RP: Nightmares and Dreamscapes
Date: 26 September 1999 (3 a.m.) Characters: Harry Potter Warnings: Nightmarish visions of death and such. Summary: Recent events trigger a nightmare for Harry. Status: Complete Open/Closed: Closed
Harry was standing with Ron, leaning towards him, face tilted up so that their lips were just inches apart. His heart beat furiously, like it would pop out of his chest at any moment. Ron's large, calloused hands cupped his face, thumbs spreading out over his cheekbones. Ron's lips moved, but Harry couldn't hear what he was saying. All he knew was that he felt at peace, loved and protected and he wanted the feeling to last forever.
But then the ground started to shake; Ron fell backwards. The earth parted, separating the two of them. Harry shouted, but his voice was drowned out by thunder. He only realized then that it was raining, lightening striking down from the sky and burning the land. Out of the crevice in the ground, Voldemort's skeletal remains rose towards the sky, taller in death than they'd been in life. A green flash of light rushed towards Ron's form. Harry shouted, but to his horror he couldn't move. He was stuck.
One by one his friends rushed forward. Ginny, Hermione, George. Bill, Fleur, Neville. McGonagall and Luna. Even Draco was there. One by one, Voldemort knocked them down, killing them with a single curse. More and more came, more and more died until there was no one left. It was then that Harry realized that Voldemort hadn't killed them. He looked down, and it was his wand that had cast the Killing Curse. He gribbed the Elder Wand tightly as over and over he flung the curse at his friends until there was no one left. He shook his head. No. It wasn't real.
He looked up. Across the gorge that Voldemort had risen from, stood Dumbledore. Harry tried to explain, tried to say it wasn't him. Dumbledore didn't say anything, only turned his back on Harry. Harry tried to move, tried to jump across the jagged opening in the earth, but he couldn’t. Could only slither back and forth, tongue flicking out and tasting the blood of his enemies. He was a snake. Had always been a snake.
Harry awoke from the dream as he always did, coming immediately awake and sitting up shakily. His breath came in shallow pants, and his forehead was dotted with sweat. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. A few tears leaked from his eyes and he wiped them away angrily.
Harry Potter did not cry.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, and unsteadily climbed from the bed. His bathroom wasn't far, and he made it to the toilet in time to lose whatever he'd eaten the previous day. When he was done, he stood hunched over the sink, limbs still shaky.
He turned the faucet on; ran it as cold as it would go. It was a shock to his system as he splashed his face, but the cold water washed the last dredges of the nightmare away. He cupped his hands and drank the cool water down, washing the unpleasant trace of sickness from his mouth. He splashed his face once more, and then reached blindly for the towel on the rack to dry off.
This was the first nightmare he'd had in months. They'd come often, of course, in the months after the battle at Hogwarts. He'd even learned to hide the effects from Ron and Hermione, though he knew that his friends hadn't been entirely convinced. But the dreams had trickled off over the past few months, until they hardly came at all. He could barely remember the last time he'd had a nightmare, let alone one like this. One that left him pale, shaky and sick to his stomach. He was only glad that Ron was out for the night, probably with Sean. He didn't want to face his best friend's concern right now. Best to forget about the nightmare and push it away. No good ever came from dwelling, after all.
It didn't take a genius to figure out what had brought on the nightmare. The mock battle during orientation had obviously triggered the well-repressed memories. Memories which had manifested as a dream that expressed his self-loathing for the people he could not save. At least, that's what the Muggle psychology books Hermione ahd given him would say.
He scrubbed a hand over his face once more, and then whispered a quiet Nox to darken the bathroom. He headed back to his room, but he didn't bother going back to bed. There would be no more sleep tonight.
Not for the first time he wished for a Muggle television. Something mindless to take his mind off the nightmares that never seemed to end. Instead, he grabbed a Muggle mystery novel he'd become fond of, one with a complex plot by Agatha Christie, hoping that it would distract him enough from the after effects of the nightmare. And from the fact that he was nearly sure Ron had been about to kiss him in the dream. He couldn't bear to think on that now, or perhaps ever.
No, much better to concentrate on unraveling Christie's twisting, winding plots until the sun rose.