DENIAL AND ITS SIDE EFFECTS

HashtagMC

About the chapter title… I couldn't resist the temptation :D

— Hashtag

CHAPTER 4 – THE MORNING AFTER

'You really don't remember anything?' Ron asked, and Harry could only shake his head again. No, he didn't remember anything. According to Ron (and the rest of his dorm mates), he had bolted upright in the middle of the night, screaming bloody murder from the top of his lungs, panting, sweating, crying – a complete breakdown. Ron said they hadn't been able to calm Harry down or wake him up – he said Harry had just kept crying and crying, muttering unintelligible things, until he'd collapsed due to pure exhaustion sometime around four in the morning. Dean had suggested somebody should hug Harry or something like that, since this always worked with him and Seamus when they had nightmares, but no one was really close enough to Harry to sleep in one bed with him, not even Ron. Actually, no one had ever slept in one bed with Harry – his parents had died too soon, the Dursley, well, let's not talk about them, and Ron wasn't exactly the type of guy to cuddle with his best mate. He wasn't half as touchy-feely as Dean and Seamus were, and honestly, neither was Harry. If anything, he felt guilty for keeping his comrades awake until dawn. Two bloody hours, Harry thought. Which led to all the male eighth-year Gryffindors being severely sleep-deprived this day.

After asking the same question over and over again on their way to the Great Hall for breakfast, Ron finally gave up, leaving Harry utterly relieved, but also more than just a bit disturbed. What was it that he had dreamed about, which had apparently horrified him this much? Nightmares were part of Harry's life, and had always been since he'd become a part of this magical world, but he'd thought them being finally over after Voldemort's final defeat. Cheered too early, apparently.

Shoving these thoughts aside for the moment, Harry reached over the table to grab the strawberry jam, and began eating a slice of toast. As usual, he glanced across the hall towards the Slytherin table – old habits die hard – but Malfoy's place was unoccupied, the Slytherin nowhere to be seen. Shrugging it off, Harry continued to eat his toast – forgetting about the jam he'd fetched and absently eating half the toast without anything on it before he noticed what he'd done.

When Harry reached for the jam jar the second time, he was distracted again, this time by Professor McGonagall, who announced that tryouts for the house teams would take place the next day. Harry had given this some thought before, and decided not to apply again. He couldn't exactly tell why – he didn't know it himself –he just didn't feel like it. Ron, on the other hand, had made it clear that he intended to take up his old position on the team again.

'But,' Professor McGonagall cut off the loud cheers, 'since the Quidditch pitch is still under reconstruction, I am afraid I have to announce that the first match cannot take place until next year.' Loud complaints sounded through the hall. 'I am sorry, but it is as it is. The reconstruction team has repaired the pitch itself, but the stadium isn't ready for visitors yet. Which is also why the teams will have to use their houses' bathrooms for the next few months.'

Harry finished his breakfast rather fast, hoping to get some time in the common room to finish the essay he'd not finished the other day. Potions was today's sixth period, and he'd better have three feet of parchment written until then, if he wanted to at least get an A in Potions. He no longer wanted to be an Auror, so he didn't have to reach an O in almost every subject, but he'd recently thought about applying at St. Mungo's after school, and as a healer, he'd still need an O in Potions. Trust Harry to choose one of the jobs that required top-notch grades in the subject he liked the least.

To Harry's relief, Professor Slughorn was too busy gushing over Malfoy's five feet of parchment to notice that Harry's essay still lacked a few inches – he hadn't managed to finish it after breakfast, and Professor Flitwick didn't let them go early, so he had no time to add some finishing touches to it. It would have to suffice. Harry had decided he would rather be there in time than finish his essay and be too late. Though, as it seemed, he would have to endure some more Malfoy-praising, so he might as well have come later. And nobody could tell Harry that Malfoy wasn't enjoying the attention.

'—really have a knack for potions, Mr Malfoy…'
Obviously, Harry didn't miss anything of importance.

'Well, then. Attention, please!' As soon as Professor Slughorn had made sure that he had everybody's attention (he didn't notice Seamus shuffling Exploding Snap cards under his table), he pointed his wand at the chalkboard, which then filled with text. 'After we have now covered the subject of the Alihotsy Draught more than enough, we will move on to a new topic. Today we will be focusing on the Oculus Potion. Can anybody tell me something about this potion? Yes, Mr Malfoy?'

'The Oculus Potion is a healing potion, sir. It is used to restore the eyesight of people, mostly victims of the Conjunctivitis Curse. It requires Wormwood, Mandrake, Unicorn horn, and crystalised water, and when brewed correctly, is of a deep orange shade.'

Slughorn seemed delighted. 'Excellent, Mr Malfoy! Take ten points for Slytherin.' He turned to the chalkboard. 'As Mr Malfoy explained, this potion is used to cure patients who have lost their eyesight, and is extensively used at St Mungo's. It isn't very hard to brew, but the instructions have to be followed to the letter, otherwise it may even worsen the symptoms.' He clapped his hands, and another set of paragraphs appeared on the chalkboard. 'If you would please copy this description of the potion. I will go round and answer any questions on the topic which might arise.'

As Harry dipped his quill into the ink, he caught a glimpse of Malfoy, scribbling on the parchment hastily, teeth gnawing on his lower lip as his brows furrowed in concentration. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Ron frantically rummage through his bag, an automatic spell-check quill from WWW laying useless on his desk. Hermione, as usually, had her nose buried in a book, her parchment already filled with words. Letting his gaze wander, Harry noticed that Malfoy was done as well, and that he himself in fact was one of the few people still writing. Hastily, Harry returned his attention to the parchment in front of him.

The Oculus Potion, a healing potion, was invented in the beginning of the 16thcentury by…

— Denial and its Side Effects —

'Harry, honestly, when was the last time you got some proper sleep?' Ginny demanded. 'Because if I'd have to hazard a guess, I'd say you didn't sleep at all last night, right?'

'Two hours,' Harry muttered under his breath, trying to cover the D on his Potions essay with his school book. This was the third essay for which he'd received a D, and he wasn't keen on Ginny learning of it. It was bad enough to suffer Ron teasing him about how he'd managed an A.

'What was that?' Harry sighed. 'I said "Two hours", Ginny. If you would kindly leave me alone now, I have to finish this essay. Go bugger Ron.' Needless to say, it didn't work. Especially since Ron was nowhere to be seen, probably being at the library and being forced to study by Hermione. If only Harry had someone to force him study. But after last night's terror, he wasn't really awake and conscious enough to write about the side effects of the Rano Potion. He didn't even know what its effects were, or who invented it. He was fairly certain it had something to do with Poland – maybe a Polish wizard had invented it? Harry had no clue whatsoever.

'Are you even listening to me?' Harry startled when Ginny snapped her fingers under his nose. A slight flush crept into Harry's face at being caught by zoning out – or rather falling asleep.

'I said you are going to bed. Now. And don't you dare argue with me, Harry Potter.' Ginny's voice didn't leave room for opposition. Harry's body was craving for sleep, and so was Harry, but the annoying voice in his forehead, more commonly known as rationality, reminded him that as soon as he fell asleep, the nightmares would return. And Harry really didn't need that.

'Sure mum,' Harry scoffed before slowly dragging his feet towards the dorm. Maybe he could find something to keep him awake. If necessary, he'd study the Marauder's Map until dawn, and if he was lucky, he'd get two cups of coffee to make up for the lack of sleep before anyone noticed that he hadn't used his bed at all.

'And I'll tell Hermione to make sure you do sleep.'

Dang. There went his plan. Right out of the window.

By the time Ron and Hermione stepped into the dorm, Hermione walking Ron to his bed and kissing him goodnight before letting go of him and head over to Harry's bed, the inhabitant of said bed was still awake. He'd tried to memorise his Magic History essay from last month, written a poem on Nearly Headless Nick which was longer than any essay Harry had ever written for any of his subjects, and tried to calculate the expenses for a new broom including a complete set of Quidditch robes in his head. To sum it up, he had done everything to keep himself from falling asleep.

Harry didn't even bother pretending to be asleep, Hermione had noticed his sleep deprivation after the third night a nightmare kept him from sleeping. Therefore, she didn't bother with small talk before getting straight to the point.

'You're supposed to be asleep, Harry.'

Harry shrugged wordlessly, leaving it to Hermione to figure the meaning out. It could have meant anything from I know, over what do I care, to why do you care? Harry himself didn't know what he meant by it. Maybe all of them.

'It's the nightmares, right?' Another shrug of Harry's. What was he supposed to say to this? Of course it was the nightmares. How was he supposed to sleep when it only meant to go through hours of terror, keep his dorm mates awake, and ultimately wake up completely exhausted? He could get to the 'exhausted' part without the nightmares, by simply refusing to sleep. Plenty of coffee whenever he needed some (courtesy of Hogwarts' house elves), and some potions he'd managed to smuggle out of the Potions classroom after brewing them had helped to reduce his sleeping to more or less two hours a night, which was usually few enough to avoid the nightmares, but of course not enough to satisfy his body's need for rest.

By now, Harry knew what the nightmares were about. Waking up with little memory of the dream several times, he had – on Hermione's advice – written everything down, and finally put the puzzle pieces together. He had, so far, refused to talk about it to anyone, because his friends would only try to talk him out of the guilty feelings. And Harry didn't need any comments on why he kept feeling responsible – he did so because he was responsible, but he wouldn't be able to drill this through his friends' heads.

They had tried to help, of course they had. Hermione had tried a few spells which should keep nightmares away, but it hadn't worked – they had come anyway. She'd also brewed some Sleeping Draught, which should lead to dreamless sleep, but Harry had only felt exhausted afterwards, and they didn't have the ingredients to brew stronger sleeping potions.

Hermione's apprehensive look told him that she knew what was going through his head, and that she didn't like it. Well, sue him for having nightmares. It wasn't like Harry had chosen this. After an excessive staring contest, Hermione sighed in defeat. 'Goodnight, Harry.'

I highly doubt it, Harry thought.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

As soon as the bell rung, everybody hurried out of the Transfigurations classroom, eager to escape into the fresh air of a Friday afternoon. It was weekend, finally, and no more transfiguring door locks into clockworks. Harry didn't get it anyway. But as he hastily stuffed his school book into his bag while walking towards the door, he noticed Professor McGonagall striding towards him, with an expression that bode nothing well.

'Mr Potter, I would like to talk to you for a second. Do you mind to follow me into my office?' She strode away before he had a chance to answer. Wondering what exactly it was the teacher wanted to talk to him about – unless it was his miserable Transfigurations performance as of lately – Harry hurried after Professor McGonagall.

'Have a biscuit, Mr Potter.' Harry took one. 'So, as you surely have noticed, your recent performances leave much to be desired, Mr Potter. Do you have any idea why this might be?' Professor McGonagall scrutinized Harry through her glasses. Feeling uncomfortable with the course this conversation took, Harry nodded.

'And what, Mr Potter, would this reason be?' the headmistress inquired.

'Nightmares, ma'am.' Silence. Harry decided to elaborate his statement further, interpreting the teacher's silence as request to keep talking. 'Really bad nightmares, Professor. Most times, they keep me awake for most of the night. Ron says he and the others usually wake up because I'm screaming my head off. And… I've somewhat avoided sleeping too much recently.'

The look Professor McGonagall gave him made it clear that she approved of this as much as Hermione did – not at all. 'How much exactly have you been sleeping the last week, Potter?'

Uncomfortable, Harry shifted on his feet. 'Eight hours?'

'Per day?' Harry shook his head, not meeting the teacher's eye. 'The whole week, Professor.'

Two minutes and a rant about responsibility later…

'I am very disappointed with you, Mr Potter. You should have told me earlier.'

'Sorry, Professor.'

'I recommend that you will go to Professor Slughorn and ask him to brew you a sleeping potion, Potter,' Professor McGonagall said. But Harry shook his head again. 'With all due respect, Professor, but I have tried some already, and they didn't work. And apart from that, don't stronger sleeping potions involve the danger to become addicted? I don't want to rely on drugs so I can sleep at night.'

Professor McGonagall arched an eyebrow – if it was at the fact he tried potions already, or the fact he refused her suggestion, he didn't know. 'Please describe your dreams, Mr Potter.'

And so Harry did. From the beginning, when he just dreamt of Hogwarts in ruins, the overwhelming guilt – luckily, Professor McGonagall didn't try to talk him out of this – the dead bodies, the images of those who searched for beloved ones under the rubble. Then the faceless students which stared at him accusingly, the feeling to be suffocated under a mass of bodies – sometimes all those who had died, sometimes those who had lost someone – and last but not least the cold stare of Draco Malfoy, who was always there to watch Harry's suffering from the sidelines. Malfoy's recurring appearance was what disturbed Harry the most, and more than once, he had suspected the Slytherin to be the cause of his nightmares.

'Do I understand you correctly, Mr Potter, that Mr Malfoy is a key element of those dreams?' the teacher inquired. Harry nodded. 'Yes, Professor.' Professor McGonagall send him a piercing glare. 'I hope you didn't get the idea that Mr Malfoy is at fault for these dreams?'

'Uh…'

The teacher sighed. 'I expect you to get yourself a sleeping potion from Horace –' she raised a hand to cut off Harry's protest, 'until you have solved this problem, Mr Potter. It won't be of much use to anyone, save the Daily Prophet's gossip department, if you collapse in the middle of the Great Hall. Understood?' Gritting his teeth, Harry nodded, and turned towards the door. 'Oh, and Potter?'

'Yes, Professor?'

'As much as I dislike her, maybe you should pay Sybill a visit. She may not be the most… capable member of the staff, but maybe a dream interpretation would help you.'

Harry left her office, determined not to go to Professor Trelawney.