Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, sets, and events are property of J.K. Rowling and I am making no profits off of this dribble.

Encroaching Smoke

Screaming. Lights flashing everywhere. Heat and fire. I tumble head over heels, weightlessly through the air. My wife's knickers flash in my face as she scrambles to hold the lacy hem of her nighty. My little girl wordlessly mouths "Daddy! Daddy! Make me stop flying!" My son accidentally kicks her in the face as he flops senselessly on his tummy like a fish. My head lolls another direction as I spin. The camp is on fire. There are shadowy figures beneath us and clamouring customers. A dull section of my brain wonders if I will have to refund them. My wife floats by again and I bob into some branches quite painfully. A cold wave of raucous laughter bubbles from below…

I start painfully out of my slumber as I sit up and bang my head against the cold metal headboard. I am in a cold sweat and my fingers feel heavy as they scramble to find the chain on the lamp beside me. As the room flickers into view, the last fleeting impressions of the nightmare which awoke me dissipates into the shadows, once again forgotten. It seems these dreams have become more common as the summer once again stretches out before me.

I slip my feet into my fuzzy space rocket slippers (a gift from my boy, Tommy), and creep out of the room without so much of a creak of the old floorboards. I wander pass the doors of my children, cracking open the doors to ensure their safety. My daughter's arms are wrapped around a fluffy stuffed ferret we got her for her birthday. The revolving night light floats stars, moons, and space ships eerily across its white fur. My son, on the other hand, has pulled the blanket over his head again. In August of last year he developed an awkward habit of doing this, which has always made me fear that he would smother himself in his sleep.

I continue on into the kitchen. As I fumble for the light, out of the corner of my eye I see a white, stretched skull hovering by the cupboard. I flick the light switch with enough from between by tightly clasped fingers to cause a little pain, and grab the broom by the door. A momentary reflex which I do not remember the origins of causes me to thrust the broom at the cupboard like a harpoon, and it makes contact with a muffled BANG. It's only then that I realize that it's just the moonlight playing on the stained white door. My heart is racing, though I don't know why. My breaths catch in my throat like they are trying to strangle me. I slide to the floor against the wall, and bury my face in my hands. What is wrong with me?

A minute or two later I hear creaking in the hall. My heart stops and I try to swallow my breath. A shadow crosses me, and I see a hand raising a funny straight stick… the hair on the back of my neck prickles uncomfortably…

"Dear, what are you doing?" A voice suddenly demands. I look up. My wife, Clara, is holding her hair curler while dressed in her fluffy pink robe. She looks very frightened.

"Nothing, nothing…" I mumble, standing and taking her hand in mine. "I woke up, thought I'd get something to drink… thought I saw someone in the kitchen, that's all."

She 'tuts' at me skeptically as I fill a glass with tap water and gulp it down. My heart has almost returned to normal. Clara stands the broom up against the wall again and takes a seat at the scrubbed wooden table by the window.

"I wonder if business will be good again this summer," she asks suddenly. "I would like to take a holiday. With our savings from last year we might be able to afford a trip 'cross the Chanel."

I grunt as approvingly as I can as I sink into a seat beside her. The moon is full and bright tonight. It's a wonder that anything could bother me on such a clear night.

"I wonder, sometimes," I say suddenly. "Last year, it was unusually good, you know. I wonder if there's something which happened, but I just can't seem to remember."

My wife nods in agreement. "Like a dream, last summer was."

"Or somethin'," I continue. "I just get the impression that there's something important that happened, but it's all slipped away. Something big."

"Mmm," she replies noncommittally. "I suppose. Oh well." She stifles a yawn and pushes out from the table. "Back to bed with me. You better get some more before the morning too. We've got that 11 o'clock group from Brighton, coming out to learn wilderness skills, or some other bullocks."

"Just let me finish my water," I say as she passes through the door, "'N I'll be right up."

With a nod, Clara is gone, leaving me once again with my thoughts. Last summer… like a dream? Somehow I feel like it was more of a nightmare… but I can't seem to place the feeling. So matter how I focus, the fact seems to be just a step or two ahead, dancing just out of reach. I'm sure it's something I shouldn't have forgotten, somehow, but I just did, if that makes any sense.

I drain my glass, and put it in the sink before climbing the stairs back to the master bedroom.

Last summer perhaps reminds me too much of these dreams I've been having lately…

Like encroaching smoke from a somehow distant fire…