Chapter Four
Nightmares and bad dreams
I pulled up a chair to sleep in next to the bed as it was already late evening and my strength was beginning to wane. Vigilance must be constant, not unending and unsleeping, though how desperately I wished it could be! I did not want to leave Harry alone during the night, but I needed at least two or three hours of shut-eye myself. I was still very much on the mend, according to Madam Pomfrey, and needed more rest than was normal for me, which meant at least six hours. I had known a time when I could live almost happily on four hours so long as there was work to be done.
"Those days are coming again," I reminded myself grimly as I closed my eyes. I could only hope that I was still equal to the task.
Maybe some people thought that I had already been found wanting. But at least Albus Dumbledore wasn't one of them. He still trusted me.
"Get locked in your own trunk and there goes your reputation," I grumbled to myself, shifting in the chair.
And what a terrible experience that had been! The Imperious curse ... maybe that was the worst of it. Being helpless and powerless, under the control of another. It was not a new experience. I had endured such as part of my Auror training, but that had been different ... acceptable and expected. I knew my instructors very well and had trusted them, but that had been many long years ago. This time a single night's lapse in vigilance was paid for over and over again in torture under the curse.
I shuddered and tried to sleep, but it never seemed to come easily to me anymore.
The bad dreams were always the same. I refused to call them nightmares. Retired Aurors didn't have those. We had dreams about work, which usually involved reliving our less than finer moments on the job, and we had bad dreams, which for most of us, and I was certainly no exception, were about the darkest hours of our lives, work related or not.
Before the previous year, I would have said that the worst of my bad dreams were about the wars, the one against Grindelwald as a young man and the one against Voldemort as an Auror supposedly in my prime. Terrible days those had been. Wars dragged on so long and times of peace seemed so short by comparison. But I hardly ever dreamed about the battlefields in France, the lifeless wizarding villages, and the loss of so many of my classmates nor about the explosions in London, the Dark Mark hanging eerily in the sky, or the nameless dread that stalked everyone I knew. These days I dreamed of a storeroom sometimes used as a holding cell in my own magical trunk ...
The quiet, yet malevolent sound of shears. Cold, almost icy against my skin. Colder than the floor of the trunk beneath me. Metallic. The touch of the scissors. Close to my scalp. Right behind my ear. Like a knife blade. I couldn't open my eyes. My captor would not allow it. Laughter, soft and evil, filled my ears. The scissors were nipping at my ragged nightshirt. I could not move, could not shrink away, could not struggle. The sharp point of one blade ran down my spine. Wicked cackling. Amusement? Was this entertaining him somehow? The pain made my senses clearer. The fog dissipated. My captor knew that. He wanted me to be aware.
"So this is what a legendary Auror looks like ..."
Those words were drawled over and over again. Hissing in to my ear. Warm breath. A voice that could change to sound like my own, mimicking me. Sometimes I thought it was my own growling voice, mocking me. A thumb lifted the lid of my good eye. I could not see anything. Blurry shapes. Shadows. A mirror. A horrible clouded mirror. A reflection.
"So this is what a legendary Auror looks like ..."
Frozen. Unable to look away. Unable to cry out. Derisive laughter rang in my ears. It was loud against the almost perpetual silence of the room. My eyelid closed again. Darkness. Equally a blessing and a curse. A heavy foot prodded my ribs. I could not steel myself against the kick. The pain was not particularly bad. I had known worse. The fear and helplessness were terrible. It shamed me like no other experience could.
Then the cold and silence returned. The cold was worse than before. I could not shiver. I could only lie in the darkness. Sometimes I thought I heard the echo of a voice.
"So this what a ..."
I awoke with a start. A few careful glances around the room assured me that I was somewhere safe and the horrible feeling of dread and panic began to wear off gradually. I shivered slightly. The cottage was chilly. The fire in the hearth had burned low while I slept. I rubbed my face and tried to shake off the dream. Little by little it was getting easier. Maybe someday I would be able to awaken from one and not give it a single thought. I just didn't know when that day would come, or if it ever truly would.
I rose quietly from my seat and stretched a little. It was dark outside. I could steal a few more hours of sleep if I wanted them. I just wasn't sure that I did. Treading silently across the room, I walked into the bath and to the sink. I splashed some cool water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror.
I smiled at my reflection. A face to scare small, muggle children with smiled back at me. And to think there was a time when I had been considered rather handsome. Never the best looking young wizard at Hogwarts, but I had never gone to a dance alone or with someone unattractive or unintelligent. I had been nice looking enough to have choices.
Now I was battle-scarred beyond hope of repair. I touched my face, tracing one of the most noticeable scars. It had not all happened at once. I had come out of the Grindelwald war all but unscathed. A thin line here or there caused by physical scuffles with my foes. Nothing that I could not conceal if I had so desired. Then I lost my leg during the days of Voldemort. Then the eye. And lastly the chunk of my nose. The scars had accumulated more slowly. I wasn't even certain when I had crossed over the dividing line between handsome and horrible. And most of the time, I truly didn't care.
I splashed a little more water on my face and returned to the main room of the cottage without looking in the mirror again. I hated looking into the damn thing anyway.
I shook my head when I noticed that Harry had tossed and turned enough in his sleep to throw off the blanket. I picked it up from where it had landed in a heap in the floor and tucked it around him again. He murmured something in his sleep.
"Poor lad." I whispered, lightly touching his scarred forehead. Both of us were scarred, but it occurred to me then, as I sat down on the edge of the bed, that his scars ran deeper than mine.
Harry trembled beneath the covers and mumbled something in his sleep. I held my breath for a moment and strained to hear.
"Cedric ... no."
I sighed softly. It was a difficult burden for him to bear, I imagined, knowing that one of his classmates was dead, just because Voldemort had wanted Harry. I had been thoroughly apprised of the situation. Albus had told me everything. And I was just one more Phoenix to shake his head at the woes of young Harry Potter. Watching the boy tremble in his sleep brought it home. Harry had gone through so much that year. The stress of the tournament, for which he had never truly signed up, and the finale in which Cedric Diggory was killed, must have been overwhelming for a mere fourteen-year-old wizard. And then he was sent into a den of wolves where he received neither peace nor comfort from his so-called family. I found it unbelievably sad.
He mumbled a few more barely distinguishable words to which I merely replied, "It's all right, Harry."
The boy moved closer to me in his sleep, curling up on his side in the process. He seemed to be having something of a nightmare, which was growing more intense. I hesitated. I was aware that when Harry was awake that he preferred not be touched and even flinched away at the simplest gesture, possibly because his muggle relatives had treated him so harshly. But then I remembered gentle hands, those of my former transfigurations' professor, tucking a cloak about me as I lay still under the Imperious curse in my own trunk at the end of that ordeal. I had known then, without being able to open my eyes or respond, that Dumbledore's intentions had been good.
Comfort, I mused, when all the world had become hopelessness, darkness, and pain. I wanted to be able to comfort Harry as I had been comforted then.
Harry shuddered beneath the blanket again and muttered something about Cedric again. I sighed softly as I cautiously and rather awkwardly gathered Harry's thin frame, blanket and all, into my arms. It had been many long years since I had held a child like this, and then it was a three-year-old boy crying for his parents who had been attacked by Dark Wizards. Frank and Helen Longbottom's young son. And here was the son of another young Auror and his wife. Why, I wondered, did those of us who were childless, without such responsibility, survive while those who were needed were either driven to madness or killed? The only answer I could come up with revolved around the fate's cruelty, and I hoped that was not the answer.
Harry shifted slightly as I held him. By my estimation he was growing calmer. He seemed much younger than fourteen. I had never spent very much time with young people. Maybe I was a poor judge, but Harry, because of how skinny he was, looked to be about the age of the youngest students at Hogwarts.
The first time I had ever seen his parents, they had still been in school. That was during the worst years of Voldemort's reign. I had spent some time at the school then, which was why Albus had offered - using that word very loosely - the Defense Against the Dark Arts job to me.
A soft sound escaped Harry's lips. I hushed him as well as I could, brushing his messy dark hair from his forehead again. I considered trying to wake him to end his nightmares. Certainly it would be better for him if he could sleep in peace, but I did not think he could have that without a dreamless sleep potion.
"Hush now, lad. Don't you be having bad dreams about things you could help," I said awkwardly and in low voice.
But the second after I had spoken, I realized that my voice had been just loud enough to awaken Harry. I felt him stiffen, which was followed by the sensation of wild magic building up under his skin. He was obviously very afraid or disoriented.
"It's all ri..." I began to say, but the next thing I knew, I was being jerked upward by a strong magical force. The air around me was suddenly alive, practically crackling with fear-induced wandless magic.
I was slammed against the ceiling of the cottage before I could react and then thrown across the room and into the far wall. I managed to roll as I hit the floor. All of that training was not for nothing. My head was spinning, and when I blinked dazedly, I realized that my magical eye had popped out. The room was growing darker around me, but not before I heard the sound of stifled sobbing.
"Alastor? Mister Moody?" someone questioned in an anguished, tear-filled voice.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Yes, I know that being under the Imperious Curse is not like in the dream sequence in this chapter. When Alastor is dreaming, he isn't actually under the curse, so his normal emotions color what he remembers/ experiences in the dream. I hope that made sense.
kateydidnt: *winces* I'm a bit late. Sorry about that. Thank you for reviewing!
jasmine black: Thank you!
Chanzo654: Thanks for reviewing!
Ariel: Well, if they can re-grow bones, then what's a little scrape? *grins* I'm glad you liked that. Thank you for the review!
Lady Cinnibar: Owls are cool. I wish they made good pets. That would be the coolest. Thanks for the review!
A Class Superior: I know, I know. I got stuck writing an extra chapter for another story. Thanks for reviewing!
NightSpear: Moody is definitely under-used. Don't people realize how interesting ... Nevermind. I suppose they don't. I haven't forgotten about this story (torments me day and night). Thank you for reviewing!
Jordan: The jury is still out on that, I'm afraid. Thanks for the review!
Nightmares and bad dreams
I pulled up a chair to sleep in next to the bed as it was already late evening and my strength was beginning to wane. Vigilance must be constant, not unending and unsleeping, though how desperately I wished it could be! I did not want to leave Harry alone during the night, but I needed at least two or three hours of shut-eye myself. I was still very much on the mend, according to Madam Pomfrey, and needed more rest than was normal for me, which meant at least six hours. I had known a time when I could live almost happily on four hours so long as there was work to be done.
"Those days are coming again," I reminded myself grimly as I closed my eyes. I could only hope that I was still equal to the task.
Maybe some people thought that I had already been found wanting. But at least Albus Dumbledore wasn't one of them. He still trusted me.
"Get locked in your own trunk and there goes your reputation," I grumbled to myself, shifting in the chair.
And what a terrible experience that had been! The Imperious curse ... maybe that was the worst of it. Being helpless and powerless, under the control of another. It was not a new experience. I had endured such as part of my Auror training, but that had been different ... acceptable and expected. I knew my instructors very well and had trusted them, but that had been many long years ago. This time a single night's lapse in vigilance was paid for over and over again in torture under the curse.
I shuddered and tried to sleep, but it never seemed to come easily to me anymore.
The bad dreams were always the same. I refused to call them nightmares. Retired Aurors didn't have those. We had dreams about work, which usually involved reliving our less than finer moments on the job, and we had bad dreams, which for most of us, and I was certainly no exception, were about the darkest hours of our lives, work related or not.
Before the previous year, I would have said that the worst of my bad dreams were about the wars, the one against Grindelwald as a young man and the one against Voldemort as an Auror supposedly in my prime. Terrible days those had been. Wars dragged on so long and times of peace seemed so short by comparison. But I hardly ever dreamed about the battlefields in France, the lifeless wizarding villages, and the loss of so many of my classmates nor about the explosions in London, the Dark Mark hanging eerily in the sky, or the nameless dread that stalked everyone I knew. These days I dreamed of a storeroom sometimes used as a holding cell in my own magical trunk ...
The quiet, yet malevolent sound of shears. Cold, almost icy against my skin. Colder than the floor of the trunk beneath me. Metallic. The touch of the scissors. Close to my scalp. Right behind my ear. Like a knife blade. I couldn't open my eyes. My captor would not allow it. Laughter, soft and evil, filled my ears. The scissors were nipping at my ragged nightshirt. I could not move, could not shrink away, could not struggle. The sharp point of one blade ran down my spine. Wicked cackling. Amusement? Was this entertaining him somehow? The pain made my senses clearer. The fog dissipated. My captor knew that. He wanted me to be aware.
"So this is what a legendary Auror looks like ..."
Those words were drawled over and over again. Hissing in to my ear. Warm breath. A voice that could change to sound like my own, mimicking me. Sometimes I thought it was my own growling voice, mocking me. A thumb lifted the lid of my good eye. I could not see anything. Blurry shapes. Shadows. A mirror. A horrible clouded mirror. A reflection.
"So this is what a legendary Auror looks like ..."
Frozen. Unable to look away. Unable to cry out. Derisive laughter rang in my ears. It was loud against the almost perpetual silence of the room. My eyelid closed again. Darkness. Equally a blessing and a curse. A heavy foot prodded my ribs. I could not steel myself against the kick. The pain was not particularly bad. I had known worse. The fear and helplessness were terrible. It shamed me like no other experience could.
Then the cold and silence returned. The cold was worse than before. I could not shiver. I could only lie in the darkness. Sometimes I thought I heard the echo of a voice.
"So this what a ..."
I awoke with a start. A few careful glances around the room assured me that I was somewhere safe and the horrible feeling of dread and panic began to wear off gradually. I shivered slightly. The cottage was chilly. The fire in the hearth had burned low while I slept. I rubbed my face and tried to shake off the dream. Little by little it was getting easier. Maybe someday I would be able to awaken from one and not give it a single thought. I just didn't know when that day would come, or if it ever truly would.
I rose quietly from my seat and stretched a little. It was dark outside. I could steal a few more hours of sleep if I wanted them. I just wasn't sure that I did. Treading silently across the room, I walked into the bath and to the sink. I splashed some cool water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror.
I smiled at my reflection. A face to scare small, muggle children with smiled back at me. And to think there was a time when I had been considered rather handsome. Never the best looking young wizard at Hogwarts, but I had never gone to a dance alone or with someone unattractive or unintelligent. I had been nice looking enough to have choices.
Now I was battle-scarred beyond hope of repair. I touched my face, tracing one of the most noticeable scars. It had not all happened at once. I had come out of the Grindelwald war all but unscathed. A thin line here or there caused by physical scuffles with my foes. Nothing that I could not conceal if I had so desired. Then I lost my leg during the days of Voldemort. Then the eye. And lastly the chunk of my nose. The scars had accumulated more slowly. I wasn't even certain when I had crossed over the dividing line between handsome and horrible. And most of the time, I truly didn't care.
I splashed a little more water on my face and returned to the main room of the cottage without looking in the mirror again. I hated looking into the damn thing anyway.
I shook my head when I noticed that Harry had tossed and turned enough in his sleep to throw off the blanket. I picked it up from where it had landed in a heap in the floor and tucked it around him again. He murmured something in his sleep.
"Poor lad." I whispered, lightly touching his scarred forehead. Both of us were scarred, but it occurred to me then, as I sat down on the edge of the bed, that his scars ran deeper than mine.
Harry trembled beneath the covers and mumbled something in his sleep. I held my breath for a moment and strained to hear.
"Cedric ... no."
I sighed softly. It was a difficult burden for him to bear, I imagined, knowing that one of his classmates was dead, just because Voldemort had wanted Harry. I had been thoroughly apprised of the situation. Albus had told me everything. And I was just one more Phoenix to shake his head at the woes of young Harry Potter. Watching the boy tremble in his sleep brought it home. Harry had gone through so much that year. The stress of the tournament, for which he had never truly signed up, and the finale in which Cedric Diggory was killed, must have been overwhelming for a mere fourteen-year-old wizard. And then he was sent into a den of wolves where he received neither peace nor comfort from his so-called family. I found it unbelievably sad.
He mumbled a few more barely distinguishable words to which I merely replied, "It's all right, Harry."
The boy moved closer to me in his sleep, curling up on his side in the process. He seemed to be having something of a nightmare, which was growing more intense. I hesitated. I was aware that when Harry was awake that he preferred not be touched and even flinched away at the simplest gesture, possibly because his muggle relatives had treated him so harshly. But then I remembered gentle hands, those of my former transfigurations' professor, tucking a cloak about me as I lay still under the Imperious curse in my own trunk at the end of that ordeal. I had known then, without being able to open my eyes or respond, that Dumbledore's intentions had been good.
Comfort, I mused, when all the world had become hopelessness, darkness, and pain. I wanted to be able to comfort Harry as I had been comforted then.
Harry shuddered beneath the blanket again and muttered something about Cedric again. I sighed softly as I cautiously and rather awkwardly gathered Harry's thin frame, blanket and all, into my arms. It had been many long years since I had held a child like this, and then it was a three-year-old boy crying for his parents who had been attacked by Dark Wizards. Frank and Helen Longbottom's young son. And here was the son of another young Auror and his wife. Why, I wondered, did those of us who were childless, without such responsibility, survive while those who were needed were either driven to madness or killed? The only answer I could come up with revolved around the fate's cruelty, and I hoped that was not the answer.
Harry shifted slightly as I held him. By my estimation he was growing calmer. He seemed much younger than fourteen. I had never spent very much time with young people. Maybe I was a poor judge, but Harry, because of how skinny he was, looked to be about the age of the youngest students at Hogwarts.
The first time I had ever seen his parents, they had still been in school. That was during the worst years of Voldemort's reign. I had spent some time at the school then, which was why Albus had offered - using that word very loosely - the Defense Against the Dark Arts job to me.
A soft sound escaped Harry's lips. I hushed him as well as I could, brushing his messy dark hair from his forehead again. I considered trying to wake him to end his nightmares. Certainly it would be better for him if he could sleep in peace, but I did not think he could have that without a dreamless sleep potion.
"Hush now, lad. Don't you be having bad dreams about things you could help," I said awkwardly and in low voice.
But the second after I had spoken, I realized that my voice had been just loud enough to awaken Harry. I felt him stiffen, which was followed by the sensation of wild magic building up under his skin. He was obviously very afraid or disoriented.
"It's all ri..." I began to say, but the next thing I knew, I was being jerked upward by a strong magical force. The air around me was suddenly alive, practically crackling with fear-induced wandless magic.
I was slammed against the ceiling of the cottage before I could react and then thrown across the room and into the far wall. I managed to roll as I hit the floor. All of that training was not for nothing. My head was spinning, and when I blinked dazedly, I realized that my magical eye had popped out. The room was growing darker around me, but not before I heard the sound of stifled sobbing.
"Alastor? Mister Moody?" someone questioned in an anguished, tear-filled voice.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Yes, I know that being under the Imperious Curse is not like in the dream sequence in this chapter. When Alastor is dreaming, he isn't actually under the curse, so his normal emotions color what he remembers/ experiences in the dream. I hope that made sense.
kateydidnt: *winces* I'm a bit late. Sorry about that. Thank you for reviewing!
jasmine black: Thank you!
Chanzo654: Thanks for reviewing!
Ariel: Well, if they can re-grow bones, then what's a little scrape? *grins* I'm glad you liked that. Thank you for the review!
Lady Cinnibar: Owls are cool. I wish they made good pets. That would be the coolest. Thanks for the review!
A Class Superior: I know, I know. I got stuck writing an extra chapter for another story. Thanks for reviewing!
NightSpear: Moody is definitely under-used. Don't people realize how interesting ... Nevermind. I suppose they don't. I haven't forgotten about this story (torments me day and night). Thank you for reviewing!
Jordan: The jury is still out on that, I'm afraid. Thanks for the review!