We Are Nothing
Part VIII
By Ruskbyte
Title: We Are Nothing
Author: Ruskbyte
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Snape’s Occlumency lessons have shattered the last defences of Harry’s mind. Now, unprotected, his dreams have become home to a nightmare other than Voldemort. A nightmare that has taken on a life of its own.
“We are nothing; less than nothing and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.” - Charles Lamb, Essays of Elia, Dream Children
/oOo\
Part VIII
Bounded in a nutshell
\oOo/
The mannequins were just plain creepy.
Dudley Dursley had come to that conclusion after less than a minute. He looked around again, having absolutely no idea where he was, what he was doing there or how he had gotten there in the first place. The only thing he did know was that the army of shop window mannequins was beginning to freak him out.
He was, for some reason, sitting in what seemed to be a massive auditorium of some sort. He had been placed right in the middle; the centre seat of a row exactly half way from the stage.
And he was the only person present, with every other seat in the room occupied by a mannequin.
He had just decided to get up and leave; and maybe find something to snack on, when the auditorium lights dimmed. Something was about to happen.
A figure stepped onto the stage and walked purposefully to the podium set up there.
The man was wearing an expensive looking three piece suit, in a staid blue-grey. A glint of gold from his waistcoat suggested a chain for a timepiece.
Dudley did not notice any of that, his attention taken up entirely by the man’s horrible burned face. His desire for a snack left him.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the man as he settled in behind the podium. “As you all know, I’ve had to come all the way from the good ol’ U.S. of A to give this lecture, so thank you again for your rousing welcome.”
Dudley simply stared, not quite sure what to make of this. What he did know is that neither of his parents would have approved of the speaker’s appearance, despite his fancy suit.
“To begin, I’ll be discussing dreams. Dreams and nightmares.”
Dudley looked left and right, wondering if he could slip out without this strange person noticing him.
“You know, it’s funny, but ninety percent of people’s bad dreams are just like this,” the man said. He waved a hand to indicate the auditorium surrounding them. “Nightmares about standing in front of an audience and having to say a speech.”
He stepped out from behind the podium and walked off the stage, slowly making his way into the seats.
Dudley was properly terrified by this simple act, for no reason he could voice, but was too scared to move. This was worse than how he had felt when those dementia things had tried to kill him and his cousin.
“Boring as hell, these kind of nightmares,” the man continued to speak. “Yeah, sure sometimes they’re naked - which is kinda good when it’s a hot babe, but even then - boring shit.”
Finally, just as the man reached his row, Dudley managed to lever himself out of his chair and tried to flee. It was difficult, considering the closeness of the seats and the very inconvenient mannequin legs that kept trying to trip him.
“How the hell can anyone be afraid of this?” asked the man, continuing to follow after Dudley.
Dudley was too afraid to answer, though the question was clearly rhetorical. He was too busy trying to reach the aisle, whereupon he could hopefully flee at a run instead of a stumbling shuffle.
“I mean, come on! If you’re gonna have a nightmare, at least have it be interesting.”
With a final lunge, Dudley passed the last couple of chairs in the row and fell into the aisle.
He was about to get up and start running when he noticed a pair of shoes right in front of his nose.
Slowly he looked up. His eyes traced the shoes, the legs, hips and torso before reaching the terrible face of Freddy Krueger.
“Now, I’m no expert... Well, actually I am,” he continued talking, as though his audience had not just tried to flee for his life. “But I always thought people would be more afraid of having a madman tying them up and taking their eyes out, or something. You know - like me.”
Dudley tried to move, to get up and run, but found himself bound in thick rope from chest to ankles. He was wrapped up tight, but not so tight as to have difficulty breathing.
Freddy reached down and hauled Dudley up, tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
“But don’t you worry, Duddikins,” he said, “I ain’t gonna pluck your eyes out.”
“You mean this is a dream?” asked Dudley, only now remembering that his last memory before he appeared here was of going to bed in his Smeltings dormitory.
“Oh no, Duddikins,” said Freddy. “This ain’t no dream - it’s a nightmare.”
Dudley tried to break free, but the rope was too strong. His struggles accomplished nothing save to make him short of breathe. To his credit, he did not scream.
Noticing that they were no longer in the mannequin filled auditorium, Dudley began twisting about to see where they were.
He was surprised to discover that they had somehow been transported into a jungle.
“Where are we? What are you going to do?” he asked his captor.
Freddy snorted, “I already told you; we’re in your nightmares. As for what I’m gonna do...”
Spinning on a heel, Freddy dropped his burden on the jungle floor with a loud thump. A nudge of his foot caused Dudley to roll over and find himself confronted by what looked like a sizeable fire pit.
“...Your cousin, Harry, always thought you looked like a pig in a wig,” Freddy continued. “So I thought we’d be having us a barbeque.”
Dudley flopped onto his back and stared up at Freddy in horror. His horror grew when he saw that his captor had produced a long wooden spit and was pointing the sharp end in his direction.
“No, no, no,” he whimpered. “I’m sorry for what I did to Harry - I’m really sorry - please don’t...”
Freddy smiled amiably and told him, “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna stick this through ya.” Dudley had second of relief, which was promptly ruined as Freddy continued, “That would kill you long before you had a chance to cook through.”
“Wha-what?” asked Dudley fearfully as Freddy stooped over him.
With a few deft and practiced motions, Freddy slipped the sharpened spit between the ropes along Dudley’s back.
“Yep, there’s nothing better than a spit pig over the fire,” declared Freddy as he hoisted Dudley into the air with deceptive ease and positioned him over the fire pit.
“I’m not a pig! I’m not a pig!” screamed Dudley desperately. He thrashed wildly about, but was unable to do more than give himself a slight rocking motion back and forth.
Freddy squatted down in front of him, grabbing Dudley’s hair to turn his head enough to look him in the eyes. With his free hand he held up a pallet of matches, the kind you’d find in a hotel. Dudley absently recognised the brand as being Holiday Inn.
“Come on, Dudders,” Freddy urged, “All the boys enjoy playing with fire.”
“I don’t! I’m not a pig! I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! I’m not a pig!”
Ignoring Dudley’s increasingly frantic protestations, Freddy struck the matches with a flourish. Dudley’s thrashing grew even more frenzied as the now burning matches were casually tossed into the pit below him.
“Yes! Me caveman! Me cook meat on fire!” declared Freddy, beating a hand against his chest.
“Aaaaahh! Aaaaahh!” screamed Dudley as the pit below him burst into flames. He could already feel the heat from the growing fire.
“Yes! Squeal for me,” Freddy commanded, wearing a frilly pink apron that had the words ‘Feed the cook’ printed on it. He poked and prodded Dudley’s stomach with his barbeque fork. “Come on, fat ass, squeal like a piggy! Squeal!”
And as the flames licked higher and closer, Dudley’s high-pitched screams could almost have been mistaken for squeals.
-oOo-
Harry woke up to the feeling of a cold shiver sinking into his jaw. It was barely enough to mask the sharp throb of pain that seemed to be encircling his face.
“Easy there, Harry. Don’t try to move too much.”
It was with some alarm he realized that it was Madam Pomfrey speaking to him. What worried him was the obvious concern he could hear in her voice. She was clearly troubled, especially if she was using his first name like that.
Blinking his eyes open revealed another disturbing fact; namely that he could not see out of his right eye.
“Don’t worrying - your eye is fine, Harry. You just can’t open it because of the swelling,” Pomfrey was quick to reassure him.
“Wuht--”
Harry croaked, trying to ask what had happened, even though he knew exactly what and who was responsible. Unfortunately, he was having trouble forming the words as his lips were entirely numb.
“Don’t try to speak. You mouth and jaw are also badly swollen. I’ve applied a mild pain relief charm.”
Harry turned the one eye he could open in the direction of her voice, but couldn’t see much without his glasses.
“I think he wants his glasses,” said another familiar voice.
He looked at her as best he could, but the only thing he could see of Hermione at the moment was a black blur, topped by a very fuzzy brown blur. The two red topped blurs next to her were probably Ron and Ginny. There was another blur, slightly off to one side, that might have been Sirius.
Remembering what Hermione had said, and wondering not for the first time at how well she knew him, Harry nodded his agreement.
“Here you go then, Harry,” said Pomfrey as she settled his glasses in place. “I’m going to get some topical bruise and swelling potion for you. Unfortunately I can’t do more than that and a few charms, so it will be about an hour before everything’s fixed up.”
She turned to his friends and fixed them with a commanding glare. “Do not excite him and I’ll let you stay until Molly brings up his breakfast. Upset him in the slightest and I’ll toss you out of here on your ears, understand?”
Receiving nods of agreement, some more enthusiastic than others, the matron departed for her storeroom to collect Harry’s salve.
Harry turned his attention back to his friends and godfather. He tried to smile, but could tell his face was not moving as he wanted to.
“Hi,” he grunted.
“Oh Harry,” murmured Hermione. She looked to be on the verge of tears.
“You look like you had the stuffing kicked out of you, mate,” said Ron as tactfully as ever.
Harry stared at his friend, who had a habit of stating the obvious, and tried to express his displeasure with just a look - seeing as talking hurt too much.
“What happened, Harry?” asked Sirius. “According to Madam Pomfrey you just... you were fine yesterday afternoon when you went to sleep, but were all beaten up when she checked on you this morning.”
“Bahd drehm,” Harry offered as an explanation.
“A bad dream?” repeated Hermione.
“Was it You-Know-Who?” asked Ron.
Harry rolled his one good eye and wondered, not for the first time why he was friends with the redheaded wizard. Trying in work around his swollen mouth and numb lips, he said, “Yohr Lyk uh brohkim rehkorhd, Rohn.”
He wondered what was taking Madam Pomfrey so long to get that salve. He did not like talking as if he had a Bludger stuffed in his mouth.
“What?”
“He said you’re like a broken record,” said Hermione with a sigh. “I suppose the same could be said for all of us.”
Harry nodded in agreement.
Hermione’s eyes grew wide and she stared at Harry with surprise and worry in her eyes.
“You were attacked by that Freddy Krueger person, weren’t you?” she asked. “He tried to kill you in your dreams, just like the others.”
“Hmm,” Harry hummed in confirmation.
He saw no reason to correct her assumption. Based on what she knew it was a good guess, but the truth was somewhat different. Freddy had been punishing him, not trying to kill him. That was the only reason why he had escaped with his life; Freddy had let him go.
“Bloody hell,” whispered Ron, obviously shocked by this revelation.
“Dammit,” cursed Sirius, slamming a fist into the nearby dresser. “We’d been hoping that maybe the wards here would keep the bastard out.”
“Why should they?” asked Ginny quietly. “The wards at Hogwarts didn’t stop him - and they’re bigger and stronger than the ones here.”
“Remus said the same thing,” grumbled Sirius, unhappy at being proven wrong.
“You mean this guy really can kill you in your sleep?” asked Ron. He paled further. “Bloody hell.”
“Oh, Harry, you should have told someone,” declared Hermione.
Harry stared at in confusion. What did she think he had just done? The others seemed to share his puzzlement.
Seeing that he did not understand, she elaborated, “You should’ve told us before - when we were still at Hogwarts.”
“But he wasn’t attacked at Hogwarts,” said Ron, pointing out the obvious.
“Not like this,” Ginny qualified.
“I’m not talking about this,” said Hermione, not taking her eyes off Harry. “I mean he should have told someone about Krueger sooner.”
“Wuhy?” asked Harry.
“Yeah, why should he?” agreed Ron.
Hermione finally turned to Ron and declared, “Because maybe somebody could have done something before so many people were killed!”
A very uncomfortable silence filled the bedroom as everyone began to realize that Hermione was essentially blaming Harry for all the murders.
“Are you really blaming Harry for this?” asked Sirius softly, a dangerous growl behind his words.
“No, of course not!” Hermione shook her head in vigorous denial. She then shrugged and reluctantly continued, “But he knew! He knew about Krueger - about how he gets into people’s dreams and kills them! If he had just told someone--”
“It would have changed nothing,” spat Sirius.
“We don’t know that,” said Hermione.
“Really?” Sirius scoffed. “So the Aurors can go into people’s dreams and stop their nightmares? They can catch a murderer who doesn’t exist and’s already dead? They can do all that?”
“But they could’ve warned people...”
“Warned them about what? That a lunatic was going to kill them in their sleep? They already knew that!”
“But--”
“Or were they going to warn them not to have any dreams? After all, everyone can stop themselves from dreaming whenever they want!”
“Knowledge is power,” Hermione weakly said. “If people had known--”
“It still wouldn’t have saved them,” declared Sirius with absolute certainty.
“You don’t know that,” said Hermione, repeating her earlier statement.
Sirius laughed darkly and smiled nastily at her. Harry, Ron and Ginny continued to watch the growing argument in silence.
“One day, Hermione,” he told her, “you’ll find that some knowledge simply can’t help you, no matter what you do.”
“But--”
“You’re a Muggleborn - you know about guns,” said Sirius, trying a different approach.
“Yes,” confirmed Hermione uncertainly. “But what does that--”
“If someone held a gun to you head and pushed the button,” he asked, “would all the knowledge in the world save you?”
Hermione stared blankly at him, unable to respond. She eventually turned to the others and found a less than friendly reception. Ron was openly glaring at her; clearly angry at her perceived accusation against Harry. Ginny might have been more sympathetic, her boyfriend having been one of those murdered, but was clearly conflicted about it. Harry was simply staring at her. It was a little unnerving how calm he was in the face of her finger pointing.
“You know, Hermione--”
Whatever Ron meant to say was lost when the bedroom door slammed open to admit the grizzled form of Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody.
“Black, Potter,” he greeted curtly.
“Hey, Moody,” replied Sirius. “Any good news?”
Moody shrugged. “News, yes, though whether it’s good or not I’ll leave up to you.”
“What’s happened?” asked Hermione, eager to steer the conversation to any other topic.
“Well, there’ve been no reported killings last night,” Moody reported. “Looks like Potter here was the only one to be attacked.”
“Noh.”
All eyes immediately focused on Harry, especially Moody’s magical eye. The old Auror stomped closer to the bed.
“Explain,” he commanded simply.
“Ahm noht th’ onlee wuhn,” said Harry.
“You’re not the only one he went after last night?” repeated Moody. At Harry’s nod he frowned. “There haven’t been any reported slayings. The Ministry would’ve heard by now if any more witches or wizards had been killed.”
Harry stared into Moody’s electric blue false eye.
“He’s moved onto the Muggles, hasn’t he?”
Harry nodded.
“Damn, that complicates thing.”
“In more ways than one,” agreed Sirius unhappily.
Even the four teenagers, young as they were, knew that this development would cause problems. Not least of which was that the Ministry, directed by the affluent purebloods, would likely conclude that Freddy killing Muggles instead of witches or wizards was probably a good thing.
“Any idea of where? Or who?” asked Moody.
Harry tried to ignore the looks of expectation that were now levelled at him. He sighed deeply and tried not to feel guilty about what had happened.
“Smuheltings skhool,” he began.
“A school again, huh?” mused Moody. “Makes sense; bastard likes killing children.”
Hermione, however, had latched onto the obvious question.
“How do you know which school he was at?”
Harry focused on her. Despite her earlier words of accusation, he was too tired and the situation too dire to ignore the question. He sighed again and tried to form his words as clearly as possible.
“He kihled Duhdley.”
“Dudley?” asked Ron, not immediately recognising the name.
“Shit,” swore Sirius and Moody in concert.
“Your cousin?” Moody clarified.
Harry nodded. He took some measure of satisfaction in seeing the blood drain from Hermione’s face. Of course, Ron and Ginny also grew pale at this revelation.
“Bloody hell, Harry,” muttered Ron, “He’s going after your relatives!”
“Are you all right, Harry?” asked Ginny, clearly worried that he would be affected by this latest killing.
Hermione, for once, was left with nothing to say.
“Reahly bahd drehm,” he asserted.
-oOo-
Harry spent the rest of the morning alone. Sirius having gone to work with the rest of the Order in finding a way to stop the unstoppable. His friends were scattered through the house, thinking over Hermione’s accusations and generally acting almost as moodily as Harry had earlier in the year.
Other than Madam Pomfrey’s frequent checks and Molly’s delivery of a sumptuous lunch, Harry was left to his own devices.
Forbidden from leaving his bed, other than to visit the loo, Harry was soon bored out of his mind. Which was a bad thing, as he found himself hearing Hermione’s words repeating in his head. This in turn led to him considering her accusation and asking the terrible question of if she was right.
Was he really responsible for all those deaths?
Even the arrival of Hedwig, who had flown down from Hogwarts, did little to cheer him from this dark train of thought.
Relief came with the arrival of his old Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
“Hey, Remus,” Harry greeted, relieved that Madam Pomfrey’s salves and charms had eventually healed his bruised face. At least now he could talk like a normal person, rather than a particularly bright troll. His eye and jaw were still a bit tender though.
“I see you’re looking better than you were earlier this morning,” said Remus.
“Thanks to Madam Pomfrey,” agreed Harry.
“She knows her stuff,” Remus agreed, taking a seat next to the bed. He was much more sedate about it than Sirius had been.
Looking at his old professor, Harry could tell that something was bothering the man.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Remus hesitated for only a second before answering, “I’ve just gotten back from Smeltings,” he said. “I’m afraid I am the bearer of bad news.”
Harry sighed in acceptance and asked, “Dudley really is dead then?”
It was mostly for form that he asked. He already knew that his cousin was gone - he had seen it happen, after all, in his dream. Freddy had been so kind as to project the spit roasting across the clouds that had been hanging low over the dream Privet Drive. Harry doubted he would ever look at a roast pig the same way again.
“I’m afraid so,” Remus confirmed. “He was burned to death in his bed; not unlike what happened to Umbridge.”
“What are the Muggles saying? And the Ministry?”
“The Muggle police are calling it an accident. They found a stash of cigarettes in Dudley’s things and think he was smoking in bed when the hot ash set his linen on fire.”
“And the Ministry?” repeated Harry.
Remus shook his head. “They don’t know yet.”
“What?”
“Your relatives are Muggles, so the Ministry doesn’t keep track of them much,” explained Remus. “They probably know Dudley’s dead, but until they’re told otherwise, will believe the police report - that it was an accident.”
“Is anyone going to tell them?” asked Harry, a little surprised that the Order was not coordinating better with the Ministry. With Voldemort’s return now confirmed, there should not have been any reason for them not to work together.
“I think Kingsley is going to speak to Madam Bones later today,” said Remus.
“They’re not going to blame me for this, are they?” asked Harry, suddenly cautious. “Because Dudley’s my cousin or a Muggle or something stupid?”
“No, the Ministry won’t be blaming you for what happened.”
Harry narrowed his eyes and regarded Remus closely. There was something about the way he had phrased that...
“So who is blaming me for it?” he asked.
Remus dithered.
“Who?”
Remus sighed in resignation and answered, “Your aunt and uncle.”
Harry groaned and dropped his head back. “Bloody typical,” he complained. “They always blamed me if something went wrong - glad to hear my not even being there hasn’t changed that.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that, Harry,” said Remus softly.
“Oh?” asked Harry.
“Your uncle got a little... belligerent. Tonks actually had to Stun him,” Remus reported.
“Is she all right?”
“More worried about you than anything else,” replied Remus. “Your uncle made a great many threats to throttle you if he ever saw you again.”
Harry had been told that particular threat on a fairly regular basis ever since he was old enough to understand what ‘throttled’ meant. It was, he knew, one of Vernon’s favourites.
“He also mentioned beating you bloody with his golf clubs,” Remus added.
That made Harry wince. Vernon only ever used that threat when he was furious beyond all measure. The last time he had mentioned it was when he had blown up Aunt Marge.
“I’m not going to stay with them during the summer, am I?” he asked nervously.
Remus grimaced and shook his head, “I certainly wouldn’t recommend it. Dumbledore might push for it, but I don’t think he’ll get very far.”
“Where is Dumbledore anyway?” asked Harry with a frown. “I thought he’d been staying here after Fudge and Umbridge chased him out of Hogwarts.”
“He has been,” replied Remus. “But ever since Snape was killed, he’s been going out each day.”
“Doing what?”
“Nobody knows.”
“What’s he think about all this?”
“He’s very concerned, of course,” Remus answered. “There were a few moments when he was worried that You-Know-Who had some competition - that a new dark lord had risen up.”
Harry chuckled mirthlessly, “Better not let Freddy hear that. He might get ideas.”
-oOo-
Four days and nights without sleep did nothing to help Harry escape the tender mercies of Madam Pomfrey. Nor did it do anything for the sheer exhaustion and ill-health he was suffering from.
By this point, the only things keeping Harry awake was willpower and fear.
He was determined not to give Freddy any further chances to run amuck and the only way he knew how to do that was to stay awake and deny the madman access to Harry’s dreams.
The fear that gripped him was less noble and more a matter of self-preservation. Despite the fact that Freddy was a homicidal maniac, Harry had not really been afraid of the man before. His beating at Freddy’s hands changed that. Harry was afraid of Freddy now... and fear was something that made the Lord of Nightmares all that much stronger.
There was also the niggling little detail that Freddy had repeatedly stated his intention of killing Harry when he finally had no further use for him.
Harry had a feeling that time was fast approaching.
As such he stayed awake for fear that if he did go to sleep he might very well not wake up.
“Check.”
Thankfully his friends were doing their best to help him, even as they too tried to stay awake as long as they could. Luckily they had the unwitting aid of Molly Weasley, who made sure to assign them a few chores each day, which kept them busy. Harry, still confined to his bed, was not so fortunate and was forced to endure several long hours each day where he could do nothing but sit in his bed and try not to close his eyes for too long.
Sirius, Remus and Tonks also made a point of visiting for a little while each day, as did the other adults, though not so frequently.
Replying to Ron’s latest attack on his king, Harry considered his friends.
Both Weasleys were paler than usual, something that made their freckles more defined. Their pale complexions also highlighted the growing shadows under their eyes. While not nearly as sleep deprived as Harry, they were only sleeping a couple of hours at a time and it was beginning to show.
Ron was holding up the best of them all, mostly due to his talent at ignoring the problem in favour of such topics as Quidditch, chess and food. It was a point of aggravation to the others that his appetite was unaffected by everything that was happening.
Ginny was still a little distressed and bothered by the death of her boyfriend, Michael Corner. While not bursting into tears at the drop of a hat, like Cho Chang had been doing, the younger redhead was far more quiet and introspective than she had been all year.
In a way, it reminded Harry of when he had first met her. At least she was not squeaking unintelligibly and sticking her elbow in the butter.
Hermione was looking the worst of the three, but for different reasons. Her earlier admonishments that Harry’s silence about Freddy made him culpable in the murders was now weighing heavily on her mind.
A thick letter from her parents, containing a few newspaper clippings and rumours about Springwood, had given her some idea as to just how helpless everyone was against Freddy’s depredations. Harry was surprised by how much information the Grangers had managed to dig up. Freddy had suggested that his name and exploits were being deliberately hidden by the Muggle authorities. It was a testament to their research skills and an indication that their daughter’s faculty in the regard was inherited rather than learned.
After reading some of the articles, Hermione had been very quiet for the first couple of days and had avoided meeting Harry’s eyes. She had begun to recover and had issued something of an apology on the third day of Harry’s sleeplessness.
Personally he was frequently beset by the dark and uncharitable thought that her contrition was only because of Dudley’s death.
Still, he welcomed her company, just as he did the others. Staying awake when in the company of your friends was fairly easy, he had found. It was in those quiet and lonely hours during the night when his friends dared to slumber that he found difficulty in not wanting to join them.
That they were safest while he remained awake was one reason why he did his best not to drowse off whenever they were sleeping. He was not angry with them, not like he had been with Malfoy and the others, but he preferred not to risk it.
He had not said anything, but he had never really appreciated them as much as he did right now.
“Checkmate. That’s another one to me.”
Although, the seemingly endless number of chess matches with Ron had long since become tiresome.
“What’s that make it?” asked Ginny, not really interested, but making an effort to keep their already limited conversation running.
“Twenty-seven to Ron. Nothing to Harry,” answered Hermione.
“Ouch,” Ginny observed.
“That’s me; the magical world’s favourite glutton for punishment,” joked Harry, though without any real humour in his tone.
“Care for another go?” asked Ron, a little smug over his long string of victories.
“No,” Harry answered bluntly.
“Ah well,” Ron relented. He turned to the two witches, “What about you two? Are either of you up for a game?”
“No, thanks,” declined Hermione.
Ginny snorted, “After seeing you demolish Harry like that? Sorry, but I’m not a glutton for punishment.”
Harry morbidly wondered if that would make her a more appealing target for Freddy. He seemed to like a challenge.
Realizing just where his thoughts were leading, Harry tried to think of something less likely to lead to problems later on - he did not want to jinx himself, or worse; jinx someone else.
Trying to concentrate on lighter matters, Harry took some measure of satisfaction in having stayed awake for so long and denying Freddy any more victims.
It had been fours days now since Dudley had been roasted like a pig on a spit. Since then there had been no further deaths, something that was causing cautious optimism in the Daily Prophet articles that followed the “dream killer’s” rampage. There had even been talk in the latest edition that Hogwarts might reopen, now that Freddy had supposedly been driven off by the Ministry’s Aurors under the near divine leadership of Minister Fudge.
Harry took even more satisfaction that despite Fudge’s attempts to grab the credit, the Minister’s days were obviously numbered. There had already been several articles speculating as to who would be replacing him.
Biting back a yawn, Harry’s gaze slipped back to Hermione, who was now arguing with Ron over the suggestion that they work on their homework instead of playing more chess.
Hermione suddenly squirmed and shifted about uncomfortably in her seat.
“Hermione?” asked Ron, noticing her unease.
“I just... I just had this... this feeling...” she stammered.
“You mean the feeling that someone’s tap-dancing on your grave?” asked Harry.
“Yes,” Hermione nodded.
“Happens to me all the time. Don’t go to sleep.”
-oOo-
“That boy is going to kill himself out of sheer stubbornness at this rate,” complained Madam Pomfrey.
“His desire to remain awake is perfectly understandable, given the circumstances,” said Professor McGonagall.
The two witches were relaxing for a moment in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place.
“After all,” McGonagall continued, “He was badly beaten by this Krueger madman and then, when he managed to escape, he had to watch his cousin being killed as well.”
“I know that,” admitted Pomfrey, “and I understand how it must have traumatised him.”
“But?” prompted McGonagall, sensing that there was more to her friend’s argument.
“It’s been four days since then and nobody else has been murdered,” Pomfrey noted.
“Not that we know of,” cautioned McGonagall.
“Aside from Mr Potter’s cousin, all of the victims have been magical,” argued Pomfrey. “I’m certain if there had been a killing then we would have heard something.”
“Maybe,” McGonagall reluctantly relented.
“What does Albus think of all this?”
“I don’t know - he’s been too busy running around the countryside to voice his opinion.”
“Molly certainly thinks it’s over.”
“Molly’s hoping for the best, as usual. The rest of us are maintaining a healthy sense of paranoia.”
Pomfrey snorted at that. “Alastor must be loving this. A crazy murderer that kills people in their sleep.”
McGonagall nodded in agreement, “He has been ranting about constant vigilance more than usual.”
“Well,” Pomfrey clapped her hands against her knees and stood up, “If Mr Potter won’t go to sleep on his own, then I’ll have to see to it that he goes to sleep anyway.”
“Is that really a good idea, Poppy?” asked McGonagall cautiously.
“Of course,” declared Pomfrey, wilfully misinterpreting her friend’s question. “The lad’s made good progress on his recovery from the veritaserum poisoning. A small dose of a weak sleeping potion in his dinner will be perfectly safe for him. Just enough to give him a good night’s rest. He’ll be fine.”
“I hope you’re right, Poppy, I hope you’re right,” McGonagall murmured.
“Now, where’s Molly?” asked Pomfrey as she left, heading to the kitchen. Harry Potter would be getting a good night’s sleeps tonight; she would be seeing to that.
-oOo-
Harry was not only exhausted but also dead tired. He had almost nodded off several times over the last hour. He grudgingly decided that he would have to start cutting back on how much he ate, as his drowsiness was obviously a result of Molly Weasley’s dinner. He loved the woman, truly, but she always seemed determined to stuff him to the proverbial gills with as much food as she could pile on his plate. It was even worse now that he was recovering from not just Umbridge’s poisoning of him, but also his brutal beating at Freddy’s hands.
“Ugh, I going to be as fat as Dudley at this rate,” he muttered, climbing out of bed. He almost slipped as the fact that Dudley was now dead caught up to him. Of all the people Freddy had killed, hid last victim seemed the most unreal of them all.
Continuing to grumble under his breath, Harry exited what his friends were now jokingly calling the “hospital bedroom”. He was in desperate need of a visit to the loo, to relieve himself of the large jug of pumpkin juice that had accompanied his dinner. He staggered unsteadily to the bathroom down the hall, silently cursing the fact that nobody in the Order had thought to maybe arrange something like an ensuite water closet to his room - he was supposedly under the weather after all.
“Bloody idiots never had an ounce of sense between them all,” he complained, pausing outside the bathroom door to catch his breath.
He had developed the habit of speaking out loud whenever he was alone, as an additional means of keeping himself awake. He had no idea whether it would help or not, but at this point he would have even accepted, without questions, one of Snape’s potions if he had been told it would stop him from falling asleep.
Quickly concluding his business, and grateful that his aim had improved enough that he was no longer causing a mess, Harry returned the way he had come. He paused periodically along the way; listening at the doors to his friends’ bedrooms. Hermione and Ginny’s room was quiet, as it usually was. Ron, naturally, was producing a steady rumbling grind of snores that were only slightly muted by the intervening door. Relieved that all was apparently well, Harry continued his trek back to bed.
Harry stepped into the hospital bedroom, without really bothering to look around, and closed the door behind him. Turn back to the room he was planning on heading straight back to the bed, when he noticed that there was something wrong with what his eyes were reporting.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
Finding himself standing in his bedroom, the smallest bedroom of number four Privet Drive, Harry realized that he had somehow fallen asleep without realizing it. Worse, he was obviously dreaming as well. This was partly the cause of his outburst, but mostly his ire was directed at the Hogwarts matron; whom he suspected of being the cause of his current state of slumber. Molly was also at fault, as the potion had doubtless been delivered to him in his dinner.
With tired resignation, knowing that staying in his room was not an option, Harry made his way downstairs. Standing in the small entry foyer, not far from his former cupboard under the stairs, he wondered where Freddy was.
“Hey there, lil’ boy... want a balloon?”
Harry turned around to face the entrance to the kitchen. He was a little relieved that Freddy was here, which meant that he wasn’t out and about; killing Harry’s classmates. The speech he had been preparing for this moment died in his throat, however, as he caught sight of his murderous companion.
He was dressed in shiny white overalls, with bright blue and yellow frills surrounding his neck, wrists and ankles. Four big, bright orange pompoms were dotted down his chequered red and green shirt. Giant red shoes, polished to a mirror shine, encased his feet. His face was covered in white pancake makeup, which instead of hiding his disfigurement served only to highlight his scars. Finishing the ensemble was a bulbous and shiny red nose.
“What the hell are you wearing?” asked Harry incredulously.
“I am disguised as a clown,” explained Freddy, as if his reason for doing so was perfectly obvious.
“The disguise was not necessary.”
“Ha ha, very funny. Now, why’d you take so damn long, huh? I have a little party planned and don’t wanna be late.”
.
TBC...