A wild excitement to sleep swept upon Harry. It was three thirty in the afternoon and yet Harry was already making his way upstairs into the common room. He lay down on his bed ready for what was about to happen. Harry liked to think he was brave. Harry knew he was brave.

Harry was inside a boat. It was a big boat and it was full of animals. Harry had been told to build it. He hadn't wanted to of course. He would rather stay at home and drown. He didn't want to sail. He didn't want to be the only one alive when Satan had killed all of God's creation. Yes! It was Satan who was the unforgivable bringer of death upon the ancient land. Not God. God was not really there. There is no God. God is a mascot. Created by man to have something to hope for. But in this world of hate and evil there is no hope. Hope roams about on its own, hiding from any lost soul who is foolish enough to seek it. Hope is a ray of light that is impossible to grab. It is just there to taunt people until insanity. They can make the painful effort and try to grab it but their hand will fall straight through it and then again it will laugh at them. If it feels mean enough it will poke and prod its poor victim, keeping them alive for no cause, instead of letting them die and rest peacefully in heaven. That is, of course if heaven was actually there.

Forty days and forty nights passed while Harry and his animal companions sailed. Forty whole days of no entertainment was enough to drive Harry mad. But then, that mean old bastard hope pops into the picture and forces poor Harry to carry on when he would have been much happier dying from hunger or insanity.

On the forty first day of sailing Harry does begin to lose his mind, and no matter what hope does, Harry continues to fall into the lost world that no one can ever get out of. Harry slowly feels himself fall and he has no effort left in him to fight it. Harry lets himself visit Voldemort.

'OH MY GOD NO!'

'NOT AGAIN!'

'HELP!!!'

Harry woke again from the sleep. He was surprised to find it was not morning. It was midday. Harry had slept almost twenty four hours and his dream had lasted most of it. Harry remembered his dream. He had not won. He had lost. Voldemort tricked him again. The world would die. There was no point carrying on.

Something in the corner of the room caught Harry's eye.

Fuck, he thought to himself. God stop doing this to me.

Harry raced over to the bed and saw Dean. Dean was dead. Dead was a straw in a sack. Dead was just the beginning. More was to come. Harry realized that he was just not strong enough to stop what was happening to him. What his bloody dreams were making him do.

Harry knew how to win though. Harry believed he could do it. He may need help but he could do it. This way everyone (but Voldemort) would be in peace. Harry tried hard to imagine peace. He had never felt it before. He had never really felt truly happy. He hated life. That was good. It made his job a lot easier. He was going to do it now. He was going to end it all. Voldemort would never win. Even if Harry was going to die for it. Peace was all he wanted.