Chapter 7: Trouble with Trolls
When Harry got out of the Hospital Wing a day and a half later, he found little had changed. His spill from the broom had become something of a joke among the Gryffindors, especially Ron. Though, truth be told, his twin brothers began to get a little sick of it. Harry guessed they had seen a few too many friends fall off their brooms, especially after being hit by Bludgers. Hermione looked disgusted with the whole thing, something that made Harry feel a bit better. She found him before Transfiguration and asked how he was feeling.
The weeks wore on, and between the Quidditch injury and Flint's subsequent threats to boot him off the team, Harry was rapidly approaching his breaking point.
Tipping the balance was the return of something else. Something that haunted him every time that Halloween began to draw close: his nightmares.
None was ever identical to any other, but the basic events remained the same.
Harry knew he hadn't actually the seen the events of 31 October 1981, but that didn't stop his mind from filling in the blanks.
His mother and father knelt feebly before a tall, cloaked figure, begging for their lives.
Practically dripping with malice, their assailant cruelly and heartlessly dispatched them, felling each with a jet of sickly light to the chest. The air smelled of ozone, and of death. Dark energies rippled through the small cottage, smothering the light, even the temperature yielding as it fell abruptly.
The castor stood over him now, a defenseless baby lying in a wooden crib, strangely silent, perhaps futilely trying to understand the events that were happening around him. Destiny meant nothing to an infant.
The murderer raised his wand anew, a twisted look of satisfaction etched into his features. He spoke the words, Harry's eyes were blinded by a green flash, and his eyes deafened by a rushing sound that drew closer and closer. A pain ripped through his forehead, and he cried out in helpless agony, crying for Mo, for Father. For Auntie.
Another scream tore through the air, a shriek of anger and fear that could have come from nothing that deserved to be called human.
Harry sat up in bed, drenched in cold sweat, a scream in his throat. His heart was racing, his scar burned duly. Closing his eyes and taking in a shaky breath, he tried to calm himself. His body began to rebel, trying to expel whatever it was that was causing him such discomfort. Shaking badly, he unlocked the hangings on the third try with a muttered, "Lily Evans," and stepped to the ground. He staggered into the loo, his feet freezing on the cold dungeon floor.
After relieving himself, he collapsed back into bed, and his sleep mercifully held no more dreams. Awaking groggily, he took a long, hot shower, dressed and headed upstairs to the Great Hall. Taking a seat at the end of the Slytherin table, he tried to maintain his awareness. It wouldn't make things any better if he fell asleep in class.
From the conversation around him and a few questions, Harry quickly discovered that one of the reasons that the school was laughing at his fall was that they believed he had tried some foolish stunt and so become a sitting duck before he was hit with the Bludger. No one seemed concerned with a state-of-the-art broom jerking and jolting in an attempt to unseat its rider. This only added to Harry's mounting anxiety that he wasn't going to survive to see his twelfth birthday. He wanted to keep his promise to Daphne that he would remain until Christmas, a promise that he had made himself, desperately unwilling to admit defeat in his First Year.
Malfoy warned Harry that if he lost another Quidditch match, he wouldn't be riding a broom again. Despite his best reason, those words filled him with fear and apprehension.
