A swirling mist encompassed the ground, as a dark figure walked down the street. His mission was unknown, but the smell of death floated around him like the black cloak he wore. And somewhere in the bushes, a boy was hiding, lurking where the shadowed man could not find him. And air of fear had possessed him, and he was scared for his life. For should he move, death would certainly be at his feet. As the footsteps of the dark figure grew faint, the boy slowly crept out from the dry leaves, and began to follow the man at a distance. Survival of the fittest, the boy thought. I must stop him. I must protect them…

As the mist cleared, houses and street lamps started to appear, where nothing had been before. All seemed peaceful for this neighborhood. Nothing out of place or time, but it was too silent to be completely safe and harmless. Something in the quiet lurked and made the silence eerie and dark. If at all, nothing was to be trusted.

The boy's footsteps were growing softer as he approached the neighborhood. He sensed the danger within the comfort of the homes. Nothing was safe, yet nothing was seen unsafe. Looks can be deceiving, he thought. I've known, I remember. Though the neighborhood was foreign, there was something strangely familiar about it. "Don't fall for this," he said to himself. "He will trick you…He will come for you."

Tired of waiting, the boy was giving up all hope. There was, after all, the dark ghost of a man, but nowhere was this man to be found. At last, the dark-haired boy began to turn around. So much for saving them, he thought. Yet as he stepped away, a strange shadow appeared by the house to his right. The boy stood in fear, praying that he was just far enough out of sight from the cloaked fiend. The man (was he a man?) in the cloak seemed to breath in all of the happiness and comfort around him and never let it go. He replaced it with the darkness and grief, even the lanterns seemed to dim in his presence. Without a sound, the demon walked up the porch of the house, took something out of his cloak, muttered inaudible words, and unlocked the door. "Stop!" the boy cried. "It's me you want to fight! Get away from there!" But nothing could stop the cloaked man now. He opened the door, walked in, and shut it.

"No," the boy whispered in disbelief. Terror seized him, and he ran as fast as he could, never minding the unknown danger and power of the cloaked figure. "I won't let him, I won't let him!" the boy yelled. Nothing could be worse than what is to happen.

He reached the door, the door was locked. Screams could be heard from behind the door. He tugged and pulled as hard as he can. Tears were building up, but he couldn't cry now. He couldn't. He had to get to them. He pulled out a stick from the pocket of his jeans. "Alohomora!" he cried. The door unlocked, but not soon enough for him. A man and a woman could be heard upstairs, screaming in torture and agony. The boy ran upstairs, rolling his ankle as he went up. He screamed in pain, but he couldn't stop now. Nothing would stop him. He had to get to them. He had to save them…

Too late. Upon approaching a small room, he could see both of the bodies. "No," the boy sobbed. "No, please…don't leave…don't go…I need you more than ever…" The boy got down on his knees and cradled the woman's head, her green eyes lost in the light of death. Her touch was soft but growing cold with every second passing. The man laid there in his broken glasses, blood trickling down from his forehead from a small gash. And the boy…the boy could do nothing but cry. Hot tears came upon his face, knowing that there was nothing he could do to bring the life back into his beloved parents. He wept on his mother, wishing for her warm embrace, wishing he could have saved them.

No sooner had he begun to weep than a soft and malicious laugh became audible. It grew louder and louder until finally the boy looked up and beheld the shadowy figure which he had been pursuing. His tall stature seemed even bigger to the boy, down at the ground where he was kneeling. The black dark hair didn't quite cover his snake-like eyes. The sinister laugh was enough to chill the boy's bones. The tears of sadness soon turned to anger and hate. There was nothing more to be lost, only his own life. The boy's face turned to rage, jumping to his feet he lunged at his enemy with all the strength he possessed.

"Crucio!" the man cried out. Immediately, the boy fell to the floor, his body full of pain. The burning torture was nothing that he could ever stand. His limbs twitched with the agony of his flesh tearing apart within him. But the scar…the lightning-shaped scar was searing with white hot fire. The unforgivable curse was giving the best of his body, robbing him of every pleasure of mind, soul, and spirit. His screams could be heard throughout the house, ringing out into the open air. And all the while, the evil wizard's laughed could be heard throughout the land…

"Harry…Harry…are you ok, mate?"

Ron and Hermione were beside Harry's bed, trying to settle him down in his sleep. The other boys in the dorm were sleeping sound, unaware of the horrible nightmare Harry had been having.

"Please…Harry…wake up…"

Harry awoke at the touch of Hermione's had across his cheek. Her hands were cold, and felt good to his forehead. The scar felt burning hot as in the dream, but she soothed it with her gentle touch.

"Harry, what's wrong?" Ron asked.

Harry sat up from bed, looked around the room. A cold sweat insured. Why was he dreaming this? What was happening?

"Nothing…I'm fine…"

Hermione looked over at him. He was becoming increasingly distant, like he always wanted to handle things himself. She didn't like him when he was like this. She wanted to help him. And so did Ron. She looked over at Ron. He was worried about him too. There was nothing so important as being there for Harry. That was one thing that they both agreed on. But somehow, Ron was different. Helping Harry to him was one of blunt rigidness. She figured that was how it was with men, handling everything stoically and without compassion. She wanted to help him differently. She couldn't stand his suffering. Nightmares were something very real to Harry, and she wanted to take them away from him. As she looked over toward Harry again, her heart went out to him. She couldn't stand to see him suffer as a friend, but as a best friend, she couldn't stand to see him alone.

"It's ok, Harry…go back to sleep, mate…we're watching over you…"

Harry found comfort to Ron's words. He settled back down in his bed, shivering in the coolness of the room. He shut his eyes, and drifted off into a shiftless slumber. Ron and Hermione would be watching him all night.