Harry sets his cup of tepid tea on the table and starts speaking.
"The dream is like this: the spells around the Manor dump me into the vegetable garden, and immediately the pea vines snag me. Tendrils sneak up my legs and fly out to twine around my wrists. I scream for help, try to reach my wand, nothing helps. Next I'm in the Conservatory arguing with the portrait of Uncle Augustus. How I escape from the peas, I have no idea. Uncle Augustus tells me to leave, and insults my Quidditch skills. He favors Puddlemere because they only field purebloods." Harry's hand stills, brush hovering in mid- air as Narcissa turns.
"Puddlemere will win the Premiership this year." She smiles in the exact way Harry remembers from the World Cup and the one time she saw Draco and Harry together in public, predatory and icy. His heart thuds, but she turns back around and motions for him to resume brushing.
"After Uncle Augustus, I get lost in a series of kitchens. The first one is my aunt and uncle's in Little Whinging. Two of the tiles on the floor are cracked from the war. When I walk out the back door, I'm in the Burrow, then Seamus's kitchen in the Orkneys, and so on. The last one I assume is the Manor, but I'm not sure. There are so many house elves, and I keep trying to ask them to help me, but they scatter and hide in the cabinets or under tables. Eventually, I give up." Harry turns when the ward nurse opens the door to the room and starts to walk in. When she sees him, she stutters and backs out again with her head lowered.
"That's when I notice the piece of paper in my hand. It says 'Dear Harry. Dearest Harry. It's not right any more. It's too late to change anything. I'll miss you. I love you I love you I love you. The 's'es are drawn as snakes, and they keep trying to slither out of the words. Then I realize it's written in parceltongue. There's no signature, and I wonder who could have written me a letter in parceltongue, as if it's a joke or a riddle." Harry finds Narcissa comforting now that she's permanently sedated. Sometimes Harry pretends her platinum hair is red and that her accent is less clipped. When he closes his eyes, pretending is easy. She does the same things, occasionally calling him Draco, often speaking of people Harry never knew.
"When I look up, I'm in Lucius's office sitting behind his desk. Standing in the middle of the room, looking back at me is myself. My hair's too long, and my robe has a hole in the left shoulder. My shoes are untied." Narcissa nods. Harry remembers Draco explaining why real wizards never wear tying shoes, only ones with buckles. One of the many coded ways that pureblood- obsessed wizards could spot their own with a glance. Narcissa wears slippers now with neither laces nor buckles.
The door opens behind Harry again; he doesn't turn because he knows it's not the nurse this time.
"We have to go, Harry." Ron's voice has the same tone as always, which Harry has come to rely on, steady Ron in the hurly-burly world. The door clicks closed, so Harry can say his good-byes with privacy. Harry doesn't believe in giving up, can't imagine abandoning someone in need. He visits Narcissa once a week as a proxy son, not willing to let her be a childless mother, a reverse orphan.
Harry gives the shimmering hair, still not gray due to potions Harry sneaks in himself, a couple more strokes and leans closer to Narcissa's ear. "I don't even find the body in my dream. I never really believed in Divination, but there's always hope." Harry stands and places the silver brush on the end table next to Narcissa's chair. He smiles at her, and she half-smiles back. His hand's on the doorknob to leave when she speaks. "Hope only makes you weak."
Harry leaves knowing that hope is the difference between him being able to walk out of St. Mungo's and Narcissa never being able to. Harry still dreams of Draco, not just searching for him, and until that stops, he'll choose to believe.