Percy Jackson and the Triwizard Tournament (Goblet of Fire)

Chapter 20: Nightmares and House Elves

The Riddle House was quiet that night. Some muggle police tape was plastered along the front door, but that didn't stop its visitor.

He didn't even use the door, not once. A plain wall placed inside the kitchen was encompassed in shadows, being the fact that the windows didn't reflect any natural light inside. Just tranquil, bluely-tinted moonlight, seeping through the dusty glass. The wooden planks creaked, even though nobody walked. The moth-eaten curtains swayed in the window, even though there seemed to be no breeze.

But the shadows on that very wall grew darker, as the entire place grew cold. Cold was the best way to describe it. Fear, darkness, unnatural... it radiated death.

Then the shadows clotted together, solidifying into a humanoid figure. Fingertips reached for air, until a fully-formed hand was forged from nothing but the inexplicable "unnaturality." The shadow clung to the open space, slowly parting from its 2-dimensional form.

A pale boy gasped for air, as he tumbled out of the hideous-wallpapered surface.

The visitor steadied his breath, he arrived at the Riddle House.

Unbeknownst to the witness of this strange night, the pale boy felt weakened... and lost. The shadows still tried to snuff out the air in his lungs, as he hastily pushed himself away from the walls. Yes, the shadows were filled with greed, trying to feed off its weakened victim. His transportation was failing due to the past... terrible, horrific events.

But no matter; he had survived. Studying his blade as the pale boy rose, he then unsheathed his weapon and walked up the stairs.

Unlike the groundskeeper, the pale boy contained a grace in his stealth. Subconsciously hiding against the wall, slinking up the wooden steps in complete and utter silence. He reached out his hand to part the door further, pushing it just enough aside to enter the room across the hall.

The pale boy lowered his weapon, a smirk forming across his lips. The witness, or the dreamer, didn't see what he was looking at. Control over the subconscious was difficult, dreams are not to be meddled with. And no matter the dreamer's curiousness, the line of vision wouldn't budge.

That is when the door made a faint creak, slowly drifting even farther open because of the breeze. The pale boy muttered something softly with amusement, "Gotcha." And the witness of the dream finally saw what he was staring at. An empty chair. But a recognizable one...

The chair in which Voldemort had once sat, once accompanied by Peter Pettigrew, and the stranger.

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Harry coughed for air, pushing his quilts and blankets frantically aside in hopes to wash the dream away. He rubbed his clammy, sweaty palms through his hair.

There was nothing particularly frightening of the dream, it was the unknown factor in Harry's nightmare which caused panic. The same boy, roughly around his own age,... what was he planning?

Percy leaned his back against his very own bed's headboard. He looked at Harry with concern... 

"Bad dreams?" Percy asked, before glancing down at the palm of his own hands, resting on top of his red and gold quilt.

Harry steadied his breathing, before giving a nod in agreement. He didn't realize why he responded so quickly, but Percy seemed so... comfortable with the thought of nightmares, so it wasn't a surprise when he leaned his head against the wall and mumbled,

"I have them too."

He furrowed his eyebrows, scrunching them together, "You-" he inhaled shaky breaths, "You do?" Percy's head remained limp against the wall, but he closed his eyes, frowning.