Of Nightmares and Brothers
He woke struggling for breath. Each inhale burned his inflamed throat, scratching and tearing until it felt cracked and bloody. The terror consumed the young boy as every gasp left him in a choked gurgle. He couldn’t even cry out and how desperately he wanted to.
He wanted the smell of his mother’s lilac shampoo to envelop him and for her to slowly wave her wand to vanish the sweat soak sheets that lay beneath his quivering form. She would hold him to her, ignoring the slicked hair that clung to his face and the tears that stained her nightgown. Above them his father would stand; a reassuring pillar that would chase any monsters that dared enter the room of the Head Auror’s son. Even if those monsters were hiding in his son’s head and not under his tiny bed.
Together they would tell him that it would be okay, that he was going to be okay. Not him, not Albus, but the boy in his dream; the boy whose pain and fear and isolation had pervaded his every sleeping moment for months. They would tell him it wasn’t real, that the boy was just a dream so he couldn’t really be hurt. It was just in his head.
That line would hurt just as much. It would leave him hallow for a great many days. Al just couldn’t imagine a world where the boy didn’t exist, especially his own. His every thought seemed to circle back to the boy but even at five he knew non-existence was better than the alternative. If he wished and hoped that the boy was really and truly real then he would be wishing for his unbearable torment. He could never do such a thing, not to him-not to anyone.
It was irrelevant though. Neither of his parents would be coming to provide the much needed reassurance. They had gotten used to sleeping through his night terrors especially when his baby sister, Lily, left them exhausted. Since her arrival he had learned that no matter his desire for comfort he shouldn’t wake them. Such an action would leave them grouchy and near intolerable when morning came around.
And self-soothing was beyond his reach as the shadows closed in on him, digging their claws into the fragile workings of his mind. He was curled up on his bed, knees to his chest and hands clutching at his head; fingers entwined with his black curls and pulling. He felt so, so guilty.
But he was the good child-the quiet one, the obedient one, the perfect little angel. There is no way he had done anything to warrant the feeling. Yet it persisted and the tears continued to flow. Al was so absorbed in his personal torment that he was deaf to the creaking of his door and blind to the light coasting over the mural on his wall from the hallway. Even the arms wrapping around him from behind seemed so far away in his muddled brain.
“Shhh, Albie,” the older boy whispered in his hair, unbothered by the dampness. “You’re safe, I’m safe, we’re all safe.” Al’s chocked sobs cut off at the beginning of the familiar mantra and the other boy’s relieved sigh rustled his hair.
Fingers worked through the strands lightly tugging the tangles loose that developed from the younger boy’s violent, restless sleep. “This can’t continue Albie,” he stated when he saw not just tears upon the boy’s face, but streaks of blood from where he had scratched himself. “I’ll talk to dad. I’ll make him do something.”
The words were a comfort. He didn’t know how to ask for help, especially from his dad ever since his mark had appeared. His dad hated the demands people put on him; Al had seen him rage and throw things when he was hassled and settled with other people’s problems. Al did not want to be one of those people, one of those burdensome people.
“Stay?” The word was blubbered and made him feel a lot less like the big boy his mum told him he was, but he didn’t care.
“I’m not going anywhere, little brother,” James responded,
And despite it all, that did make him feel a little better.