Each day is the same.
A shout drags me from sleep. Not words, just a short bark of panic, and I instantly slip into our usual routine. Sitting up, I squint into the darkness and fumble for the light switch. It doesn't take me long to locate it, and soon our bedroom is pooled in a warm glow.
You, however, are not woken so easily.
Thrashing beside me, your face contorted into a grim mask of fear, you struggle against the sheets that have become entwined around your body. Watching you, I, too, fight – against the urge to shake you hard, until you wake from whatever nightmare has you in its grasp… until that look is gone from your face…
But I tried that once before, and the right hook you flung at my jaw didn't hurt half as much as seeing the guilt you carried around for weeks afterwards… or the time you tried to ask me to leave. As if I ever would.
Laying a gentle hand upon your shoulder, I instead focus on trying to get my voice to reach you, wherever you are.
"George! George!" I murmur softly, willing my words to penetrate the dark clouds of your thoughts. "George, wake up. You're dreaming," I press, adding the slightest pressure to my fingertips. For a moment, you stop struggling, but I can see your eyes darting about behind closed lids, watching whatever torturous reality your subconscious has created unfold.
"George!" I try once more, a little louder, digging my fingers into your shoulder a little harder as desperation bubbles to the surface. It doesn't seem to matter how many times we play out this routine; it never gets any easier.
Blinking back the prickling in my eyes, I'm about to shove you, when all at once, you're awake.
There's a flurry of movement as you sit bolt-upright in bed, eyes wide and wild, trembling limbs still twisted in the sheets. Glancing around in fright, you waver uncertainly between the horrors of the dream world and the terrors of the living one, before your eyes finally lock onto mine.
Any relief I felt at seeing you wake, though, evaporates in an instant as words begin tumbling from your lips.
"Ang, he was- he was right there, and- I don't know how, but- we were together, and-" you stutter, desperate eyes boring into my own, but even as you speak, I can see realisation dawning. It's all that I can do not to let the tears fall, as my heart almost breaks to see you relive it once again.
Because no matter what, the dreams can never be as bad as the reality – as the knowledge that your brother is dead.
"He's gone, George," I whisper, gentle hands reaching out to smooth your hair and trail soft fingers over the hollows of your cheeks. You used to look so much alike, but with him gone, you're a mere shade of what you both used to be. Always so afraid. Always so alone.
But you're not alone, I remind myself. Wrapping my arms about you, I hug your fragile frame to my chest as tightly as I dare, and let you fold yourself up against me.
No, you are not alone, and for as long as it takes, each day will be the same…
Until the day you come back to me.
Written for: 'The Things I Would Do For You Competition'. Prompts: Help you get over a recent break up or tragedy.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
CC cover image (entitled 'depth experiment') courtesy of jbarreiros on Flickr.
A/N: Thanks for reading :) Please do let me know what you thought. GG x