Delusions

I don't own Harry Potter

A/N: This thing is weird.

~

A door. Open it. A bare yew tree swaying in the biting wind. Signifies death. Silence so deep, it's almost tangible. No colors, devoid of life. Only death, only death. All alone, all alone. No one to help me, no one to help me. Shrieking, animalistic screaming. Where's it coming from? All around me, in front, behind, to the right, to the left. It wants me. What's It? I don't know, they don't know. Getting louder now. Not much time left. Flashes of black. Growling.

Over.

With a startled gasp, a young boy sits up in his bed, clutching the comforter tightly in his white-knuckled fist. His black hair falls messily into his eyes, and he tries to brush it away, yet it stays in the same unkempt pattern. "Not again," he mutters, looking wildly around as he tries to calm his breathing, "What does it mean?" He looks out the paned window briefly, and if one were to look into his eyes at that moment, an insane glint might be seen, a possible effect of the glaring moon. But it passes quickly, and his gaze becomes sort of—defeated, maybe? He shivers slightly, even though the air is humid. Perspiration is cooling on his face, but he doesn't attempt to return to the confines of sleep. Instead, he pulls the sheets around him, shaking ever so slightly. He still breathes in short, ragged gasps.

"Just a dream, just a dream," he murmurs consolingly with a slight manic tone, and his eyes keep darting to the walls. He draws himself into a ball, holding his neck up. An odd sort of twitching takes place. "Helphelphelphelphelphelphelphelp," he chants without taking a breath. "Takingmetakingmetakingmetakingmetakingme." He's talking louder now. Something's happening, and it's not normal. High pitched laughter streams from his mouth, and he opens his lips as far as they will go, the sound now almost inhumanly loud. A grunted 'huh?' from the next room is barely heard, yet the boy quiets immediately. He sprawls onto the sagging mattress, still convulsing, and faint whinnies of breath escapes his red lips at measured intervals. Slowly, he curls into the fetal position, and is still.

* * *

Vernon Dursley never liked missing out on precious hours of sleep, so he was not happy when some weird noise awoke him from the abnormal boy's bedroom. "What's that?" his wife, Petunia, whispered groggily. Vernon grunted in reply, and swung his meaty legs over the side of the king bed, kicking the covers off. He stood up and crossed the room, angrily opening the door. If the boy was doing this for fun, he wouldn't see the outside of the cupboard for a month. Expecting the door to be locked, Vernon made a confused little sound when the doorknob turned easily in his hand. He entered the tiny room, scanning it with his piggy eyes. He flicked the light on.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he growled, stomping over to the bed. "D'you know what time it is?" He got no response, and this did not bode with his sleep-deprived manner. "Answer me when I talk to you, boy!" Vernon scowled at the boy's back; he was turned towards the wall. The exclamation, however, didn't elicit a response either. Narrowing his eyes, Vernon roughly turned the boy over, pulling him up to eye level… before dropping him like a stone. A terrified gasp escaped his throat.

The boy's face, which had been normal just the day before, was grotesque. His eyes were open, but unseeing—the only thing visible was the white of the eye. The mouth was bared into a grin, showing all the teeth. Eight slight, bleeding wounds, four for each side of the face, were scratched onto the cheeks, apparently with his fingernails. Vernon stared into the face of his nephew for a moment that took up an eternity. He didn't notice that the boy's fingers were slightly moving, and he would've stayed in the same position—had not his nephew's hand shot out, gripping Vernon's forearm. The boy sat up jerkily, and Vernon began to tremble in drunken terror.

           Without saying anything, he pulled Vernon's arm down forcefully, until they were eye-to-eye. The boy's eyes became visible again, but the bright green had been replaced with a blood red that showed no white. Suddenly, as soon as it had begun, the boy fell limply onto the bed again.

Vernon got out of there as quickly as he could.

* * *

'Not answering our letters…worried…don't know what's wrong…do you?' Albus Dumbledore pushed his half-moon glasses up the bridge of his nose, sighing anxiously. Miss Granger's letter worried him more than he cared to say. It wasn't like Harry to purposely ignore letters addressed to him—if anything, Harry would pretend everything was okay. He figured that the smart thing to do would be to write to Harry himself, yet he had a hunch that something was dreadfully wrong. And, Dumbledore had discovered over the years that his hunches were usually right. The problem, however, was that he could not leave Hogwarts at the present time. New protection spells were being added, ones that hadn't been used since Voldemort's downfall, fifteen years prior. The spells would weaken if not taken to completion. A dilemma was rising, for the only person left in the building was Snape, and everyone knew that Severus hated the boy.

Still, the growing knot of nervousness had settled into Dumbledore's stomach. After pondering for a few moments while pacing the length of his office, Albus exited through the archway and descended into the dungeons. He paused for a moment and then rapped sharply on the potion master's door, knowing that Snape would be awake, even at such a late hour. Severus pulled the door open. "Headmaster," he said by way of greeting. He had been in the castle since his latest work with the Order, preferring to stay in the safe confines of the castle rather than to return to his home. Voldemort wanted Snape's blood almost as much as he desired Harry's and predictably would kill him if Snape dared to return to his house.

"I need you to do a favor for me, Severus," he said slowly.

"Yes?" Snape's face was apprehensive.

"I believe that something is amiss with Harry—"

"Potter?" Snape interrupted, hatred dawning on his face.

"Yes, and I need you to check it out."

"He's probably just causing trouble," Severus snarled.

"We cannot be sure, Severus."

"Isn't there anyone else?"

"All the regular staff has gone home for the summer, besides you, and Hagrid is not able to Apparate. I fear we cannot wait for him to fly to Little Whinging. Please, Severus." It was Dumbledore's expression, more than anything thing said, that convinced Severus of the seriousness of the situation. The thought of trying to help Potter was repugnant, yet Dumbledore had aided Severus when no one else would've dared. Severus knew he owed the headmaster many favors. Biting back the 'no' that had settled on his tongue, Snape nodded curtly, grudgingly, wearing a scowl so deep it looked as though it had been crudely chiseled into the pallid skin.

His eyes portraying a violent mixture of worry, Dumbledore reached inside his resplendent velvet dressing gown and pulled out a minimized mirror—a communications devide. "Contact me with news," he said simply as he offered the two-way mirror. "Harry lives at Number Four, Privet Drive."  Snape nodded again, retreated to his quarters without another word, and came out three minutes later wearing simple Muggle clothing. He navigated his way through the Hogwarts hallways and exited into Hogsmeade. Focusing on a mental picture of Potter, Snape disappeared with a loud snap reappearing on the silent street of Privet Drive. Walking briskly up the drive, Snape stopped at the polished wood door and rapped smartly with his knuckles. He was fully expecting to have to knock louder in order to rouse the inhabitants of the house and therefore was surprised when the door opened almost immediately. A large man stared at Snape with terrified, piggy eyes.

"Are you one of them?" the beefy man at the door asked and looked in realization at Severus's wand, which was sticking out of the pocket. "Get him out of here!" the man said urgently, moving aside. Snape looked confusedly at the man before he walked inside.

The man led him up the stairs, trembling, and gestured towards a door. He then backed into a room, and Snape caught a glimpse of a woman and a fat teenager before the door slammed. Snape opened the door of the bedroom, and saw Potter sitting up in bed, his back to the door.

"What are you doing?" Snape asked, annoyed at having to leave for something as stupid as this seemed. Potter turned around quickly, and Snape would've fallen backwards in shock if the door hadn't closed with a bang.

With a horrific smile, Potter looked into Snape's eyes with his red ones. "So you've come, traitor," he said maliciously. A strong ripple of energy caught Snape off guard and was knocked off his feet, hitting his head on a wardrobe corner when he connected with the floor.

~

End of chapter