A/N: Well, this is what happens when you have recurring nightmares and need a way to purge them. this is something totally random, and i am hoping to write more.
Italics: the past, dreams.
Italic bold: Letter
My breath comes in harsh pants that grate on my ears. I can feel the very air I take in tearing through my throat. My blood pounds furiously in my ears in time with my heavy footfalls as I race through the streets. I hear something behind me and I flinch, pushing forward as I refuse to look back. For a horrible moment, my vision veers to the side, but I keep racing along the sidewalk, leaning forward and taking full advantage of my adrenaline. I trip on an unlevel crack in the sidewalk and launch myself off the sidewalk to tear across the street.
A horn wails as I brush by a lonely car close enough to feel the heat from the headlights. I pay no attention and dash along a side street, ignoring crosswalks and all pedestrian laws. In the back of my mind, I notice the lack of the steady slap-slap of my bag banging against my hip. The thought quickly slips away as my mind reels for the slightest moment.
I could have sworn I just heard gentle breathing directly behind me. There. That was definitely a warm gust of air on my ear.
I slam my elbow back into a gut and swerve to the left, stumbling across a sidewalk and tripping up a grass incline. "Gotcha." A smooth and velvety voice exclaims. I pitch forward into the lawn with the low sound of laughter in my ears as dirt leaps into my mouth. I wrench my eyes open and start to scramble forward on my kneesā¦
My blankets twist around my lower half and although I have lost cooperation of my legs, my arms collapse under my momentum and I pitch head first off of my bed onto the floor. I hang with my upper half twisted on the carpet, lower half tangled up on the bed, and try to even out my breathing from my horrendous dream. Sweat slithers down my nose and my eyes well up with tears from the stinging salty liquid as it leaks into my eyes.
I have the sudden urge to cry. I sob and slowly pull my body entirely onto the floor, wrapping my blankets around me. I disregard the fact that they had previously been tucked tightly into my mattress. I curl up, vainly trying to hide under my bed to escape the dreary light leaking from my un-curtained window. I seem to have acquired a migraine, just peachy. I'm insanely light sensitive, and from the pounding in my temples, I am undoubtedly light-headed as well. I pitifully drag myself, blankets and all, to the counter, not 4ft from my bed, that I like to call my kitchen. I shiver as carpet melts to tile and I attempt to drag myself to my feet, with the help of my precious counter. I'm fairly certain that cracking sound is me breaking the plastic from said, cheap 70's style, counter. Well, that's just depressing. I lean on the counter momentarily to regain balance, and heave my heavy blankets over my shoulders. Part of the crummy stuff (the plastic) snaps off of my now hated counter. I stare blankly at the puce plastic molding, then shuffle towards the trash can in the corner of my miniscule kitchen. I bleakly drop it in and it lands on an old banana peel with a plop. I sigh in derision.
My morning is not going well. I dig morosely in my kitchen drawer, that I have dubbed the birthday drawer, and fish out a half-eaten bar of chocolate from Honeydukes. Hermione is the best. The sweet takes the edge off of the pain in my head and I chew slowly while squinting at the insides of my refrigerator. My choices are bleak this morning, so I quickly retreat. Slowly, I trudge back to my bed and heave all of my blankets down off of my shoulders and shiver at their retreating warmth. I flop down, belly first, on my bed to hang over the side and paw through my wimpy pile of clothes for a semi-clean shirt.
What a dream. I think to myself. I don't remember drinking last night after work, but I muse have. Shucking my shirt off over my head, I pull on an over-sized tee of a god awful age and turn away, failing to notice the grass and bloodstains on the otherwise pristine white button-up that I had just removed. I scan my room and pause, where's my bag? I peek into the tiny bathroom then glance around my one room frantically before grabbing a pair of shoes and dashing to the door.
I wrench the flimsy thing open and stare down in open shock at the floor, where my green messenger bag lays. A note flutters down when I lift it up.
"Maybe next time you will invite me in?" Spiky cursive writing flashes at me and I grasp the note tightly as I back up with a gasp.
"Here's your room, sweet. Go on, go to bed."
I stumble inside and crash onto my bed into deep slumber.
I slam the door shut and lock it tight while frantically reaching up to feel my neck.
Two puncture marks meet my finger-tips.
A/N: Harry needs help. He's going to go to... well, you can guess who. But here's my question. Should this ahem mysterious person be the one who is haunting him? Or should said (snarky, greasy, you get the point) person save him from aforementioned haunting person?
