The Ark of Ache (HP)
Title: The Ark of Ache
Rating: G
Summary: Even in sleep, we are not alone.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
Two rooms, one night, two children squirm in restless slumber; two faces, one man; two dreams, the same nightmare.
His brow glistens in the pale light cast by a lamp on his bedside table. His eyes are screwed shut as though some unseen force is trying to prise the lids open. He moans softly, inarticulately, though one leaning close might hear the quavering plea of, "No..."
Her body is coiled around itself, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Her hair and gown are damp with sweat. Her lower lip trembles as a mewling cry escapes through her nose. "Tom," she murmurs, and curls herself even tighter.
He has thrown the bedcovers from his body, his conscious mind fearing that he is drowning in the horrors of his subconscious. His eyes are no longer shut tight; rapid movement is visible beneath those translucent lids and a glimmer of white appears when his lashes part a fraction of a millimeter. His fingers clutch at his chest. His breathing is shallow and rapid, and his chest struggles to expand.
A single tear escapes and slides down her already-moist cheek. Her mouth is open now, a soundless scream struggling to break free of the constriction around her throat. Her hand reaches up and claws at the unseen force threatening to strangle her. Cruel red marks burst forth from beneath her fingertips as they drag down her pale neck.
He heaves in mute agony, unable to defend himself from the assault that seems to come from all sides. He thinks he is being burned alive. He longs desperately for oblivion.
Her back is arched to near breaking point. She cannot endure this torture much longer. She reaches out to the first thing that comes to her failing mind.
Harry…
He hears his name being called and turns toward it, unseeing, unknowing. The sound is like cool water on a warm summer day. His jaw unclenches, relaxes, and he says out loud:
"Ginny."
Her hand slips away from her throat. Another tear, one of relief, trickles down her face. Her breathing evens out and grows regular. She sighs and turns on her side, her arms wrapped gently around her pillow.
The jerking of his limbs ceases. He takes a deep breath, then slips into gentle slumber. A smile curves the edges of his lips.
In the morning, neither of them will remember. They will have only the vague sense of a night spent in restless, disturbing dreams, later replaced by those of peace and contentment. They will look at each other over the breakfast table, however, and wonder.
And miles away, a man with two faces will feel the sting of frustration and know that he has been thwarted again by Love.
Rating: G
Summary: Even in sleep, we are not alone.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
Two rooms, one night, two children squirm in restless slumber; two faces, one man; two dreams, the same nightmare.
His brow glistens in the pale light cast by a lamp on his bedside table. His eyes are screwed shut as though some unseen force is trying to prise the lids open. He moans softly, inarticulately, though one leaning close might hear the quavering plea of, "No..."
Her body is coiled around itself, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Her hair and gown are damp with sweat. Her lower lip trembles as a mewling cry escapes through her nose. "Tom," she murmurs, and curls herself even tighter.
He has thrown the bedcovers from his body, his conscious mind fearing that he is drowning in the horrors of his subconscious. His eyes are no longer shut tight; rapid movement is visible beneath those translucent lids and a glimmer of white appears when his lashes part a fraction of a millimeter. His fingers clutch at his chest. His breathing is shallow and rapid, and his chest struggles to expand.
A single tear escapes and slides down her already-moist cheek. Her mouth is open now, a soundless scream struggling to break free of the constriction around her throat. Her hand reaches up and claws at the unseen force threatening to strangle her. Cruel red marks burst forth from beneath her fingertips as they drag down her pale neck.
He heaves in mute agony, unable to defend himself from the assault that seems to come from all sides. He thinks he is being burned alive. He longs desperately for oblivion.
Her back is arched to near breaking point. She cannot endure this torture much longer. She reaches out to the first thing that comes to her failing mind.
Harry…
He hears his name being called and turns toward it, unseeing, unknowing. The sound is like cool water on a warm summer day. His jaw unclenches, relaxes, and he says out loud:
"Ginny."
Her hand slips away from her throat. Another tear, one of relief, trickles down her face. Her breathing evens out and grows regular. She sighs and turns on her side, her arms wrapped gently around her pillow.
The jerking of his limbs ceases. He takes a deep breath, then slips into gentle slumber. A smile curves the edges of his lips.
In the morning, neither of them will remember. They will have only the vague sense of a night spent in restless, disturbing dreams, later replaced by those of peace and contentment. They will look at each other over the breakfast table, however, and wonder.
And miles away, a man with two faces will feel the sting of frustration and know that he has been thwarted again by Love.