What's Wrong With This Picture?
Chapter 2 : August 12th
August 12th 1995. To most people, today was just like any other. But to Harry Potter it was yet another day living with the same limited information, which he had been sent a week ago.
"Ministry Official Dolores Umbridge mysteriously murdered"
That's it. Apparently it is the most controversial and prominent article in the Daily Prophet. But he knew he was probably one of the last people in the British wizarding world to even hear of this.
And while he couldn't help but resent his friends and his godfather for not further informing him on such important events, a voice in his head kept reminding him that he too was withholding vital information from them.
"Rather hypocritical, isn't it? What you aren't telling them could be much more critical than what they aren't telling you" The voice jeered condescendingly.
"Boy, hurry with those bloody dishes! You still have a days worth of chores to do!"
An uncharacteristic urge to destroy everything in close proximity of him overcame him, bringing a pang of panic as the nightly 'dreams' floated to the top of his memories. As soon as it came, the feeling vanished. Feeling a bit shaken, Harry decided to busy his mind with tending to the exterior of the house.
Harry,
We know that you must be really frustrated about being stuck with your aunt and uncle for so long, but just hold on for a bit longer. We really do with we could tell you more about wha-
There was a soft swish as a crumbled piece of parchment flew across the room and into the dingy black trashcan near the door.
Harry didn't have to finish reading the letter to figure out what Hermione was trying to say. Whether it was in Hermione's professional jotting, Ron's
casual jargon, or Sirius' curt reassurances, Harry knew exactly what the true gist of their messages was:
Sorry there's stuff going on, but we can't tell you about any of it.
"My reason for not telling them anything has to be 10 fold better than whatever reason they have." He said savagely.
12:37
The digits blazed in the moonlit room. His anger at his friends suddenly seemed something far away, as he tried desperately to fight the drowsiness brought on by hours of working in the blistering August sun. Now, the dilapidated cot he called a bed looked ever so inviting.
He knew that tonight holding off a certain recurring nightmare would be a near impossibility. And despite his reluctance, he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
A man sat alone at the bar in an enormous baroque ballroom, lazily nursing a glass of dark liquor. The soft light from the fire danced on the sharp outline of his face.
"Are you supposed to feel…this used up, at the age of 23?" He asked the room, his deep voice breaking slightly.
There was a long pause.
You Liar.
It seemed as if a crowd many of invisible people had entered the room, their voices rising with every syllable, the disgust in their tone almost palpable.
You Traitor.
The cacophony of the voices was reaching a dizzying level. The man, who was almost completely enshrouded in darkness, seemed to huddle closer to his drink.
You Fool.
There was a thunderous smash as the aforementioned glass shattered against the dark green walls.Harry awoke with a start, the abrupt ending of the dream racking his nerves. His eyes focused on the dust in the room dancing in a sliver of early morning sunlight.
"Bloody hilarious, Voldemort" Harry muttered as he placed his hands against his searing scar. "Typical."
Now, more than ever, Harry wanted to owl Sirius to tell him about the onslaught of creepy dreams, or to tell him about the letter he received on his birthday. He pushed the thought out of his mind though. It was better for everyone if he didn't tell, right?
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