Author's Note: I am SOOO sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter up. I've been sick and stuck in bed for a week, so writing has been on the peripheral, my main focus getting better to get back to school. I hope enjoy the new chapter! Please Review!!! Thank ALL of you who read this story, I would love some feedback so I can improve and make a better story for you!

Being tired definitely did not improve his temper.

Harry watched angrily, feeling only slightly guilty, as Ron stormed away after attempting to fill his role as Hermione's lap dog. It was typical, natural even, for Ron to do any and everything for Hermione. Harry wouldn't mind as much if Hermione didn't seem to want to bug him to death. It wasn't like he would do any differently, if he had a girlfriend asking him to do stuff. He couldn't imagine a thing he wouldn't do for Ginny. If he ever got around to talking to her.

When he was being perfectly honest with himself, he knew he was avoiding her. And he knew this was the stupidest thing for him to do. Hadn't he made it clear he still wanted her when he broke it off over a year ago? He had said that he could be with her after the war, and the war was finally over. What was he waiting for?

With a groan Harry closed his bedroom door left open when Ron fled the room in rage. He would write to her. Surely that was the best way to contact her. He sat at his desk, telling his nervous side to fuck off as he dipped a quill in ink and wrote "Dear Ginny" at the top of a scroll of parchment. Then his hand froze, the quill leaving a perfectly round drop of scarlet ink, like a drop if shining blood. What do you say in a letter?

"Hi," oh brilliant start, "How are you doing?" basic enough, asking about the weather next? "I was just writing to say hi," and you already did that, "and see how things are going with you." Stupid, stupid, I just rewrote what I just said!

Emitting a low growl of frustration Harry quickly scratched out the inferior line and a half of script. Would it be easier to break the ice in person? He imagined going to the Burrow and trying to get a second alone with her when surrounded by grieving family members. It was probably best to put this off for a while, he told himself. He didn't want to risk causing any undo stress in the Weasley household.

With a resigned sigh Harry dropped the quill, splattering the already soiled parchment further, and leaned back in his desk chair, tipping back on the hind legs. What a mess. He yawned, feeling the shudders caused by lack of sleep shaking through his body. Not speaking to Ginny, pissing Ron off, and Hermione riding his back. Perfect. Just what he wanted to happen after the war. Eyes itching and body sagging as if it were full of lead, Harry collapsed on his bed in a swift yet clumsy turn, promptly knocking the wooden chair to the floor. Maybe sleeping wouldn't be bad. He was really tired….

It was always the same. Every time he knew at some level he was dreaming, but the terror was the same. The long and dark expanse of the Hogwarts yard was stretched before him. The night was clear, stars were visible in masses, forming intricate patterns that no one below could appreciate on that ironically beautiful night. Flashes of light appeared frequently, and from every side. Red, blue, green you wanted to avoid the most. Harry knew this. He knew many other things. He knew there was a family of red heads fighting, each of whom he cared for deeply. He knew that somewhere in the castle Ron and Hermione were trying to fight and protect each other at the same time. And he knew there were countless friends and petty enemies around him, risking their lives against a common evil. And he knew there was Ginny, somewhere in the castle, fighting, healing. He knew all these desperately important facts yet suddenly none of them seemed to matter.

Harry sped out of the front doors, running down the sloping lawn towards the only thing that truly mattered at that moment. His heart thundering, his body aching with the effort he could feel coursing through his legs, he was still moving too slowly. Everything was. Flashes from spells lasted longer and faded slower. Bodies that were hit took full minutes to fall to the ground. And he kept running and he could see his destination. Inside a circle of bodies with his wand at the ready, dropping fighters like flies as they approached him, was Voldemort. He was laughing, watching people scream and die at the end of his wand. And Harry knew nothing was more important than getting to him. He didn't pull his wand out as the red and smiling eyes turned to him. He didn't stop running even as the green light encompassed him. He knew he needed to die-

Harry awoke with a start, bolting upright in his bed. His heart thundered, his breathing ragged, as if he had really made the run straight towards death. Through the terror of the nightmare Harry felt anger. Anger at himself for allowing that nightmare to happen again.

As his breathing slowed and the terror dissipated, making more room for increasing anger, Harry shoved himself off the bed and out the door. He went straight for the kitchen, not bothering to employ any light source, having made this late night trip many times before. Part of Harry acknowledged that it was just past midnight, meaning he slept all day and all evening, but he didn't care. Right now he only cared about one thing and that was forgetting that the reoccurring nightmare resided in his subconscious-

And the cabinet door had a padlock.

For a split second Harry blinked in disbelief at the sight of a lock on the cabinet used to store all medicinal needs and potions. He breathed in a great gulp of air, trying to control the surging anger at Hermione. He had no doubt she had done this. That she had noticed he was taking a little sleeping potion every now and then. And now she was limiting his only means of peaceful sleep-!

Harry had been training in magic for a very long time. So he rarely, if ever, did magic outside of his control. He should've seen the spark as a warning that his mental state wasn't quite right. But it was relief he felt as the lock broke and clattered to the stone floor. He eagerly grabbed the familiar and near empty bottle of Dreamless Sleep Potion. He took a large swallow, attempting to mentally measure the amount of fluid filling his mouth. Already feeling groggy he put the bottle back and closed the cabinet, ignoring Hermione's useless lock where it lay.

He understood that Hermione was worried. But that didn't stop him from being furious she had tried to keep the potion from him. He hadn't exactly hid the fact that he was taking the potion, but he didn't want Ron and Hermione to know about it at any rate. The fact that the decreasing supply of potion was noticed meant Hermione would have deducted he was having nightmares. And he really didn't want them to know the details of his dream.

Maybe if the dream actually mattered he would think differently. If it held a key to information on Voldemort, or showed he was being possessed as he used to, he would think Hermione and Ron should know. The thing was, he knew what the dream was about. He knew it was his confusion over how he lived, why he was alive, what his purpose was now that Voldemort was gone. And all anyone else would do is worry, needlessly, about him. Like they always did. The war was over. Everything was supposed to be happy and good. Or at least healing. As he managed to crawl back into bed one question was still on his mind. Why bring everyone down over a silly nightmare?

AN: Sorry it's so short. I intended to skip ahead to the ministry, but I felt this needed to squeeze in here. Please Review! Please please please???