Disclaimer: All names, places, and other Harry Potter affiliates belong to J.K. Rowling. I Wouldn't Know belongs to Reba McEntire.
I wouldn't know, I haven't seen him
I couldn't say, it's been awhile
I haven't thought about him lately
So I wouldn't know . . .
-- "I Wouldn't Know" by Reba McEntire
He's mumbling in his sleep again. It's the same two dreams over and over. A cry of horror and Cedric's whispered name is all I need to tell me he's back in the graveyard.
I wish that there was something I could say to him to ease his mind and stop the nightmares. They've begun to take their tool; I can see it in his eyes. The lack of sleep affects us both. His temper is short because of it, and mine . . . well, what can I say? It's a trial to keep it under control.
I worry about him, and I'm not the only one. Oh, of course there's all the usual suspects: our mutual friend, Hermoine; my father and especially my mum; Professor Dumbledore, obviously, and pretty much all the members of the Order. But I mean, others do, too. Others who hear him yell out the Dark Lord's name in the middle of the night. Others who see him lose it over the smallest aggravation.
These others approach me sometimes, concern etched in their features. It's comforting to see he has so many well-wishers, even in other houses, but in a way, it only scares me more. If people whom I didn't even know had existed, if they can see his decline, how bad is he really?
The other Gryffindor boys in our year have often asked me about him. Always in private, when he isn't near, as they know all too well any little thing can set him off. I'd like to be able to tell them, everything, but I can't. I shrug and try to excuse his behaviour as hormones . . . they don't believe it for a second.
Would you if every other night you woke up to find the Boy-Who-Lived wide-eyed, panting, and wiping away tears from his wet cheeks?
Sometimes, late at night, he sneaks out of the dormitory when he thinks we're sleeping. I've followed him a couple of times, but he never makes it farther than the mirror in the Common Room. He stares at it until near dawn, seemingly lost in his own reflection.
I remember one morning last week when he returned from one of these excursions clutching a knife in his had, stolen from the dinner table.
I quickly took it out of his trunk the moment he went down to breakfast.
I didn't dare tell this to Hermoine, knowing she would overreact. Though, judging by the way things are going, I wonder if a little hyperventilating isn't totally uncalled for.
I also wonder what's keeping him from killing himself and when that isn't going to be enough to stop him from taking that final step.
I hear Sirius's name now in a mass of otherwise indeterminable words. He's reliving the fight last year at the Ministry and I vividly recall how angry and hurt he was after his godfather died.
I swear I won't let him out of my sight.