A/N: The real plot doesn't start for several more chapter's but this is all setting it up so just bare with me. And remember to leave a review before you go!
This time it was louder more commanding, forcing him to listen to the words that seemed so wrong, but that he knew deep down were so right. His hoarse breaths this time turned from pleading innocence to pleading mercy at his judgement for the deaths on his conscious. Even if this was Voldemort, he knew that he was saying only what every one else was too afraid to. It was his fault; he knew it in his heart.
That morning he didn't wake until his body rolled off the bed and onto the hard, unyielding floor, jarring his shoulder. The pain dissipated the horrors left in his mind and he found himself relaxing and stretching out on the floor. Reluctantly he pulled on his shoes and walked outside into the brisk cold air. It woke him up a bit and soon he fell into a regular pace, his breath coming in short rhythmic pants. He made it to his school, this time, in only twenty-five minutes and felt better that after only one day he was improving. He kept running past and for another five minutes before turning around and running back, taking a slightly longer but more scenic route home. Again as soon as he reached home he went straight upstairs and, after a quick shower, into his room to get back to studying before the Dursleys woke up.
Today he rewarded himself with Defense against the Dark Arts, and finished it in record time as he hardly had to refer to the book at all, and painstakingly made his way through various astronomy charts for the uncharacteristically large amount of work Professor Sinistra had assigned them. His routine was the same for three more days when he realized that he had completed all his homework to his best possible standard. Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures was finished and all the scrolls lay in a pile to one corner of his desk. He looked at his clock, only 2 o'clock in the morning. Too early for Harry to submit to the call of sleep. And he wasn't hungry. In fact since the beginning of the holidays his appetite had decreased significantly, until he only sometimes ate late at night before bed, though that was more out of habit than hunger. His nights had become shorter and shorter until he no longer slept more than an hour each night. It kept the more violent dreams at bay and Harry surprisingly found that he was not that tired from the lack of sleep. At first he brushed it off as just a good working brain but after three nights with a total sleeping time of three hours, he was beginning to think something was wrong.
He would see what he could find tomorrow. Tonight he would send Hedwig to get him a catalogue from Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley. He needed to get next years textbooks and also some other reading material if he wanted to keep learning. But she wasn't going to be back from Diagon Alley before dawn though and so once he sent her off and watched her small feathered figure fade into the night he slumped back onto his bed and began to reread his old potions text book. But he had already mastered what was in there. Eventually, restless he got up and began writing a long reply to Hermione's last letter. He mentioned that he had already finished his homework and that the Dursleys had left him alone for the most part (they were still denying his existence in their house). Nothing personal, but friendly enough so Hermione could not see through it to his real feelings. He had told no one about the new nightmares, he was sure it wasn't Voldemort but just his own cruel conscious rubbing his guilt into his already frail psyche.
He stared at the letter before setting it aside for Hedwig in the morning then looked to his clock. 3 in the morning it read. Harry closed his eyes and rested his head on his folded arms on the desk. He hadn't meant to drift off and he hadn't been particularly tired but before he knew it he was immersed in a nightmare.
It was as though they had been waiting for him to fall into a deep sleep, the pent up violence from the previous three days was unleashed full force in a hurricane of deep anger and brutality, taking Harry with it. He spiraled down... down ever further into the deep dark recesses of his mind, he opened his mouth to scream, in pain and yet not, but found that his mouth refused to respond and allow him even this small release. He reeled and some where in between wakefulness and slumber he felt it. Him. Like an insidious parasite he leeched off his shames and angers, and pushed him further down.
Then with a jolt it was gone. A sharp tapping at the window woke him. He was laying on the floor, his chair on its side. He looked down and realized that his hands were wrapped tightly around his arms, fingernails digging painfully into his flesh. Only it wasn't really pain... and as he released them he felt the horrors of the dream come flooding back. There was no images this night, just the immensely nauseatic feeling of falling downwards in increasingly vicious spirals, and the thick aura of despair that filled the air, making him breath it like oxygen and smothering his lungs and insides with a sickly weighted feeling.
Experimentally he dug in his fingernails again, right next to the moonlike crescents from before. They bit in and Harry flinched in anticipation of the pain. But it didn't come. Instead it left him. Through the scratches the previous nights events seemed to seep out in blissful liberation.
The impatient tapping at the window was becoming annoying, until Harry's mood was spoilt and he stood up and allowed Hedwig admittance. He roughly pulled the catalogue from him and quickly read it, noting down all the texts he would need for next year, plus a couple of others, on Dueling and Occlumency and potions etc. He gave Hedwig an impatient nudge and sent her straight back out into the brightening sky. He sighed at the turmoil inside him. Time for his run.
By this time he could make it to the old school in twenty minutes, and each day he ran further and further, never arriving home later than 8 o'clock for fear of coming face to face with one of his family members. He didn't want to think of them when they were now the only family he had left.
As he ran the feelings began to broil up inside of him. He knew it was Voldemort influencing at least part of his dreams, which is why he had bought a rather expensive book on occlumency, not that he really thought a book would help. Better than nothing however.
But how could Dumbledore leave him like this? Magic-less and isolated left to deal with his raving midnight emotions in nightmares of enormous proportions. The choking feeling began to come back as his head spun with the memory of last night, but he knew he had to at least make it home before he could let it control him. Breathing became almost impossible and he could tell he was beginning to hyperventilate. Stumbling the last hundred metres to the door, he flung it open and collapsed inside with a thud.
'What is wrong with me' he wondered as usually his runs served to relax him than anything else.
He crawled upstairs, to the mirror in the bathroom and looked into his own eyes. And saw fear reflected. His vision was swimming and the outside of his view began to close, going darker at the edges. Frantically he looked around the room looking for something, anything that might help him. Nothing... until a shiny metal object caught his eye. Uncle Vernon's razor set... yes that could work. Before when he had heard about the act of blood letting as a form of release, he had thought it barbaric, but now he was beginning to doubt his previous assessment. Right now it was looking downright appealing in his rapidly failing vision. He grabbed it, stared at it hesitantly before bringing it gingerly down to his arm, gasping slightly as cold metal touched bare skin.
This time it was louder more commanding, forcing him to listen to the words that seemed so wrong, but that he knew deep down were so right. His hoarse breaths this time turned from pleading innocence to pleading mercy at his judgement for the deaths on his conscious. Even if this was Voldemort, he knew that he was saying only what every one else was too afraid to. It was his fault; he knew it in his heart.
That morning he didn't wake until his body rolled off the bed and onto the hard, unyielding floor, jarring his shoulder. The pain dissipated the horrors left in his mind and he found himself relaxing and stretching out on the floor. Reluctantly he pulled on his shoes and walked outside into the brisk cold air. It woke him up a bit and soon he fell into a regular pace, his breath coming in short rhythmic pants. He made it to his school, this time, in only twenty-five minutes and felt better that after only one day he was improving. He kept running past and for another five minutes before turning around and running back, taking a slightly longer but more scenic route home. Again as soon as he reached home he went straight upstairs and, after a quick shower, into his room to get back to studying before the Dursleys woke up.
Today he rewarded himself with Defense against the Dark Arts, and finished it in record time as he hardly had to refer to the book at all, and painstakingly made his way through various astronomy charts for the uncharacteristically large amount of work Professor Sinistra had assigned them. His routine was the same for three more days when he realized that he had completed all his homework to his best possible standard. Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures was finished and all the scrolls lay in a pile to one corner of his desk. He looked at his clock, only 2 o'clock in the morning. Too early for Harry to submit to the call of sleep. And he wasn't hungry. In fact since the beginning of the holidays his appetite had decreased significantly, until he only sometimes ate late at night before bed, though that was more out of habit than hunger. His nights had become shorter and shorter until he no longer slept more than an hour each night. It kept the more violent dreams at bay and Harry surprisingly found that he was not that tired from the lack of sleep. At first he brushed it off as just a good working brain but after three nights with a total sleeping time of three hours, he was beginning to think something was wrong.
He would see what he could find tomorrow. Tonight he would send Hedwig to get him a catalogue from Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley. He needed to get next years textbooks and also some other reading material if he wanted to keep learning. But she wasn't going to be back from Diagon Alley before dawn though and so once he sent her off and watched her small feathered figure fade into the night he slumped back onto his bed and began to reread his old potions text book. But he had already mastered what was in there. Eventually, restless he got up and began writing a long reply to Hermione's last letter. He mentioned that he had already finished his homework and that the Dursleys had left him alone for the most part (they were still denying his existence in their house). Nothing personal, but friendly enough so Hermione could not see through it to his real feelings. He had told no one about the new nightmares, he was sure it wasn't Voldemort but just his own cruel conscious rubbing his guilt into his already frail psyche.
He stared at the letter before setting it aside for Hedwig in the morning then looked to his clock. 3 in the morning it read. Harry closed his eyes and rested his head on his folded arms on the desk. He hadn't meant to drift off and he hadn't been particularly tired but before he knew it he was immersed in a nightmare.
It was as though they had been waiting for him to fall into a deep sleep, the pent up violence from the previous three days was unleashed full force in a hurricane of deep anger and brutality, taking Harry with it. He spiraled down... down ever further into the deep dark recesses of his mind, he opened his mouth to scream, in pain and yet not, but found that his mouth refused to respond and allow him even this small release. He reeled and some where in between wakefulness and slumber he felt it. Him. Like an insidious parasite he leeched off his shames and angers, and pushed him further down.
Then with a jolt it was gone. A sharp tapping at the window woke him. He was laying on the floor, his chair on its side. He looked down and realized that his hands were wrapped tightly around his arms, fingernails digging painfully into his flesh. Only it wasn't really pain... and as he released them he felt the horrors of the dream come flooding back. There was no images this night, just the immensely nauseatic feeling of falling downwards in increasingly vicious spirals, and the thick aura of despair that filled the air, making him breath it like oxygen and smothering his lungs and insides with a sickly weighted feeling.
Experimentally he dug in his fingernails again, right next to the moonlike crescents from before. They bit in and Harry flinched in anticipation of the pain. But it didn't come. Instead it left him. Through the scratches the previous nights events seemed to seep out in blissful liberation.
The impatient tapping at the window was becoming annoying, until Harry's mood was spoilt and he stood up and allowed Hedwig admittance. He roughly pulled the catalogue from him and quickly read it, noting down all the texts he would need for next year, plus a couple of others, on Dueling and Occlumency and potions etc. He gave Hedwig an impatient nudge and sent her straight back out into the brightening sky. He sighed at the turmoil inside him. Time for his run.
By this time he could make it to the old school in twenty minutes, and each day he ran further and further, never arriving home later than 8 o'clock for fear of coming face to face with one of his family members. He didn't want to think of them when they were now the only family he had left.
As he ran the feelings began to broil up inside of him. He knew it was Voldemort influencing at least part of his dreams, which is why he had bought a rather expensive book on occlumency, not that he really thought a book would help. Better than nothing however.
But how could Dumbledore leave him like this? Magic-less and isolated left to deal with his raving midnight emotions in nightmares of enormous proportions. The choking feeling began to come back as his head spun with the memory of last night, but he knew he had to at least make it home before he could let it control him. Breathing became almost impossible and he could tell he was beginning to hyperventilate. Stumbling the last hundred metres to the door, he flung it open and collapsed inside with a thud.
'What is wrong with me' he wondered as usually his runs served to relax him than anything else.
He crawled upstairs, to the mirror in the bathroom and looked into his own eyes. And saw fear reflected. His vision was swimming and the outside of his view began to close, going darker at the edges. Frantically he looked around the room looking for something, anything that might help him. Nothing... until a shiny metal object caught his eye. Uncle Vernon's razor set... yes that could work. Before when he had heard about the act of blood letting as a form of release, he had thought it barbaric, but now he was beginning to doubt his previous assessment. Right now it was looking downright appealing in his rapidly failing vision. He grabbed it, stared at it hesitantly before bringing it gingerly down to his arm, gasping slightly as cold metal touched bare skin.