The Marauders - Order of the Phoenix Part Three

XC: Harry's Nightmare

Harry Potter awoke with a start to find himself safe, tucked into the spare bed in Ron Weasley's bedroom in the top floor of the Burrow. He lay panting and trying desperately to catch his breath, even as the room felt as though it were spinning all around him, like he'd fallen from a great height and somehow managed to land there on the mattress rather squarely and miraculously in one piece. He reached up, his hand sweaty and shaking, and let his finger tips trace the lightning bolt shaped gash on his forehead, which felt as though it were on absolute fire, like there was real electricity running through the puckered, jaggedy edges.

He closed his eyes.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, he told himself, trying to pace the gasps out.

He opened his eyes gain and snuck a glance at Ron's bed across the violently orange colored room. Canons stuff was everywhere, giant posters of Oliver Kent flashed and moved around all the walls. The seeker's blonde hair blew gently in the wind and he clutched his broomstick, holding up fluttering golden snitches and grinning, teeming with confidence that few people could ever possess.

God alive, what was it like to have that much bloody confidence? Harry wondered. Not that Harry wasn't fairly confident himself, or alright at coming off as though he was at the very least, but nothing compared to the bloke in the posters on Ron's bedroom walls.

Especially not right now.

Please don't wake up, Harry silently begged Ron as he rolled himself out of the bed where he lay and crept carefully to the wide open window that overlooked the roof of the burrow. A slight breeze came in and Harry carefully climbed up onto the window sill, making sure not to knock over the tank of frog spawn Ron had growing on top of a bookshelf by the window, and climbed onto the roof. Crawling, Harry made his way 'round the corner to get some air where he wouldn't be easily spotted by anybody else in all the world.

He sat there, knees to his chest, back against the cool bricks of the chimney, and stared up at the stars, blearily because he hadn't bothered at grabbing his glasses before coming out onto the roof. He gripped his ankles with his palms and just breathed for a few minutes, trying to keep his mind on exactly where he was and reminding himself he was safe and the stuff he'd been dreaming was exactly that -- a dream.

No, a nightmare.

Which would have been fine except for one very unnerving fact: This was the second day in a row that he'd had the horrible visions in his sleep. The very same horrible visions, down to the very same horrible details that he couldn't quite bring to the forefront of his mind, but somehow knew intuitively had not changed from the first night to the second.

Was it a coincidence?

He'd written Sirius that very morning when he'd woken up, telling him about how his scar had hurt.

A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar hurt again. Last time that happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But I don't reckon he could be anywhere near me now, can he? Do you know if curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward?

He'd written and rewritten the question about 170 times, trying to make sure the wording wouldn't alarm his godfather too much. He could just picture Sirius getting really upset and worried about the question and coming flying back to check on him. Last Harry knew, Sirius had said that he and Professor Lupin were somewhere together, and Harry thought that it was likely they were not in the UK any longer because the bird that had delivered the letter hadn't been one he'd seen 'round Little Whinging. It was best if Sirius was out of the country - and even better that he wasn't alone at it - and Harry didn't want to be the reason Sirius was back in England and picked up by aurors somewhere. He didn't want to be the reason Sirius ended up back in prison, or - worse - on the receiving end of the Dementor's Kiss.