Harry honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a proper night's sleep. It had only gotten worse recently, because whenever he closed his eyes and gained unconsciousness for a few moments, it was quickly interrupted by his scar prickling his sleep. He was fairly sure it was his subconscious doing it, not actually Voldemort, not least because what happened after the prickling feeling was always the same, like a recurring dream.
In that dream, he was asleep, and Voldemort was invading his head while he slept. His scar would prickle until it felt like his head was about to burst, and then he would wake up within the dream to find himself in a hospital bed, nurses bustling around him and saying things in urgent undertones. He never knew quite what they were saying, but he caught the word 'exposed' more than once, and in the dream he knew that they were talking about whatever it was that Voldemort was using to control the entire population. After talking to Hermione about it, it was almost like a virus in his mind - a deadly, Voldemort virus that had infected everyone, that had gotten into Harry when he'd gone to see Ginny.
In the light of day, it all seemed silly. But his dreaming mind was much easier to convince that he was in real danger from a deadly virus that Voldemort had spread through the population.
It wasn't light yet when he woke up this time, though. He'd woken with more of a jolt than he usually did from such dreams, breathing hard and trying to listen over the sound of his lungs, because he thought he had heard a sound. He didn't know what the sound was, or where it had come from, he wasn't even positive that he'd heard anything, but it worried him enough that he didn't close his eyes and go back to bed.
Reaching under his pillow, he grabbed his wand, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked up his glasses from the bedside table, shoving them as quickly and quietly as he could onto his nose.
"Lumos," he whispered. The room around him was empty, as it had been when he'd gone to sleep, but that didn't mean everything was safe. Putting out the light at the end of his wand with another whispered incantation, he let his eyes adjust as well as they could to the darkness and slipped out of his room, padding down the hallway in his socks.
He wasn't really very surprised to find Ron in the living room when he got there. What did surprise him was that he appeared to be drunk (at least, Harry couldn't think of another explanation for the strong scent of alcohol). Ron was coming home worse and worse each time, and Harry was starting to dread meeting with him in the middle of the night, because he couldn't really imagine that it would ever mean something good had happened.
"Ron?" he said, running a hand through his hair. "What are you doing?"
Was that Ron's journal in his hands? That wasn't a good idea, Harry knew that from experience. Well, not that he'd gotten drunk and written in his journal, but he'd been in a state of willful ignorance about the consequences that was probably not terribly different from writing in it while drunk. But Ron knew better. Didn't he?