For Harry Potter there were dreams and there were dreams.
The first sort were the type that Hermione assured him were perfectly normal, like the time he'd dreamed about showing up to Transfigurations naked.
The second type was the Voldemort dreams. The rare ones where Harry could see everything Voldemort was doing in detail. Those usually weren't pretty. And the more common ones.
The ones that came true.
He hated those types of dreams because nothing was clear. They usually only made sense after the events the dreams chronicled happened. It didn't matter how often Harry struggled to know what they meant, he could never figure them out until it was too late.
Dumbledore had given him a Pensieve specifically for dreams so he could record them for the professors and watch them later.
Harry had dreamed a lot of disturbing things. This dream, the one from last night, was the most disturbing of all.
He watched it again but it just didn't seem to have the same impact as being there, lying there, watching it happen. But Harry remembered. He remembered in vivid detail.
Tom had held the gun up to his lips and caressed them over it, letting them part slightly to its weight. Harry could see it; Harry could see the way his tongue snakes out and licks it, running from the ornate hilt to the tip, where it flickers inside the hole for a moment. Tom turned it then and slid the entire first two inches past his lips, past his teeth. Slowly his hand pulled back, slipping it almost all of the way out, and then thrusting it back in, so deep that the handle is almost at his chin, and he's deep-throating it, Tom's fucking deep-throating all five inches of the cold, dark metal. He was doing it on purpose and Harry knew that, but he also knew that Tom couldn't stop teasing you with it. But Harry couldn't stop staring; stop thinking those words that make it all so much better, all so much worse.
He was doing this just for me.
And that's why Harry had been twisting, that's why the chains Tom had bound him with were digging into his wrists so hard he was half certain something was going to snap. Why Harry had been so hard he was nearly against his stomach, so trapped Harry could taste the despair on his tongue. Tom caught Harry's eye and winked then, and then he pulled the gun out, cheeks bowed in with the delicate suction of his mouth around it. Harry could see the saliva glistening on it in the torchlight, and Tom ran his tongue up to the tip again. Harry could almost feel that tongue on him as it flickers inhumanly fast over the unfeeling rim, all dips and thrusts and licks that go wasted on the steel, the lucky, lucky steel.
Harry groaned, a low sound pulled from somewhere deep inside, and he could only sink his teeth into your bottom lip as the needy sound echoes around the chamber. Tom had sauntered toward Harry then, his face tilted down slightly as Tom moves. One fine shoe clicked in front of the other, and Harry took in his clothed form, garbed in the uniform that's so like the one Harry wears, yet with all the subtle differences that scream of the 1940s, that scream of propriety and walking sticks and monocles and wartime and trumpets and martinis and everything else he's created out of, every other memory of that time that has been preserved between the pages of his diary.
Tom's jacket had been tossed to the floor with Harry's clothes and his sleeves were rolled up showing the silver watch on his left wrist forever frozen at a quarter past four. Black braces crisscrossed over the white of his back and clip to the waist of his gray pants, and Harry wondered where he would have ever hid it in a place like Hogwarts, with a thousand and one eyes waiting to catch you doing something wrong.
And then Harry wasn't thinking anymore as he watched Tom, Tom was brushing the tip of the revolver against Harry's lips. Harry couldn't imagine doing anything other than following the example he set forth as Harry wrapped his lips around it. Harry had let him slide it in deep, pull it out and thrust it in deep again. It tasted delicious, hot like Tom's mouth, never cold and the sensations were flooding through Harry: the smell of his cologne, the sound of his crisp, pressed pants shifting as he moves ever so slightly along with the thrusts, the feel of one of his fingers under Harry's chin as you take it, as you take it as deep as you can, as his hand guides the gun past your lips and down to where Harry almost gagged, feeling it press back, back, back, back and that's when you hear the safety click.
The play ended and Harry blinking, biting his lip. It had all been so intense.
Harry rubbed his hand up and down his thigh, trying to will his erection away because giving into the dream, giving into Tom now, when he was awake would be unthinkable and a betrayal of everything he'd try to do since Hogwarts, a betrayal of that powerful rage to hurt and break and kill the man responsible for everything that had ever gone wrong with his life.
He rubbed his thigh faster as he wondered what did it mean?