Every night Harry dreamed, and each time he woke up in a cold sweat, shivering with fear and strange longings.

It always started out so beautiful, and as Harry slept, his cock would be rock-hard and he would moan aloud, clutching at the sheets in near-delirious rapture.

Strong arms pulling Harry close, possessive and loving eyes staring into his own. Passionate kisses as thick mist rose all around them. And from the mist, a chilling hiss of Parseltongue that spoke the words, “You cannot escape.”

It was all too real to be merely nightmares. Voldemort was not truly dead, and a sickened Harry craved him.