Dreaming Wide Awake
Harry staggered back from the blow, winded and gasping for air. His knees weak from attempts to dodge spells and flying objects, he was unable to keep himself standing any longer. He fell, scraping his knuckles against the cobblestone floor as he reached out in vain towards his wand. It had flown out of his hand from a disarm spell that stung up his whole arm, and it now lay just feet away from him.
His fingers couldn't make it- he willed his arm to move further, trying his wrack his brain for any spells that would summon his wand to him- but in his panic he stumbled over a spell that started with an 'A', never quite getting it right. His 'trial-and-error' spells did nothing to help. He looked to the side, catching a glimpse of Hermione's motionless body in a heap across the room. She would know the spell, but she wouldn't be much help now, being unconscious- or worse. Harry didn't want to think of it. He didn't have time as his attacker neared him, Hogwarts robes billowing around his feet.
He gave one final lurch for his wand- he had to get it this time. This was his chance to save his friends or they would die. Dark thoughts filled his mind as his fingers met stone again, just centimeters from his wand. All thoughts of spells left his mind and he returned to the natural instinct of doing this the muggle way- a bad habit from being brought up as one for eleven years.
This was his downfall.
Harry cried out as a heavy boot stepped on his hand, the last of his energy wasted on futile squirming and writhing. Through squinted eyes he could make out Ron's lifeless body also on the ground across the room. This couldn't be happening! The boot twisted and Harry tried to scream but he choked on the noise as he looked up into his snarling opponent, strangely surprised to see that it was his long-time rival, Draco Malfoy- but something wasn't right about him. The scar on Harry's head burned, and as his vision blurred; he thought he could see green flames licking at Malfoy's silhouette, the manic laughter of Voldemort coming out of the blonde's mouth as he pointed his wand at Harry, ready to deliver the finishing blow…
Harry woke with a start, panting, cold sweat trickling down his back. His scar stung like salt in an open wound, and he placed his hands against his forehead, trying to numb the pain. Hedwig hooted softly from her cage, concerned. Harry simply stared at his hands in disbelief. He was used to this dream- he had been having it every night this whole summer, and feared it may be a premonition. But what really scared him was that when he looked at his hands after holding his forehead, the damp on his hands wasn't sweat like before. His fingers were red.
His scar was bleeding.
Note: This story is a cross-over with a movie. If you can figure out which movie it is, you rock.