"Fuck, you're good".
"Hmph. Told you", he replied, rolling off The Other Man and sitting on the side of the bed, his head turned away from his partner. In a slight rush he pushed himself up from the bed and started dressing, glancing out of the bedroom window to greet the rising sun. "Fuck" he thought to himself as he pulled a slim fitting - vodka stained - top over his head, "I seriously need to stop doing this on weekdays".
"You can see yourself out, right?" The Other Man asked from the bed, pulling the duvet up under his arms and settling in to sleep.
"Yeah", he replied as he finished the knot on his trainer. "Thanks".
It was a short walk from the bedside to the front door, but the concept was all too familiar.
The wind was bracing against his exposed neck as he trudged on through the early morning drizzle, head bowed low to try and afford some protection from the blowing gales. He should really have known better, it's hardly the first time this has happened; it doesn't hurt to grab a proper coat before going out. Alas, no good comes from "should'a, could'a, would'a" - hindsight is a cruel mistress. Though, perhaps a mistress that should really be listened to a little more often.
Scanning the street around him through narrowed eyes, he suddenly turned to his right and disappeared into a narrow back street. He was a seemingly average looking man, average height, average build - though a quick look under his messy mop of dark hair revealed a faded scar barely visible above his right eyebrow. Curiously, it seemed to bear some resemblance to a lightning bolt.
Well, that is of course, until it didn't.
One moment, the man was walking towards a rather bland looking garage door, the next he was gone with a shaky twist and the crack of a bullwhip.
The space that had moments previously been filled by the average man with the curious scar, suddenly seemed far from average itself.
Across the city, the same crack resounded around a dark, empty flat. Filtered morning sunlight broke through gaps in the heavy, drawn curtains blocking the windows. The gentle glow through the room cast light across a mess of half-drunk plastic water bottles, tattered furniture, piles of magazines and unopened mail, a thoroughly unmade bed, and an owl. At the sound of the crack, the owls head slowly turned, and one could almost discern a look of disapproval. Impossible.
The cause of the crack – the very average man – moved across the studio flat and onto his bed in one swift yet entirely graceless motion. After a few moments of stillness, one trainer was kicked off, dropping with a small thud onto the carpeted floor. A groan accompanied the next, as it resolutely stayed on his foot, the toes of the other failing to get a grasp of it.
"Don't go out tonight Harry" the man said in an agitated high squeak, "you know fine well what will happen and you know you don't like it".
"Yes, Hermione" he replied to himself, in his own voice, "No Hermione. Three bags full Hermione".
Harry sat up to continue undressing himself, wincing slightly at the dull pain that was starting to grow from his backside. Stripped down to his boxer shorts, he stood and went towards the kitchen at the opposite side of the studio flat, manoeuvring around Jenga blocks from last weeks party games and pouring himself a glass of water. Swallowing two Paracetamol, he carried the glass back to his bed, placed it down, and thumped back onto the mattress. Seeming to sense he was settled for the night now, perhaps suggesting a frequency to these events, the owl chirped quietly, extended her wings, and glided across to the bed. Harry cooed over her, stroking her head with one hand while he drifted off into a deep, drunken, sleep; sure of the nightmares that were always to follow.
"You can't win Harry, you never will, you never did" Voldemort whispered, pressing his lips against Harry's ear.
Harry fought against the restraints, but they only grew tighter. He felt himself sinking into the ground, the soil cold and hard. His legs unable to move at all.
"You're wrong! You know- you know."
Harry's breath was catching in his throat, the ground engulfing him faster and faster.
"You know what happened!"
Voldemort threw his head back and laughed, gliding away from Harry and drawing in the circle of Death Eaters that surrounded them.
"The foolish boy never learns!" he shouted, grinning manically as he walked slowly back towards Harry.
Harry's heart was beating uncomfortably hard in his chest. The ground was almost up to his neck. He couldn't breath. He was going to die. He needed to breath. Quick.
"Stop it!" he shouted. "You're not real!"
Voldemort stopped grinning. Harry felt himself slowing down.
"You're not real. You're a dream. Just a dream".
Harry shot up in his bed, startling Pudge, who had been sleeping on his headboard.
"Just a dream" he said. "Just a dream. He's gone. Just another dream".
The sweat on his back started to feel cold against the draft from the broken window frame. Harry hopped up, his legs shaking, and walked to the bathroom. He leaned over the toilet, balancing himself with one arm on the wall as he used it. Moving to the sink, he ran the cold tap for a minute, resting against the cold porcelain as he stared at himself in the mirror. Once full emerald eyes now looked back at him with a haunting emptiness. Leaning down, Harry splashed cold water on his face a few times, waiting for the sensation to start becoming uncomfortable. When it did, he stopped, reached for a towel, and dried himself.
Cars could be heard from outside, indicating the early morning commute to work was beginning. He must have slept a couple hours.
Harry walked out of the bathroom and rustled around the pile of clothes on the edge of the sofa. He pulled on some joggers and a woolen jumper, before turning and grabbing a pair of thick socks from the only pile of fresh clothes he had in his drawers.
Moments later, the same crack that had filled the studio flat earlier that morning descended once more upon the dark of the room, leaving a disgruntled owl alone once more.