Author's Note: Prompt- Harry's Scar. I don't own anything you recognise.
It was the same routine every night. One that consisted of multiple attempts to sleep and ultimately being woken up by a phantom pain in his forehead. It had been nearly 9 months since the Dark Lord's defeat, meaning it had been 9 months since Harry had calmly walked to his death, and yet nightmares still plagued him.
They hadn't started back up immediately; there had been a short period just after the dark side's defeat during which no nightmares occurred and the phantom pain that spiked through his head every night did not exist. But after around two weeks of peaceful sleep the nightmares began and his scar began to ache with each one.
Each nightmare was slightly different. Some of them were images Harry had seen during the war, others were events he hadn't personally witnessed but knew had come to pass. The most terrifying ones were becoming much more regular. These were the nightmares when Harry watched the people who hadn't actually perished during the war die.
Some nights were better than others; Harry had grown so used to watching some of these people's deaths that it no longer bothered him as much as it should. But tonight was not a good night.
Their screams echoed around his head, twisting and swirling into a persistent storm of wailing echoes. Before him stood a very much alive Voldemort, surrounded by a cloud of black mist that seemed to be growing limbs and reaching for him.
But it wasn't Voldemort nor was it the cloud that filled Harry with dread. It was what lay between them. Lifeless bodies…a lot of lifeless bodies. The grey stone floor they were sprawled across looked to be stained permanently crimson, the red liquid seeping into the cracks and creating small scarlet rivers.
Looking closer, Harry could see that some of the bodies were still breathing, but the breaths were short and laboured. Fingers of several of the bodies still twitched as blood ran down them, but it didn't take long for all the bodies to still and Harry watched as the last stuttering breath was ripped from the last ones' chest.
It was only after several minutes of staring that Harry began to realise what he was actually looking at. The bodies were not those of strangers like Harry had originally thought, but of people he knew. Several red headed people lay closest to Harry and he recognised each one of them.
Whatever emotional barrier Harry had put in place crumbled along with his knees. He hit the floor with a jolting force that seemed to shake the whole world, although most of Harry's world now lay with blank stares before him.
Ron and Hermione were closest, their hands interlocked even in death. They both had dry tear tracks marring their now cooling skin. Blood had oozed out of several long gashes on both their necks.
Not too far off laid the rest of the Weasleys. Fred and George laid close together; despite knowing that one has actually died without the other, even Harry's nightmares couldn't pull them apart.
Continuing to study the still forms in front of him, now through blurry eyes, Harry found he could name every one of them and could remember what they had been like alive.
A sudden sound forced Harry to stop staring at his lost friends and instead focus his attention back on the pulsing cloud and the white face it framed.
To Harry's horror, he found that he couldn't move from the spot he knelt in, he was frozen much like the expressions and eyes of his friends. The prickles of fear that came with that realisation spiked and began to jab at Harry's spine and organs as Voldemort began to move.
He was slowly making his way over the bodies without disturbing them. His empty eyes were locked with Harry's and a vicious smile was the only thing that portrayed any emotion.
Everything seemed to freeze with only Voldemort and his cloud moving. As he drew nearer Harry braced himself for whatever dark attack Voldemort would decide to throw at him, but none came.
Instead Voldemort stopped about a foot away and just continued to watch Harry. Eventually Voldemort decided he had found whatever he was looking for in Harry's expression and moved his hands out to his sides.
Not liking the fire that seemed to ignite in Voldemort's gaze Harry attempted to move again and then suddenly stopped. The faces of his friend's bodies before him were beginning to bubble like a potion in a cauldron. The skin was melting and it started to drip off and join the rivers of red already flowing away from the now bony pile. Thick streams of a cream colour mixed with the crimson and formed a dull pink that slowly flowed away.
The next thing Harry knew, Voldemort's hand was pressed to his forehead, and the cloud had engulfed him. The scream he let out was tortured and long. The searing pain that shot through his head at the Dark Lord's touch was enough to bring him to tears. It was worse than any pain his scar had caused him when Voldemort was alive and after several drawn out seconds, Harry found himself jumping up in bed.
It had been nothing more than another dream and yet Harry's scar still throbbed with the memory of it. Getting up and heading towards the bathroom Harry vowed to visit a healer in the next few days. What Harry wasn't expecting to see in the bathroom mirror was his lightning scar open, as if the cut had just been made.
Perhaps the war wasn't quite as over as he originally thought.