Nocturnal Habits, Part I, teaser
Excerpt from Chapter Three: THE NIGHTMARE'S TERRIBLE THIRST
oOo
Harry woke up, rolled to the side of his bed, and vomited up his dinner.
The vicious pain that knifed through his forehead and into his brain made it difficult for him to see.
Vaguely Harry knew he had to do something, that somewhere, somehow, this all meant something.
But breathing hurt, thinking hurt, blinking hurt. All Harry wanted was an adult to make it all go away.
No, check that, all I want is a drink, I've never been so thirsty in all my life.
But the tepid glass of water on his bedside table held no appeal.
Another wave of pain rolled into Harry's head. As it subsided to mere agony, he hissed out 'Ron. Ron!'
Harry was rewarded with a 'Wha'''?'
'Ron. Dream. My scar. Going to Dumbledore.' Harry closed his eyes tightly, fighting off a swell of nausea. He did not need to puke on his blankets. The floor was bad enough.
Slowly, painfully, agonisingly, Harry wrapped the cool, silky Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders and drew the cowl over his head. All he knew was that it felt nice after the dream fire, and that he did not want to talk to anyone who might be in the common room. He'd probably puke on their feet.
Harry had to concentrate so hard just to manage the stairs and the portrait hole, that he was panting.
And I still have more steps to go. Fuck.
The muscles rubbed against his skin like they were made from sand. Again Harry felt the overwhelming sensation of needing to drink, to swallow, nourish - replenish himself.
Perhaps the headmaster has tea, Harry thought.
It wasn't a very strong thought. It kind of drifted into his head from a distance, and when he'd finished thinking it he couldn't remember why he had thought it.
Why'd I want to drink tea? Much prefer pumpkin juice. Where am I going? That's right a walk, a stroll after my dream. What did I dream, I wonder...
But Harry was wandering more than he was wondering.
Another wave of pain drove into his head like a locomotive through a brick wall and sent Harry sprawling onto the cold stone floor.
The cool surface felt nice against his cheek. Like it was drawing the heat away from his face, and easing the pain. But a convulsion behind his navel had Harry curling his knees up to his chest, struggling to get to his feet.
Whimpering, Harry collapsed, unable to move, unable to cry out. He hurt, he was tired, he was thirsty, he needed to get up, he knew that, but his legs were burning, his stomach was heaving, he could barely breathe - his mouth was so dry. His throat was so dry...
Harry closed his eyes and drifted away...
He didn't hear the footsteps...
He didn't hear the breaths...
He didn't feel the hand, or the arms, or the warmth...
He did feel the cool. Cool air against one cheek registered through the white fog that swirled from his head and in front of his eyes.
The footsteps, Harry decided he could hear, matched the uneven rhythm that jarred his head and made his body ache. He wanted to ask what was going on, but when he opened his mouth to speak a hot smell landed on his tongue, a taste of something was in the air, so close he could breathe it, feel the particles in his mouth. They swirled all the way to his stomach and suddenly -
I'm hungry, thought Harry. I want this smell, this food.
Harry felt his mind and thoughts glide into focus. He knew he'd passed out in a corridor. He knew he was being carried. He knew the black robes that covered the arms that carried him belonged to Snape.
He could smell him.
He could smell the fibres that made the fabric. He could smell the dye that coloured it. The potions that had stained it. The tea that had been spilled on it. The skin that was underneath it. The soap it had been washed with. The flesh underneath that and the blood that flowed through it.
Harry moaned.
His body spasmed and the clarity had passed. Once more he was lost in fog. Opaque and endless...
The hunger pinched Harry's body once more, and once more it faded, but this time he asked, 'Professor? Where are we going?'.
At least, he meant to ask that, but his tongue felt thick and unwieldy in his mouth. Like it was too far away to control properly. Maybe it was in another room.
If Professor Snape answered him, Harry didn't remember. He sank into the white fog once more...
The smell, the smell of Snapeskin, washed over Harry's senses, and he struggled out of the fog. He was desperate to get closer to the scent.
Harry turned his head to where it was strongest, and was overwhelmed.
Once more a lens slipped over his mind, bringing his thoughts into focus,
Harry knew he had to stave off the fog. He knew he needed to stay focused. He knew the hunger had to be fed. He knew how to feed it.
He leaned in.
He centred.
He tasted.
And felt complete.
The satisfaction was fleeting. A backlash of magical force slammed through his scar once more and Harry collapsed back into unconsciousness.
But the fog was no longer white-opaque. The fog was red. And in it, Harry burned.
oOo
Nocturnal Habits is the meta-sequal to A Short Stroll Before Dying (a little death), but because of its rating (NC-17) I shall not post the rest of it here.
If you would like to read the rest, please visit my journal, my bio page has the link as this site blocks me from entering it on this page.
Part I is complete and is comprised of 8 chapters.
If you find this system to be inconvenient, please direct your comments to the people who run this website.
Meta-sequal simply indicates that the story arc is particularly long. At my current estimation, Nocturnal Habits will easily end up being a novella, that is some 30,000 - 40,000 words long, and contain at least two more parts.