The place where nightmares always find you
Chapter 6: the place where nightmares always find you
The nightmares were back with a vengeance, and since Harry didn’t know how to cast a Silencing Charm, none of his roommates were able to sleep peacefully either.
He noticed some anger from Seamus at first—something about him being a liar because the Prophet said so—but Harry couldn’t care less about the boy’s opinion. Now, weeks later, as he wandered around like the undead and screamed his lungs out every night, probably no one in Gryffindor Tower doubted him anymore.
Dreamless Sleep Potion wasn’t a long-term option. It was mentioned it had some very strong addictive stuff, so Harry took it strictly on odd days. Madam Pomfrey’s orders.
Ron learned the Silencing Charm before Harry even thought about it (not that he would have bothered, since he’d made it a habit not to pretend he was fine just to keep everyone else comfortable). But Ron clearly cared about Harry’s privacy—though not so much about his own sleep—because he cast the spell over both their beds and still woke Harry up every time a nightmare started. Sometimes, it was Hermione’s voice bringing him back. Maybe they took turns? He didn’t ask. He had too much on his mind.
As a result of the constant lack of sleep, Harry drifted through the castle’s halls with his eyes half-closed, struggling to think straight. Hermione and Ron told him the new Defence teacher had something against him, but he barely paid attention in class. The lessons were just reading from Ministry-approved books, so he let his brain rest during those mind-numbingly dull hours.
He barely acknowledged his surroundings anymore. He barely spoke, except to his friends or maybe grunted, he wasn’t sure.
Harry tried everything he could think of to help himself—short of trying his luck surviving in the Forbidden Forest again. He ran laps around the Quidditch pitch every morning. Sit-ups, warm tea, lavender-scented pillows, banging his head against his desk—everything.
Hermione called it PTSD and started reading psychology books. Ron—RON—was reading alongside her. Gods, he loved them.
By the time the first month of school ended, some of the teachers—especially McGonagall—started giving him worried looks. Harry felt like he’d had enough. The plans he had, the changes he wanted to make—everything was starting to crumble. Along with his sanity.
He was in the boys’ dormitory bathroom, shaving his head in front of the mirror, when he said to Ron, “What I need is a Slytherin with no connection to Voldy-Sport who’s willing to help me train to exhaustion.”
“I could beat you up,” Ron offered, clearly uncomfortable—whether with the sight of Harry’s now-bald head or the blood-stained cuts from his inexperienced hands, Harry wasn’t sure. At least Ron didn’t try to stop him. Harry had decided his hair had to go, so it had to go.
“Yes, we can practice magic together. But right now, I need someone who’ll attack me without hesitation, without remorse, violently. Even if they’re not at Voldy-Sport’s level, someone to force my survival instincts to kick in.”
Ron would understand—he wasn’t insulting his abilities, just stating what he needed.
The cuts on his head started to sting. A welcome distraction from his screaming scar.
Did he mention the scar to his friends? He’d make sure to. Later, after dinner.
“Zabini’s mother has a bit of a ‘black widow’ reputation,” Ron said out of nowhere one morning at breakfast.
Harry, who had slept for exactly one hour and twenty-two minutes, felt awful. He simply kept eating his porridge.
“Even if his real dad—who was never confirmed—was a follower of Sporty” (another hilarious variation of Dudley’s nickname that Ron had come up with), “his mum went through another deceased seven husbands after him. And she’s currently single, living outside Britain, because of the allegations.”
“How do you know so much about someone’s mum? And what are you even talking about?” Hermione shot him a reproachful look.
Harry briefly wondered if Ron was trying to play matchmaker. With a deathly widow.
“Ah, see, Harry sent me on a mission the other day.”
Harry, who knew for a fact that he hadn’t, looked up from his breakfast and frowned.
“And after some subtle digging—quite easy, really—I heard the story. Apparently, the boy loves to tell anyone who’ll listen about his mother. It’s not exactly a secret, you know.”
“Mission?” Hermione’s eyes flicked to Harry, who just shrugged.
“I think he’s the perfect candidate,” Ron continued. “Plus, he’s bloody good at offensive spells. I remember him acting all smug about it during Defence last year.”
Ah. It clicked.
“Ronald, I don’t—” She trailed off at the look on Harry’s face.
“Can anyone explain what is happening?”
Not here.
Harry said it with a gesture, not with words.
He was getting good at that. Or rather, he’d started avoiding talking whenever possible—to reduce headaches. To save energy.
They understood at once.
Did he tell them ‘I love you’ today?
He should.
Isolating Zabini and getting a chance to talk to him wasn’t exactly easy. Especially with everything else happening at school—Harry could barely keep up.
Apparently, the newest Defence teacher was enforcing crazy rules, and students were being strictly monitored. The woman kept interrupting his other classes with snide remarks about his lack of involvement. (The only class he’d made even a minimal effort in was Snape’s—if only to keep the man off his back and avoid detention.)
Another annoying problem? Slytherins moved in packs.
Zabini was already hard enough to spot, but he was never alone. He seemed to be a friend of dear old Draco, which at least meant Harry could observe him whenever Malfoy-darling felt the need to taunt him—whether it was about his latest hairstyle or whatever other idiocy fell from his noble mouth.
Harry couldn’t believe he used to fall for that childish nonsense. Clearly, he wasn’t in the same mindset now.
From his brief observations of the Zabini-snake, the boy didn’t seem to find anything Draco said amusing. He never really engaged with the group.
Maybe Harry was lucky.
Maybe his Dudley replacement wasn’t actually a friend of the Voldy-Sporty followers’ scions.
Harry normally avoided the Gryffindor common room. Too many sounds, too many people staring at him like he was insane. As if.
But today was different. The entire Quidditch team was in a dark mood.
According to Hermione, they had lost—horribly. The new Keeper had done terribly and quit immediately after the match. The twins had gotten into a fight with Malfoy and were banned from playing. Ginny, the new Seeker—since Harry had refused, profoundly, to even attend tryouts—had been the target of every Slytherin’s mockery from the stands. Now, she was hiding in her room and refusing to talk to anyone.
It was a disaster.
He couldn’t help but feel sympathy for them. Even if the competitive spirit had long since fled him, replaced by the dark phantom of the mass murderer out there, planning to take over and kill him personally.
Ron was talking to Angelina, this year’s captain. He threw Harry a worried look—as if asking for permission for something Harry didn’t quite understand.
Harry nodded anyway. Whatever Ron wanted, Ron would get. It wouldn’t make a dent in the debt Harry owed him for everything he’d done these past few weeks.
Harry closed his eyes, taking a long moment to register exactly how tired he was.
A whole lot.
Things were happening around him, and for the first time ever, he didn’t feel the need to be at the center of it all. He reflected on that for a second—then pinned it for later thought.
Then, suddenly—a flash of anger.
It rose up out of nowhere and vanished just as fast.
It had been happening more and more often. Before, the old—younger—him would have blamed it on the current state of his team, or his House, or his friends.
But the new—older—him? The one who couldn’t care less about schoolyard quarrels and petty rivalries?
He immediately knew.
They weren’t his feelings.
They belonged to someone else.
And he couldn’t keep ignoring them. Couldn’t keep blaming it on exhaustion.
Something needed to be done.
And fast.
He made eye contact with his friends, silently telling them he was heading to bed.
Planning needed to happen. He couldn’t afford to let his night terrors and exhaustion delay him any longer.
He had to talk to Sirius.