Authors note: I meant to start this when I signed up, which was a while ago now, but I have bursts of inspiration and then they die. My last burst of inspiration was killed writing Alarice Tey's How Many Words Challenge. My second burst was killed by one of the RP sites I'm on. And before I knew it, the deadline had passed. But yea, I'm doing this as a challenge rather than as a competition entry. A-trip-to-Honeydukes' Magic Number Competition. Seven deadly sins, seven prompts. I'm starting with Sloth, and the prompt nightmare. I don't like this one, I think I missed the meaning of Sloth completely, but this is the only inspiration I have.

1. A lethargy of the mind and body

Harry was kneeling behind the remains of a stone statue, wand gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles shone white, his heart was pounding in his chest, and his legs felt like jelly, his whole body shook with adrenaline and fear. Every time he peered over his makeshift shield, another spell was tossed at him, bursting in a shower of sparks against the abused stone. The situation had a kind of fuzziness around it, like he wasn't really there. He brushed the thought aside as he heard voices and footsteps getting closer, and he shifted his white knuckle grip on his wand. Time to start moving again. He darted from behind the statue, dashing towards a stone wall with one arm over his head in a vague attempt to protect his head from oncoming spells. He fired one in their general direction, heard them laugh as it missed them by a mile and hit another statue.

He couldn't remember where he was. The colours had been leached out of everything, leaving the world in a drab greyscale. There was nothing but the fear, the yells of the people attacking him, and smooth, polished wand in his grip. He wondered briefly at how he was able to run, his legs felt so weak, the shakes were threatening to take over, all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Of course, he hadn't actually planned to lie down and sleep, until the spell hit him in the back with a force that sent him flying forwards, slamming into the ground several feet ahead of him. The grass underneath him felt. . . strange. The smells weren't right. His back didn't hurt as much as it should. The fuzziness around the edges of his mind was getting thicker, rolling in like fog until everything faded away – the grass, the statue, the smell of smoke and ashes, the sound of coarse voices laughing and the shock of being hit with a spell in the back and falling on his face. . .

Harry slowly returned to the land of the living, grumbling under his breath and his back aching. How long had he been lying on the sofa? The coffee table in front of him was littered with old copies of the Daily Prophet, empty crisp bags, cartons with grains of rice stuck to the bottom and coated in congealed sweet and sour sauce, and empty potion vials. The room itself was a mess, the coat hanger had fallen off the wall and left where it fell, on top of jackets, scarves and hats that were never worn. The mantelpiece, along with everything on it, had a layer of dust, the two armchairs looked like they hadn't been sat on in months. His back still hurt, a dull ache that hadn't gone away with the stint in St. Mungo's after his last assignment as an Auror. He sat up and the pain intensified, so he lay back again, flicking his wand absently at the kitchen. The snap of the kettle being switched on could be heard from where he lay, and he looked around him for a moment before finding the tv remote on the floor.

He barely heard the knock on the door over the sound of the silly muggle movie on the tv, and ignored it, but the knocking got more and more insistent the longer he ignored it, so he struggled into a sitting position, then standing, and shuffling to the door in a pair of pyjama bottoms and a tattered dressing gown. When was the last time the door had been opened? He couldn't remember. Ginny and Hermione barged into the apartment, wrinkling their noses at the state of the place. Now that he was looking at it properly, with other people in the dingy apartment, it was a lot messier than he had initially thought. He made a half-hearted attempt to clean up, mumbling apologies and telling them that he hadn't been expecting visitors. Hermione only sniffed in response, her nose still wrinkled, and Ginny just stood there, watching him with a strange look in her eyes. The kettle clicked in the kitchen and he took it as an opportunity to bustle out of the room, digging three clean cups out of a cupboard and wincing at the pain that shot through his back with bending to search the cutlery drawer for spoons.

When he came back to the sitting room with three cups of tea held awkwardly in his hands, the sitting room had been cleared of the worst of the mess, all empty food packaging was gone, the dust had been cleared off the surfaces, and his blanket had been folded neatly and thrown over the back of the sofa. Ginny and Hermione sat on the two armchairs, and took a cup each without a word. He flopped back onto the sofa, avoiding their gazes and settling into the only position that didn't make his back hurt. They sat there for a while, sipping their tea, before Hermione finally broke the silence.

"You haven't gone to work in weeks."

He shrugged, neither agreeing nor contradicting. There wasn't a lot he could say, really. It was the truth. She hadn't started her spiel yet, might as well keep quiet and let her run on. She was bound to have more to say before they finally left him be again. True to form, she didn't stay quiet long, and her rant was about how his life couldn't stop every time he got some sort of injury, that this wasn't like him, and that sitting on his arse all day wouldn't help his back heal. A small part of his mind agreed with her, that he wouldn't have just lay down and given up if Voldemort were still running rampant. But that had been his purpose in life, hadn't it? He was the only one who could destroy him, and now he was gone. He had started feeling that his life had lost its purpose. The wizards he fought against now seemed minor in comparison, and now that it was all over, he was starting to think about his life. He had wanted to help people, right? He had wanted to rid the world of evil people, to make the world a better place for Rose and Hugo, for Teddy, Victoire, Dominique and Louis.

His thoughts ran on, blotting out Hermione's lecture, and his eyes glazed over, staring sightlessly ahead of him. Merlin, he was so tired. He heard Hermione snap at him, and he glanced at her, his eyes still glazed and not really listening. He grimaced at the look she gave him, but didn't react when she stood up abruptly, declaring that he was just being lazy, and stalked out of the apartment, leaving the door open behind her. He sat there in awkward silence, feeling Ginnys gaze on him, before she finally followed Hermione out the door, shutting it behind her with a click. He stayed in his slouched position on the sofa, staring at the door. Should he follow them? Apologise and try to fix himself and the mess he was making of his life? He decided he should, but couldn't bring himself to actually get up. It seemed that his get up and go had got up and gone, and he didn't know how to fix it.