His scar burned. It certainly wasn't a tingle, or an occasional piercing like the jab of a needle. No, it felt worse. His forehead ached, seared. When he closed his eyes, he only saw white-hot light against his lids. Nausea curdled in his stomach; bile rose into his throat.
An image of Voldemort flashed before him. The Dark Lord, in his deformity and soot-black garb, cackled.
"Having a nice time of things, Potter?"
Harry tried to stand, but soon collapsed on the floor in a heap. He vomited, screeching and heaving as he expelled the contents of his stomach.
Voldemort haunted him, as if watching his every move and hearing every thought. It sometimes felt like he was able to view the world through Harry's eyes. Harry felt helpless against his enemy's intrusions.
Harry cried, the brine of his tears marking a trail down his cheek.
"How am I supposed to save everyone when I can't save myself?"
