AUTHOR'S NOTE: The following story has tie-ins with my fic "The Airwaves War," a multi-crossover epic in which Harry & Company enter the world of TV and movies to fight a race of creatures called the Stacyx (pronounced Sta-six). One of the main characters in this story is Robert O'Bannon, son of my recurring OCs Jimmy & Mireet O'Bannon. Both attended Hogwarts during the events in "The Goblet of Fire," Jimmy as an American exchange student and Mireet as part of the Beauxbatons contingent from France. For more about them, check out my fics "The Puck Drops Here," "Moving On," "Lessons of Life and Death" and "A Fitting Tribute."

AUTHOR'S NOTE II: Obviously, I don't own the Harry Potter universe.

CHAPTER 1: NIGHT TERRORS

Varley Vanacker hated this time of night. Closing time at The Leaky Cauldron. The chairs turned up, the candles blown out, the CLOSED sign put up in the window.

It was time for him to go home. To go to bed, to do the one thing he feared the most.

Sleep.

"Have a good night, Varley," Hannah Longbottom called to him from the base of the steps leading to her upstairs flat.

Varley grunted and snapped off a wave as he exited the pub.

He took his time walking the dark, deserted streets of Diagon Alley. The longer he could put off sleep, the better. Who knew what nightmare would visit him this time. Something from the Second War with Voldemort, perhaps? Maybe he would see the face of his wife Dawn, killed in a Death Eater ambush in the North York Moors. Or would he be tortured by images of the great battle with the Stacyx?

Varley's hand moved to his stomach. He closed his eyes, remembering the burning sensation of the bullet fired by one of the monsters' allies. The screams echoed in his head . . . his screams. Until that day he never knew a man could scream that loud.

His shoulders sagged. How many years had it been since he had a peaceful night's sleep? Was there any way to end this torture? He'd tried a variety of potions. Unfortunately, they only proved a temporary solution. And most of the potions he used to either deny him sleep or give himself pleasant dreams were heavily regulated by the Ministry of Magic. Ingredients proved hard to come by. Even the peddlers in Knockturn Alley were sometimes hesitant to sell him any.

A flash of movement caught Varley's eye. He looked right and saw a window front painting of a man with long dark hair and colorful clothing waving a sword back and forth. Above the figure were the words Pirates of the Caribbean: The Next Generation. On Sale Monday.

Varley groaned as his gaze moved to the store marquee.

THE MAGNIFICENT MUGGLE SHOP: A SUBSIDIARY OF WEASLEYS WIZARD WHEEZES.

A scowl marred Varley's drawn, wrinkled face as he eyed the vid-cards lining the window front. The newer ones he didn't recognize. But the classic ones, like Dr. Who, Star Trek and Robotech, flooded his brain with memories. Memories that made him shiver. Explosions, bolts of light from spells and lasers and bullets, the roar of dinosaurs, and those damn pepper pot creatures screeching, "Exterminate!"

He turned away, a breath caught in his throat. He'd be dreaming of the war with the Stacyx tonight. He knew it. He'd wake up drenched in sweat, screaming, scrambling for his wand until he realized the battle had been in his head . . . again.

Is this my curse for joining the Order of the Phoenix? Why had fate decided to punish him for taking up a righteous cause? Why couldn't he have a normal life? His boss, Hannah Longbottom, did. She lost her mother in the war with Voldemort, then lost her first husband, Ernie MacMillan, to the Stacyx. She managed to pick up the pieces of her life and marry the heroic Neville Longbottom.

Varley's frown deepened as he thought of Hannah, back at her apartment with her husband and two kids, talking, maybe laughing, definitely getting ready to send Efram and Alicia to Hogwarts.

Me? I just have a small, drab flat, with nightmares my only company.

Why can't I . . .

A hoarse voice floated out of the alley next to him. He stopped in his tracks. There was something familiar about it. But . . . no, it can't be.

He turned and took a few steps toward the alley. He could only make out silhouettes, one a person in a dark cloak. The other . . .

Varley gasped.

Both figures turned toward him.

"No . . . no." Varley stepped back, trembling. "It can't be. You're dead. You're supposed to be dead!"

He turned and ran.

Varley Vanacker only managed a few steps before pain exploded throughout his body. He froze, trying to take a breath.

All feeling left his body. He crumpled to the ground. Fear of death was replaced by a sense of relief.

Relief that, finally, the nightmares would end.

NEXT: The Gathering