into displeasure. "Tell me you don't actually mean that."

"Well, I do," Harry said through clenched teeth. "I don't care if Rowle's dead. He was there that night, Hermione, he was there when Dumbledore died!"

"Harry," she said again, sounding impatient. "I understand that he doesn't deserve our help, but I've told you millions of times, if we can capture him, we can solve the mystery! Think about how useful it would be for future cases! And I thought everything about Dumbledore's death's been cleared—"

"I don't care," shouted Harry. "It doesn't change the fact that he was still a Death Eater, not a spy, not an innocent. I don't care about the mystery, it'll end once they're all dead anyway!"

Hermione didn't answer, only pinning him with that 'look' again, the one that was borderline between pity and knowing, the one she always wore these past few years whenever she thought Harry was being absurd. But Harry was beyond angry. He was furious, disappointed and frustrated, because he didn't go that far three and a half years ago only to let this happen. He didn't do all of that only to lose again to Voldemort just because of those people's stupidity for having served him, and he—

"Draco Malfoy's still missing," said Hermione quietly, yet effectively cutting into Harry's livid thoughts. "You know what that means. But we still have time, Harry."

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat, looking away from her, shaking in rage. Eventually he let his shoulders sag, knowing that however he hated it, Hermione was right. She always was. "Fine," he said at last, picking up the wrinkled parchment and the book. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good." Hermione nodded, her lips thinned into a wan smile. But right before he headed out of her office, she called to him again. "You'll be with us this weekend, won't you?"

Glancing slightly over his shoulder, Harry smiled. "I'll stay over at the weekend," he said as he slipped outside.

. .

. .

Harry walked alone, everything dark around him. He squinted, trying to see if there was any light at all, until a strong wind stopped him in his tracks. He tried to call out—something, just so that the silence wouldn't be so deafening, but his voice was whipped away by the wind. No matter how loudly he yelled, nothing came out past his mouth. And then he felt someone move. He whirled around to face whoever it was, a wand appearing in his hand.

Who are you? he asked. Who are you and what am I doing here?

The person's silhouette was clear despite the darkness. It was a man, tall and lean, and he stretched out a hand to Harry. He wanted something. Harry was about to ask again even though he knew his voice wouldn't come out, when colourful waves washed over him, so bright that Harry had to shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the person had gone, and the waves had softened into a beautiful, gentle cocoon around him.

It was like magic. Like magic—

Harry woke up with a start, his chest heaving. He was a trembling mess. He tried to squeeze his hands into fists, but it felt like his energy was slipping away from him. Closing his eyes again, he counted his breaths and tried to ignore the pain in his head. Slowly he sat up, groaning when the pain shot through his spine, and he clutched his stomach as the nausea rose within.

"Kreacher," he croaked, not having the energy to even open the bed curtains. When Kreacher popped up outside the curtains, he dropped his head onto the pillow again, breathing harshly. "The potion. Please, I . . ."

"Kreacher has brought it here already," said Kreacher. "Would Master like to be fed?"

The idea of having Kreacher feeding him the potion with wrinkled fingers and cupping his jaw was not appealing in the slightest, but he could only bury his face deeper into the pillow, his stomach twisting violently. "Yes . . ." he managed shakily. He heard the sound of Kreacher opening the curtains. Before the darkness at the periphery of his vision claimed him, he felt Kreacher's hands turning his head, opening his lips as the bitter taste of potion touched his tongue.

When he opened his eyes again, Kreacher was still there, watching him with disinterested eyes. "How long did I . . .?" He sat up, running his fingers through his hair.

"Nearly three minutes," said Kreacher. "Will Master be having breakfast in bed?"

"No, no, I . . ." Harry groped around the sheets to find his glasses. "It's fine, the pain is gone. I'll be downstairs in a minute."

Kreacher didn't wait for another instruction and Disapparated. Harry put on his glasses, sighing in relief as he leaned against the headboard. Kreacher had left the curtains open again. Without the headache, staring at the bright, baby blue sky was calming. Harry let his mind memorise the dream. Glancing towards his bedside table, he contemplated for a moment before reaching for The Dream Oracle.

He remembered more than the colourful waves this time. After spending two nights free from the dreams at Ron and Hermione's flat, it seemed like the dream wanted him to pay for the missing time, and it almost made him black out. Well, actually, he did black out, but that was beside the point.

Flipping the pages, he searched for a chapter that could describe darkness, or a man, or a strong wind. Yet after counting his age, the day he dreamed and the number of words of his dream's subjects, the result was not what Harry hoped.

At least getting squished by a baby troll didn't seem like the right answer.

. .

. .

"Where do you think Malfoy is?"

Ron looked up at him after being kicked out from Robards' office because of their poor performance that month. The guy from Devon had escaped, having only faked his allergy to Veritaserum by drinking a Weasley Wizards Wheezes product. Harry gritted his teeth all the while as Robards showered them with spittle, but otherwise congratulated himself on not saying anything in the office.

"The ferret? I don't know." Ron shrugged. "He's the only one we haven't been able to trace for the past half a year. Why? Do you think if we catch him, Robards'll cut us some slack?" asked Ron with hopeful eyes.

"Pursuing ex-Death Eaters is Senior Aurors' job, Ron."

"And the Chosen One's," Ron said. "And I'm your partner. Think I can convince Robards to accompany you? It's only Malfoy."

"Maybe," Harry said with a scowl. "But now Robards won't even let me in for capturing Rowle, thanks to that Lauren bloke."

"Lorellei Applebee," corrected Ron. "And Christopher the jewellery thief we let escape because we thought the culprit was Anderson, his cousin. And Mrs Kettleson, who filed a complaint because she heard us badmouthing her cat."

"Makes you wonder if we're really suited to be Aurors, doesn't it?" Harry slumped his shoulders.

"We're still new, mate," said Ron, patting Harry's shoulder, though his own voice betrayed his lack of confidence. "I'm sure Robards'll change his mind—nobody's more perfect at capturing Death Eaters than you," he added.

Harry smiled at him, but seeing how Neville had risen up to the first rank these past few months, Harry doubted his mood would improve any time soon. It wasn't that he underestimated Neville, especially not after he killed Nagini. But still, Neville was more interested in Herbology—it wasn't fair at all. Besides, Snape would roll in his grave if he knew Neville was such a capable Auror. Not that Snape would approve that Harry had become one.

"I'm meeting Hermione and Luna for lunch. You coming?" Harry asked, determined not to think about that again. At this, Ron's face quickly turned sour.

"I'm not meeting Hermione," he announced loudly. "And if you see her, tell her I'm not going home."

Harry sighed. "Another row? Fine, whatever," said Harry, already deciding he wouldn't pass on the message. "Meet you later then."

He ambled out of the busy area of Auror offices before Ron could open his mouth again.

When he arrived at the small restaurant in Muggle London, Luna was already there. The place was humble and simply decorated, but the number of patrons it had was quite large. Fortunately, on Monday the place wasn't as crowded as usual. Harry walked through the narrow path between mahogany tables and chairs, waving slightly at Luna. She had chosen the table in the corner near a huge glass window today. When Harry mentioned it because he wasn't comfortable eating while other people could stare at him from the pavement, Luna only smiled and said, "The Wrackspurts are afraid of the sun, I chose this table for you."

Harry resisted a grimace. "I thought Wrackspurts live inside peoples' heads?"

"They just fly into your ears. But the new Wrackspurts are more persistent."

"The new Wrackspurts," Harry echoed.

"They can make your brain even fuzzier," said Luna. "They can make you forget your dreams, too."

Harry paused at that, inwardly ashamed for doubting Luna for a moment. "I've remembered a lot more about my dream."

"That's nice, Harry. Did you see it in your dream?"

"It?" Harry repeated, certain Luna wasn't talking about Wrackspurts. He was about to enquire further when Hermione arrived, hurriedly flopping onto the seat beside him.

"Hello, Harry, Luna," she said. "I'm sorry, today was hectic, I thought I wouldn't make it."

"It's fine." Harry shrugged.

"We were just talking about the mutated Wrackspurts," said Luna dreamily. As Hermione frowned at her, she added, "I think you've got one in your office. I'll send you one of my necklaces if you want."

Hermione only smiled awkwardly, while Luna turned to Harry.

"Do you want me to make one for you, too, Harry? Who knows, it might help ease the pain better than the potions."

"Potions?" Hermione perked up, and Harry almost swore under his breath. "What does she mean by that?" She narrowed her eyes accusingly at Harry.

"Er," said Harry. "Well, you know, the pain's been bad lately, and I can't stand it without—"

"Why didn't you tell me about that?" Hermione looked affronted. "Harry, you don't take anything illegal, do you?"

"Don't accuse—"

"It's not illegal," said Luna calmly, "the shop owner in Knockturn Alley is a friend of my father's acquaintance's second cousin's wife, and she said it'd be legal sooner or later, so it's a soon-to-be-legal potion, or a not-quite-illegal-potion."

"Not Ministry approved," shrieked Hermione in alarm. Harry could only glare at Luna, who was looking as oblivious as ever. Hermione continued to fuss, "There might be side effects! Or worse, you could get addicted! What kind of potion—what kind of pain—oh God!"

"Who cares about getting addicted?" snapped Harry. "You don't expect me to pass out from the pain every day, do you?"

"There must be other ways—if you just told me!"

"Yeah, you'd need a whole month to research first and in the mean time I might already die," said Harry sarcastically. Hermione glared at him.

"I do know about priorities, Harry, I thought you'd know that." She lifted her chin in defiance, and suddenly Harry felt a tiny bit of guilt creeping inside him. "Tell me then. Were you in pain at our flat last weekend, too?"

Harry sank lower into his seat, avoiding her eyes. "No, I didn't dream at all at your place."

"That's because it's in your bedroom, Harry," said Luna casually, as though she hadn't just told Hermione Harry's secret. Harry was still puzzled by the 'it', but Hermione let out a scandalised gasp.

"Your room! The pain! I should have known," she said loudly, eyes widened in excitement, seemingly forgetting how cross she was just thirty seconds ago. "Harry, we've got to go to your place!"

"Why? We haven't even ordered anything," Harry groaned. That light in Hermione eyes never meant anything good.

"Not right now, of course. But after work," said Hermione with a look. She signed the waitress to come, then ordered to Harry, "Meet me in the Atrium."

Harry merely blew his fringe away from his forehead.

. .

. .

Hermione swished her wand one last time, letting out a gentle, purple light which engulfed all the furniture in Harry's bedroom. The light slipped inside even the tiniest space available—like under his bed or the cracks between drawers. Harry waited, resting his back on the wall, covering a yawn with his palm. As the light faded into soft pink before it disappeared entirely, Hermione's frown lines grew deeper.

"I was so sure it was a curse placed in your bedroom," she said desperately.

"You've checked for a curse for hours, Hermione. And we already did a full check of the entire house before," Harry pointed out.

"I know, but we were eighteen, we didn't know as many spells as we do now!"

Harry wanted to say that he only knew one more spell from Auror training, but he bit his tongue instead.

"This is the House of Black, it wouldn't be surprising if there were curses we missed," said Hermione again, expression thoughtful as she paced.

"Yeah, but we can continue searching tomorrow. It's almost midnight, Hermione, shouldn't you get some rest?" Harry tried to keep the weariness away from his voice, but upon Hermione's glare, he knew he hadn't succeeded.

"Fine." She huffed. "But tell me what you got from The Dream Oracle first."

"Basically I'll meet my doom by being squeezed by a baby troll," said Harry, raising his eyebrows mockingly. "I'm sure Professor Trelawney would be delighted to hear that."

"Oh, honestly. Accio The Dream Oracle." The book flew into Hermione's open hands in a second. "Did you count the subject's words, your age and the date?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I did. Three times."

"Did you add the waves' colours, too?"

Harry paused. "Er."

"You didn't, I knew it." Hermione nodded, humming under her breath to annoy Harry. "Right, according to this book and your story, if I add the colours purple, red, yellow and orange, it means someone or something is waiting for you."

Harry snorted a laugh. "How romantic. Are they waiting for me in a tower in some old castles?"

"Actually, yes. The book says it's somewhere ancient and mighty."

"Oh, perfect," Harry said derisively. "I'm getting myself a sleeping beauty. Do I need to slay a dragon?"

Hermione sent him a withering look, slamming the book closed. "It still doesn't explain the pain."

"It won't explain anything, Hermione, it's the book Professor Trelawney used," said Harry, his voice close to a whine. "Now I'm so tired and tomorrow Robards wants me to go on a boring stakeout again, because apparently adrenaline packed jobs are too good for me and Ron."

"Oh Harry, you're still a—"

"New Auror, I know," said Harry jadedly. "The Chosen One, my arse."

Hermione smiled. "Well, you did defeat Voldemort."

Harry wasn't sure if it was indeed true. Voldemort was going to take every follower he had with him to the grave, and after that, there was no guarantee he didn't have other plans up his sleeve. Even dead, he was still the biggest threat, and Harry was only an incompetent Auror. Still, he shrugged at Hermione, feigning nonchalance.

When Hermione left, it didn't take him too long to collapse in his bed.

. .

. .

Who are you? Harry screamed, but nothing came out past his mouth, even though he could feel the vibration in his throat. The man was standing before him, his silhouette in darkness showing the perfect posture of someone having been born to nobility. Harry moved closer, a wand appearing in his hand. The man reached out at the same time.

No, Harry said, jerking a step backward. No, you'll blind me again with the lights!

The man now walked towards him in long strides—somehow Harry could hear the step, step, step from his shoes ringing steadily on the ground. The wind blew harder. Harry squinted, determined not to lose his sight this time. Then the lights came.

Lifting his forearm to shield his eyes, Harry struggled not to blink, let alone close his eyes. But it was too bright—he could feel his eyes water, and his eyelids twitching uncontrollably. No, he shouted, no, no, no! He pointed the wand upward and yelled at the top of his lungs, Nox!

The lights died.

The darkness had never been so blissful as it was then. Harry blinked his tears away, trembling violently. But the man was gone—nothing was there aside from the deep, endless darkness. Harry hiccupped, dropping to his knees as he rubbed his cheeks harshly. Then, shakily, he whispered, Lumos.

The man was still gone, the wind was dry and empty. Harry turned the glowing wand around him, attempting to inspect the place. He didn't get to see much, however, for the sight of the wand in his hand made him drop it to the ground.

The clattering sounds echoed eerily in the dark.

. .

. .

"Fuck," Harry hissed, sitting up instantly. He could feel his cheeks wet from tears, and his hair clammy on his forehead. But the familiar headache and nausea were absent. "Fuck!" He grabbed his glasses, tore the bed curtains apart and jumped to his feet, shocked once he found out that it was still dark. For a moment he felt disoriented, worried if he was still in his dream, yet as he saw the gentle moonlight seeping in between his parted curtains, he sighed in relief.

He didn't stay still for too long. Scrubbing his wet cheeks with the heel of his palm, Harry quickly strolled towards his dresser. The antique black, oak dresser was nothing really special aside from its carving of the Black family crest. It was one of the few things he kept because of Sirius, although the creaking sound it produced grated on his ears every time he wanted to open the drawers. But he kept it only to store valuable things—the ones he didn't need to take out often, thus it wasn't that annoying so far.

Taking his wand from the small, cheap wooden desk that looked mismatched with the mighty dresser beside it, Harry swished his wand and undid the wards. He slid open the middle drawer with a loud screech. As expected, the thing inside it made him gasp in wonder.

It was blanketed by shiny, blue satin, but the white glow was still faintly visible. Cautiously, Harry lifted it out of the drawer. He put it down on the floor, untying the satin and slowly unveiling the wand hidden inside it. The wisps of white tendrils reached out to him, making him jerk his hand away. With wide eyes he observed the tender light coming from the wand, and held his breath as Luna's words resounded in his mind.

Did you see it in your dream?

The catalyst. Draco Malfoy's wand. It was what had made Harry dream all this time.

Harry sprung to his feet, grabbing his own wand and swearing when he almost stumbled on the way out of his bedroom. He ran down the stairs, slamming the door open as soon as he arrived at the end of the first floor hallway. Magical torches lit up to show a big, dusty chamber covered in floral wallpaper. The room was rarely used, and Harry had dumped a lot of Hermione's and Black family books there, except for the ones with dark magic. Hovering over the stacks of books, Harry muttered impatiently as he strived to remember the title of the book he needed.

"Argh. Accio books about wands," he said, giving up. Three books flew towards him, dangerously close to destroying the high piles of other books. Harry caught the first two safely, though the last one smacked him right in the face.

Peeking at the title of the book that had whacked him, Harry scowled. He had read Where There's a Wand, There's a Way a long time ago in his fourth year, and was sure there wasn't anything that would explain Draco bloody Malfoy's wand. He tossed it aside, and ran his fingers over the golden embossed lettering on a black leather book. Wands and Its Owners, it read. Harry quickly shuffled the pages, certain it would explain the connections between Malfoy's wand and Harry's ownership, but groaned once he realised the book consisted only of a huge list of witches, wizards and their wands in the sixteenth century. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and then moved on to the last book.

It was quite old—the cover was dark red, but its edges were uneven brown as though someone had tried to burn the book but changed their mind. The cover was blank, so Harry had to flip open the first page to see the title—Mysteries of Wandlore through the Years. Excited, Harry rapidly skimmed over the pages, careful so as not to tear the yellowing sheets. It had records about mysterious things that had been known to happen to witches, wizards and their ownership of wands throughout the centuries. Harry grinned, quickly sitting down the floor and leaning against the wall to read.

The book was too thick, though. An hour later Harry felt his eyelids droop. He sighed, scratching his jaw as he skimmed over a case where a witch in the seventeenth century found a huge stack of gold in a forest because her wand Apparated her there without warning. Harry was about to give up and try to find another way to find Malfoy as long as he didn't have to read, when he caught what was on the next page.

A wand shared by two owners is rare but possible. In one instance, a wand can still remember its original owner's magic, and therefore when said owner badly needs it to channel their magic, the wand will try to answer the call. When the original owner is not within reach, often the wand will feed from the new owner's magic instead. This condition will not stop as long as the wand cannot answer to its original owner directly. Giving the wand back to its original owner is the wisest option, for many times the new owner suffers the severity of having their magic denuded completely and meets their demise.

Harry blinked, trying to discern what that meant. It seemed a bit . . . close to his situation.

So Harry was the new owner of Malfoy's wand, and Malfoy was missing somewhere, presumably fleeing from the Ministry. Harry had started having the dreams half a year ago—which was about the same time Malfoy had gone missing. And if Malfoy needed to use a wand that badly now, if he was in danger, if Voldemort's curse was . . . that explained why Harry felt weakened every morning. That explained the colourful waves that felt like magic, and why tonight, when he hadn't given in to the waves, he hadn't had the usual headache and nausea. That meant Malfoy was waiting for his wand somewhere—and Harry would die if he didn't give it back to him.

Or . . . Malfoy would die if Voldemort got to him first before Harry could return the wand.

Throwing his head back so it thudded against the wall, Harry rubbed his hair with both hands. It just figured that this bad thing in his life would lead to Draco Malfoy. It was just how much fate loved him. But now the problem was, if Malfoy was really waiting for his wand, where the hell was he? And how would Harry find him?

It means someone or something is waiting for you, Hermione's voice resonated in his head, the book says it's somewhere ancient and mighty.

Eyes wide, Harry straightened up. Somewhere ancient and mighty. Where would be more suitable to find Malfoy than in the ancient, mighty Malfoy Manor?

"Shit," Harry said, scrambling to his feet. Of course, the Ministry had sealed the place, and Aurors had raided it many times since it all started. But Draco Malfoy was the Malfoy heir—he must have known a secret place which no one was aware of. Harry should have known.

He galloped back upstairs, screeching to a halt only to pick up the glowing wand on his bedroom floor. He covered it again with the satin, and cast several precautionary spells so it was safe for him to touch it. He snatched his robes and cloak, pocketing the wand while keeping his own ready under his sleeve. He practically jumped down the stairs to hurry through the front hall and out the main door. He Apparated before he could reconsider.

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To Be Continued

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