Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.
"I see Queen Mab hath been with you..."
He has never dreamt, but lately, he dreams of her.
There is a distinct perfume in the air around her, assailing his senses with the illusion of flowers, and he is overwhelmed by the stirring the scent causes in his soul. He opens dream-filled eyes and there she is, a radiant fire goddess, burning so brightly that his only desire is to be consumed by her flame, licked by the tongues of heat that curl away from her face. He stretches out one hand to touch her fire and finds -- no, it is her hair. Hair so red and soft it whispers against his skin, slipping through his fingers like water, like sand in an hourglass.
She reaches out to him and brushes his face with her fingertips, and he is unraveled. With pale, icy hands he touches her, and the feel of her makes him tremble with lust so dark and deep it is barely contained. His hands trail up her slender arms, to her throat, and with his fingers tangled in her hair he dares kiss her rosebud lips. He kisses her and she kisses him back and it is like dying, exploding through him like a spontaneous supernova. His blood, which he had thought so cold and dead, hums through his veins like canned heat, like something alive, and he feels his body react to her as it has never reacted to any other woman. He craves her, longs for her, needs her like he needs his next breath.
And her eyes -- oh Merlin, her eyes! One look into those pure pools of golden brown and he is swirling away into nothing, for he is as nothing in her glorious presence. He cannot dominate her; he has been utterly cowed. He would build monuments and temples to her image, to the goodness in her soul, to the love that shines from her heart that has now filled his own to bursting. He is on his knees before her, his lips pressed to the flat plane of her stomach. Her fingers weave through his fine hair, holding him close to her body. It is almost more than he can bear.
He wakes in the morning and immediately feels her loss, and the dampness on his bedsheets. He mutters to himself in embarrassment. He hasn't had a wet dream since he was a teenager, not since finding willing partners became easy, and never one so powerful as the one he has just had. As he stands a few minutes later under the steady stream of hot water, he thinks of her, wanting to know her. Wanting to know her name. Or if she is even real.
In the privacy of his own mind, far from the cold and unfeeling eyes of the world, he does not think he could survive if she were not real.
The mere thought of her is enough to engulf him again, and he takes himself to a second dizzying climax.