Chapter Text
Nightmares.
You were more than used to your prophetic dreams, but when it came to nightmares of the foretelling variety, you hesitated. These predictions always meant something sinister was looming ahead, a fight or a heartbreak or a death.
As of late you’d been dreaming in black, the lighthearted, peaceful feel of your dreams twisting into a vortex of red and a scratchy void of darkness. You heard screams, you smelled the metallic tang of blood, and you felt a suffocating vice grip around your body.
More nights than not, you woke up screaming.
————————
The papers, No-Maj and Wizard alike, reported destruction of buildings, deaths of No-Majs who appeared to have had the life literally sucked out of them.
Surviving eyewitnesses told of a large black creature that burst through the walls as though they were made of tissue paper.
You knew you were connected, that your nightmares were connected. You hardly slept, fearing what you would see next.
———————
Weeks into the destruction of the city, mass panic was forming, but your nights were only plagued half of the time. The other half brought something lighter, more timid. You still felt a fear but not something malicious. You concentrated on these dreams, seeking answers, seeking direction.
A crumpled form, flinching away from a hand, from a strip of well-worn leather, from the dull cold buckle that bit into the already lacerated flesh of palms. The frightened figure stood, hunching to only a fraction of its true height, head bowed in shame.
The smell of ink, of dust, of paper. The taste of stale bread. The cool night air weaving into moth-eaten socks and chilling toes, the absence of a blanket to stave off the cold, preventing sleep. A proud swelling of the chest, knowing that someone smaller and frailer was benefiting from the blanket.
Uncomfortable shoes, feet wearing a familiar trail in the cobblestone to the corner of the street. A newsstand on one edge of the street beside a flower shop. Flyers in hand. The stares of bystanders hot and judgemental and so, so embarrassing. A shove and half the papers hit the ground, ruined in a puddle. The hissed insult, “Freak.” Behind him–him, the dream is of a young man–is a cobbler shop. The shop-keep is glaring at him from the door. He tucks his head as a group of sharply dressed boys approaches him. One has a bucket in hand. The bucket slings forward. Water, icy cold. Soaked through his three layers down to the skin. He wipes his face, stumbling as the group laughs. His flyers have all fallen. He scrambles to gather them, scooping up a discarded No-Maj newspaper with them. The headline is something or other about the Black Creature. The date is–
—————-
You bolted upright, nearly nailing your forehead on the ceiling of your loft.
The date on the paper–today’s date was–the same, they were the same. In the dream, the sun had been at it’s full apex, though partially clouded. The cobbler’s…. You had seen that place before, recognized that corner. One of your suppliers had a shop hidden in an alleyway near there. You frantically bounced out of bed and grabbed the first articles of clothing your searching hands found. The sun shone dimly through your windows, hooded by clouds but still very much low in the sky. You dragged your coat from its hook and rushed out of the house, tugging your shoes over your heels and barely remembering to cast a lock on the way out. That place was across town and there were always too many people around to witness you if you apparated.
But, if you hurried, you would make it.
—————
You arrived in time, slowing to calm your breathing. You were sure that your hurried pace to this place had looked odd, but you were very much focused on your objective. As you neared the cobbler’s, you saw him, lanky but hunched in a way that betrayed his true height. His dark hair was cut poorly and his clothes were most certainly second-hand and very threadbare. He held a stack of papers in his hands. A stack that half spilled as a bystander rammed into him.
You jolted to action again, recognizing this part of your prophecy. That meant–
And, there they were, a group of hooligans, one carrying a bucket of water. They approached, intent on dousing their target. You rushed forward as they came within a body’s length of the dark-featured young man. The main character of your dream watched with wide eyed shock as you swept past him and straight to the group of boys. The one wielding the bucket started his swing, only to have his wrist shoved down by your determined, angry hand. The bucket hit the ground, sloshing the frigid water onto the boys’ shoes–and onto your shoes, too, for that matter. The offending boy shouted out a curse and gave you a shove.
“What’s the big idea?” the boy roared.
You smoothed your coat with a glare. “Don’t you boys have anything better to do?”
“Look, it ain’t any business of yours,” the boy snapped. “So, why don’t you just move along and we won’t have to mess up you up too, eh?”
“With that fine officer over there watching?” you threatened, gesturing over to a No-Maj police officer who was walking down the road. “Start something and you’ll be getting in a lot of trouble, yeah? Now, why don’t you boys move along before this gets nasty?”
The boys considered it for a moment before cursing simultaneously and flipping rude hand gestures at you. They turned and swaggered away. You relaxed, glad that they had given up on their original target. You looked back, eyeing said target with a kind smile.
“You alright?” you asked. “I saw them walking up and figured they were up to no good. Little too cold for a public bath, innit?”
———————
The next dream placed your on a different corner on a different day. This time, the dark boy was destined to get angry, truly angry. You had seen from the dreams that he was beaten at home. You had seen from watching him from afar that he was affiliated with those Second Salem crackpots. The combination of abuse and terrible background wore him ragged and your dreams had revealed something horrible.
A spell of some sort? A strong one.
The offenders are different this time, but the intent is the same. A curt insult, a thrown rock. It cracks his brow and hot red fills his vision. He feels it bubbling inside, clawing to get out, and suddenly… suddenly…
You barely had time to dress yourself when you awoke. The dream had occurred outside a factory when the workers had just begun to arrive. Early, too early. Your coat was forgone, simple boots jumped into instead of anything with laces. You whipped out your wand, thinking of a secluded place nearby. Though witnesses be damned–if you didn’t make it, people would be seriously hurt. You weren’t sure how, the dream hadn’t been very clear about it, but you had a sick feeling in your gut. You vanished in a twisted blur.
——————-
You spotted him on the sidewalk, flyers in hand as always. You silently thanked Merlin he was alone as you dashed toward him. You saw the thick overcoat of the rock-thrower a block or less away. In the dream, the rock had been a secondary thought. If the man didn’t see the dark boy, he wouldn’t attack. You grabbed the young man by the arm and dragged him into an alley before he could protest.
Your eyes met his and he was already angry, eyes nearly glossing over with white–you remembered that this was a look similar to his in the dream. You brought your hands to either side of his face and his eyes snapped back to warm, frightened brown.
“Don’t panic,” you said. “I just saved you from a lot of trouble.”
“What?” he said. Your previous encounter had ended very quickly. One of his sisters had walked up, prompting you to whisk away without even introducing yourself. He had spent a good week thinking about you, your kind eyes, your soft hair that was fixed neatly and framed your face. Your shoes had been ruined by the bucket of water intended for him, but you made no complaint about it at all, only asked if he was okay. And now, here you were again, pulling him from “trouble” that he didn’t even know about. You bit your lip.
“I know what you’ve been taught about this sort of thing, so please don’t be alarmed,” you began. “I can see things, things that haven’t happened yet. And what I saw from you was something… terrible. Horrible, people would have–”
“You’re a witch,” he said, less in shock but more matter-of-factually.
“I… yes, I can use magic,” you admitted. You eyed the flyers in his fist. “I know what the ones around you think of people like me, so don’t worry. I won’t let anyone see you with me.”
“That’s not…” He was unsure what to say. “Have you been watching me… ever since that time? Or longer?”
“That time?” you asked. “You mean last week?” He nodded shakily. “I wasn’t watching intentionally, but yes it’s been at least since then. Actually, a bit longer.” You clasped your hands, nervous. “I see things through my dreams. Lately, they’ve been centered around the strange events that have been happening. It was only last week that I had a dream about you specifically. It showed me where to find you. Those boys were going to throw water on you.” You pointed to the front of the alley. “There’s a man out there today who was going to throw a rock at your head. My dream… it showed me that you were going to hurt that man very badly. So, I came to stop it from happening.”
“You saw me… hurt someone?”
“Yes, with a type of magic. I’m not sure what exactly,” you said. “I think you’re connected to the thing that tearing up the city, too, but I’m not sure how.”
“Someone else…” the young man said, “…with… with magic… he told me something like that. That there’s a child… close to me. I’m supposed to find them.”
“And have you?” you asked.
The man thought on it. “No, not yet.”
“I see.”
“How was I going to do it?” he asked suddenly. You cocked an eyebrow at him in question. “You said I was going to hurt someone. How?”
“Oh, that,” you said, shrugging. “I’m not sure. Maybe a spell?”
“Like magic?” the man gasped.
“Yes.”
“I… don’t know any magic,” he said, his brows knitting together. “I’m not…”
‘A witch,’ he was going to say (you felt sure that he called all magical people “witches”), but you held up a hand to hush him. “There’s something special about you. I’m sure of it!”
His stomach fluttered at the statement. Special. Mr. Graves had said similar things, that he was unique, that he would be taught magic and taken away from the hell he was in… if only he could find the child. You made no such promises, but hearing the words of praise–God, how many times had he ever been praised?–warmed him.
“It was definitely magic of some kind,” you continued. “And without a wand… that means you must be pretty powerful.” You outstretched a hand and laid it on his shoulder. He shuddered, but you felt him lean just slightly into the touch. “You… You don’t believe what those Salemers do… do you?”
“I… have to find the child,” he said sadly.
Your hand traced down his arm, fingers resting on the back of his hand. He almost flinched away, after all, his palm was stinging from the latest lashing, but he held his ground, enjoying the feel of your fingertips–skin to skin, not something he was used to at all. Before he could think further, your thumb came to rest lightly on his palm and you slowly turned his hand over. Perplexed, he was frozen for a moment. Then, noticing that you were scrutinizing the marks on his palm, he yanked out of your grip.
You knew about the cuts, and he was reeling, trying to figure out how.
He wondered: Was that something you had seen too? (You had) If so, had you seen everything? (Unfortunately, you had) Him, relinquishing his own belt and kneeling pitifully, awaiting the lash. Him, head bowed in shame, holding back tears with everything he had. (After seeing that you had awoken roughly, crying in his stead.)
Without another word, he turned away and moved back to the street. You didn’t chase him, didn’t move, only called to him, “I’m… sure we’ll meet again.”
When he turned back to your voice, you had already disappeared.