A/N: EDITED (typos and grammar)

Chapter Two; The Terror Of A Lone Lake

…

"Then — ah then I would awake / To the terror of the lone lake"

-Edgar Allan Poe - The lake (fragment) 1827

...

'It's always darkest before dawn, Harry,' Sirius had told him once, in one of his letters as Snuffles. As Harry's eyes open and his scar sears in pain, he finds himself loathing Sirius and his metaphoric logic.

The nightmare had been so vivid that for one startling moment, Harry really isn't sure whether he is awake or not.

Mrs. Malfoy was being killed, brutally murdered. Harry had seen it happen, every second of it. With his own eyes. They were so absurdly, horrifically, inexplicably and uncontrollably narrowed in amusement when Bellatrix Lestrange, deranged and unstable, cursed and tore the other woman. Harry had sensed Snape passively standing by his side, and the Malfoy patriarch on the floor, restrained and staring at his knees with a fixed expression as the younger Malfoy thrashed in his bounds and called for his mother until his throat had been rendered raw.

It had all felt so raw. So real. He can still hear the screams echoing around in his head and the flashes of curses. The blinding green light of the Avada Kedavra as it had ended Mrs. Malfoy's life, as it had done so many years ago his mother. And father. And Cedric.

Harry had cackled under his breath; he couldn't fathom why he would have, the scene before him was horrific, absolutely nauseating, and he was forced to watch every minute of it. It filled his chest with a clash of conflicting emotions, threatening to drown him under a wave of fear and despair. He didn't know Narcissa Malfoy and he didn't particularly like her son either… but he wouldn't wish such a horrible death on her either.

He should have been repelled, but instead, he'd felt happiness, an eerie sneaking streak of joy that almost felt like indulgence in glee, and it felt wrong, so wrong to feel happy when Mrs. Malfoy was dead. Happy at Malfoy senior's misery and Draco's struggles.

He is going to be sick.

He presses his fist tighter against his mouth, trying to repress the urge to vomit, burrowing himself further in the sweat-soaked covers, his other hand clutches his wand so tightly that his fingers cramp.

It was just a dream. Nothing more. Even though he can't, for the life of him, imagine why he'd dream of such a thing. He had never even heard of half the spells Bellatrix had used. How had his mind come up with that?

Or maybe his mind is just that twisted enough to think of the spells, ones so fundamentally gut-wrenching that bile starts rising up in his throat again, he prays for that not to be the case, wishes that maybe he has read them somewhere and promptly forgotten about them because of how horrible they were.

Bellatrix was there. In the dream. Harry doesn't know why he'd thought of her at all. She is in Azkaban as far as he knows, isn't she?

Isn't she?

She hadn't been there in the graveyard when Voldemort had been resurrected, Harry can at least remember that with some sense of decorum and no self-doubt. She wasn't there, he would have known, she wouldn't have let him leave alive if she were there. Not with the way she dealt with Mrs. Malfoy just now, which thankfully means she is still in Azkaban. Although Harry wouldn't know, he hasn't read the papers in a long time.

When the screams in his head die down, he realises with a jolt that it's not his head and temples that are pulsing in pain, but his scar that's aching.

He lies there, motionless for a few moments, taking deep breaths that flood his lungs with much-needed air until it doesn't feel as if he's about to pass out anymore. He sits up, slightly dizzy, clapping a hand over his forehead.

The feeling is foreign to him almost. The only instances of his scar hurting had been during his first year, during his entanglement with Quirrel and the Philosopher's stone. Even then the pain hadn't reached this intensity not even when Voldemort had touched him through Quirrel's body. That was mild, compared to that night in the graveyard, when that vile scaley finger had touched his scar, nearly splitting his head in two with a kind of pain, that was to this day, still unimaginable to Harry.

That's the thing about pain. Harry knows all about it. The body forgets the pain. It can never conjure up an estimation after being put through an immense amount of it. It forgets as a coping mechanism. Harry wishes his mind was as smart as his body.

This throbbing ache makes him even more nauseous. He needs to wash his face, anything to cool his scar down a bit. He kicks the covers off with a small grunt and scrambles to his feet, his hand still tightly clasped against his scar. It feels inflamed under his palm and a bit wet. Harry suspects that to be sweat and prays that it's not blood.

His right hand has bright red teeth marks over it, visible in the dim moonlight slanting in through the small window. The Dursleys don't like it when he's loud.

He looks at the window, remembering how once he'd been small enough to fit through it, to get into the Weasley's enchanted car and fly away.

He wishes he could do it now. Climb out of the window and get away. Far away from whatever he is feeling right now, the disturbingly vivid nightmare, the pain in his scar which always meant something is wrong, from the vice-like grip of guilt on his heart whenever he thinks of Cedric and his lifeless eyes, the Dursleys, the utter, bone-deep, crippling loneliness he has been feeling all summer.

Away. Away. Away.

And to make matters worse, he is somewhat responsible for his self-exile. He isn't even getting the Daily Prophet anymore.

After waiting day after day for them to include one article regarding Voldemort's return, and growing exasperated as none did, in a fit of petty rage, Harry had cancelled his subscription.

He's cut off now in every sense of the word.

He looks at the floor. It's such a sharp contrast to the pristine dark marble floors that he'd seen in his dreams. Before, they'd been stained in blood. He can almost see it now—her twisted, broken body lying limp after what felt like hours of writhing.

He knows what the cruciatus feels like. White, hot knives stabbing through every inch of his body, cutting up his nerve endings into confetti and spitting on them for good measure, 'There, you little asshole,' the curse says, 'Feel it burn.'

Mrs. Malfoy had it cast on her so many times. He wouldn't wish it on anyone. Well, maybe Bellatrix. And Voldemort.

He tears his eyes away with the yearning still burning in his chest and stumbles to his door, groggy still and somewhat dizzy on his feet.

This isn't his first restless night, far from it. In fact, he had been so desperate for a break that he couldn't help but pray for a different dream every single morning as he forced the sleep out of his body and mind and tried to go through with his chores.

Tried being the keyword.

And his wish had been granted in the most gruesome way.

He'd just wanted a small break from seeing Cedric's face every night, cold and motionless, his face shocked in death, wide grey eyes and an agape mouth. Harry is sick of it. And now, another face is imprinted in his mind. He wishes he could obliviate himself. The whole resurrection. The whole Triwizard tournament. A lot of other things, too, if he gets any say in it.

Harry reaches the door, his cold fingers wrapping around the doorknob, twisting. Even that small task takes so much effort.

The door doesn't budge. He releases the knob with one last half-hearted tug.

Of course, it doesn't, he realises with a sinking feeling in his chest. The Dursleys have locked him in again.

The walls of his room close in, trapping him inside like a bird in a heated cage. He heaves in another thrashing breath. He's never been claustrophobic. He can't afford to be claustrophobic, not when he has been forced to live in a cupboard for the better part of his life. That's the first rule of survival in his books, adapt fast, or you're dead.

Lately, it takes a while for the rule to kick in… ever since Cedric, to be precise, ever since the graveyard. Nothing feels right. Everything is stilted and falling and crumbling and wrong. His body doesn't listen to him anymore. And his mind, that's a whole other issue in itself.

He turns around, pressing his back to the door, a small childish part of him hoping that it would give away under his scrawny body.

His eyes flicker over to the window again. He wonders where Hedwig is right now. He almost regrets sending her away this evening. He doesn't want to be alone.

Slowly at first, and then falling with a muffled thud, Harry slides to the floor.

'It's always darkest before dawn.'

Harry sure hopes that the dawn isn't too far away now. He's sick of the dark. He shudders, draws his legs up to his chest, and wraps his arms around them, resting his head upon his knees, just like he used to do when he was little in his cupboard.

His eyes are so dry they burn. He blinks. And feels nothing as the empty pit in his chest seems to grow larger.

The throbbing in his scar fades into a faint ache in the background.

A loud crack rings across the air, and a man in dark billowing robes appears, his feet stumbling a little on the wet sand beneath him. There's a scowl on his face as he rights himself, standing up straight. He's not one to usually stumble.

No one else is there. The area looks wholly deserted, just miles and miles of sand stretching behind him and endless sea stretching vast on the other side. The sun has long since dipped past the horizon. It's dark enough that one cannot quite tell the sea and the sky apart anymore.

He stands there, not moving. The expression on his face doesn't change. His lanky black hair is falling limply over his eyes; he doesn't bother brushing it away. He stares at the lazy tides with emotionless onyx eyes, washing up against the damp sand.

Abruptly, he turns around and starts walking. Within moments, a small cottage has appeared in the distance. He is still holding his wand in his hand as he makes his way over to it. It looks small and snug from the outside, looking desolate and alone surrounded by nothing but the sea. He has a deep kinship with the place because of it.

The door slams open, thudding against the wall with a bang as he walks in. There is the soft tinkling of a wind chime, and he curses Albus and his frivolous antics, suppressing the urge to banish the object. He even raises his wand, but then stops and lets it be.

With a wave of his wand, the Death Eater garb he's wearing vanishes, leaving him in his usual clothes. It doesn't make him feel any better.

He finally stows his wand away, relaxing, if only marginally. He almost looks lost for a second but then walks over to a cabinet in the kitchen with purpose. He pulls it open, and even though he feels like his hands are shaking, he's steady as he pulls out a bottle of Firewhiskey.

On his way to the living room, he grabs a glass from the counter. Then settles down heavily on the couch. Pouring himself a full glass, he sets the bottle down on the table.

He has downed half the glass in five seconds, and it burns. He finishes the rest of it and pours himself another but doesn't sip yet. He stares at the nearly full glass and the liquid inside, and his hands that are gripping it. He traces the rim with a finger, his lips pursed.

The warmth from the Firewhiskey is spreading quickly through his body, but it does nothing to curb the hollow feeling beneath his ribs. And something akin to regret.

Narcissa Malfoy, Severus thinks, was one of the fiercest, most graceful women he had ever known, even coming as far as showing up Lily Potter, his former best friend. All that beauty and grace and she had been reduced to that. All while he stood by and did nothing.

He never seems to do anything, does he? No matter how hard he tries, the people he ends up caring about suffer the most horrific fates.

Just last week, he had talked to her, and she had been in all her high chinned, proud Malfoy glory then. Speaking in a voice that was so different from the hoarse screams drawn out of her. in the last moments of her life. Almost worse than she had been seeing Draco and Lucius. Lucius, with his dead-eyed stare as he too, did nothing. And Draco, Draco; Severus clutches at the glass tighter, remembering Draco's screams, which could have rivalled his mother's.

He closes his eyes.

No one had said being a spy would be easy.

Harry stirs when a sharp knocking raps the door right behind him. He almost jumps out of his skin, scrambling and reaching for his wand, until Aunt Petunia's shrill voice cries out, "Get up! Get up! The breakfast isn't going to cook itself. Get up!"

Harry winces, shoving his wand back in his jeans. His back aches, and there's a crick in his neck. His legs are prickling with the standard pins and needles sensation. He'd fallen asleep on the floor.

Aunt Petunia continues, "I didn't keep you in this house to be a lazing, good for nothing freak! Get off your lazy ass and get to work! Get up before you regret it!"

"I'm up. I'm up. I'm coming," Harry says wearily, hoping that his aunt would just shut up. On the days he's feeling particularly sassy, he imagines her face without a mouth, just smooth flesh over a mouth that hurls too many hurts in this world. Harry isn't his aunt's first and only victim. Nearly everyone other than Vernon or Dudley has gotten the brunt of Aunt Petunia's tongue at least once.

His aunt finally relents, and he can hear her heels clipping down the stairs. Harry twists the knob and pulls, feeling an irrational rush of relief as the door opens. Of course, she has unlocked it for him. How else is he going to make breakfast for them?

Straightening up, he grimaces, stretching out his arms and legs. While falling asleep on the floor hadn't exactly been pleasant, at least he hadn't been plagued by any more gruesome deaths. Be it his mother's screams, or Cedric's eyes, or Mrs. Malfoy's blood. Harry would take a sore body over nightmares any day.

His wand is well hidden but within reach, in the giant pocket of his sagging jeans as he walks. It's always on him. Lately, even breathing feels hard if he is without his wand. He feels too exposed, too vulnerable, too naked without it.

He knows there'd be hell to pay if one of the Dursleys found him with the wand, but he'd rather take a thrashing than deal with Death Eaters or Voldemort wandless.

He passes his cupboard without a glance and obediently heads right into the kitchen, dodging Dudley's tripping hazard and Uncle Vernon's morning glare as they all wait for Harry to start preparing breakfast. Aunt Petunia is already cracking the eggs, and she wrinkles her nose at him when she sees him.

"Here," she shoves the egg bowl into his hands. "Be quick, boy. Vernon likes his breakfast after reading the paper."

Harry knows this, of course, and automatically starts whisking the eggs, even as his mind is still foggy and his neck sore.

He works as if on autopilot. This is easy. He can do this. As long as he doesn't make any mistakes or has no accidents, he'll be fine. He can just block everything out and complete his chores for that day. Maybe there will be enough chores today to exhaust him so much that he won't dream.

It's a futile thought, and he knows it. The nightmares don't care whether he is exhausted or not. They just ram their ugly heads in uninvited and refuse to leave, as if just to spite him. They wait until he's asleep and won't let up until he's screaming himself awake. They torment Harry with their dark, looming presence that doesn't diminish even with consciousness. They're always there, lurking on the edge of his vision, always hovering over his shoulder.

Sometimes, he wonders if they're real, and the weight on his shoulders isn't one of mental strain. He's either going mad or finally opening his eyes. It all depends on one's views, he supposes.

Sometimes, he also wonders whether the whole thing in the graveyard too had been nothing but a nightmare. Maybe Voldemort isn't back. Maybe everything is just an awfully long dream.

A little wishful thinking never hurt anyone.

Sometime last week, Harry had started a little game he'd liked to call 'Had Everything Gone Right In My Life ', and so far, he had gotten to the part where he's hanging out with Sirius in their own lawn and chugging chilled Butterbeer, and just talking about life. Maybe he's telling him a story about one of the mischiefs Sirius and James had gotten up to during their time.

It's a very self-indulgent, bitterness-driven game, and sometimes he feels slightly guilty as he lets his hands take over the chores and cautiously starts playing the game in his head.

"Oh, so you think you can beat me as a chaser?" That's something Sirius would say. Or Harry thinks so. He still cannot predict Sirius's reactions perfectly, but he's working on it.

And even if this is the last thing his godfather would think of saying, who cares? This is Harry's game, Harry's rules. In this alternate world that doesn't include weeding the lawn under the scorching sun, Sirius is the cool, fun godfather, and Harry loves him anyway. And Sirius loves him too, for him, and not James's phantom that takes the shape of Harry's body.

The back of his neck heats up under the sun as Harry bitterly pulls out the weeds and spares a glance at their porch every once in a while. Before he's halfway done, he decides to use the hose in the backyard to cool down a bit before getting back in, and since Aunt Petunia isn't snooping on him from the porch today, then he might just get away with it.

"There's a smart lad!" The Sirius in his head cheers him on with a firm slap on the shoulder.

'Thanks, imaginary Sirius, ' Harry drawls in his head with a roll of his eye and then straightens his back, rolling his shoulders with a wince. When Hedwig gets back, he's writing to his Godfather for real. Chatting with the man in his head is starting to feel a little bit like cheating, and it's making Harry feel weird.

The imaginary Sirius keeps on goading him, and Harry carries on with the light-hearted - albeit deeply sad and disturbed- dialogue in his head. In the end, when he's down to two remaining weeds, Ron and Hermione are included in the game as well, Ron on his own Nimbus and Hermione tucked under a tree with a gigantic book, because why not? That'll make her happy. Happier than she is in this life, probably.

With a frown, Harry realises that all the letters Ron and Hermione had sent to him have been cryptic as hell. Vague and not actually giving him any information. It was as if they were ignoring his letters, in which he kept asking them about the Wizarding World situation. What was Voldemort doing? What was happening? Were they all alright? Were they hiding something?

One would think with the events of last year and all the shit he went through, they'd be more… attentive. Harry knows that they are, which makes the whole situation even stranger. He's worried about them. He's mad at them too. But he's mostly worried. He won't admit to himself how angry he is at them. Not until he knows the facts, anyway. So, for now, he settles on being worried.

With a frown, and his mouth curled down, Harry wrenches the worn gardening gloves off his hands and dumps them in the weed-filled bucket. He feels hot and dizzy, both indicative signs of spending too much time under the sun. He should probably go and cool down before his brain fries.

Despite the chores, despite the dizziness, he feels jittery. As if waiting for something to happen. He's been feeling like this for a few days now. He's mostly learned to ignore the deep unsettling restlessness. Mostly.

Even though he's not aware of the cause yet, he cannot let it overwhelm him, the first rule of survival is adapting, and Harry adapts, whether the restlessness likes it or not.

Aunt Petunia is nowhere to be seen as he quietly turns on the hose, washing his hands with the blessedly cool water, before splashing some of it on his face.

With a sigh, Harry shoves the bucket in the shed and walks inside, making his way to the kitchen to make lunch. Aunt Petunia is already there, wiping the counter with a rag but intently glaring at him once he makes his way inside.

"Change out of those before you touch any food," she barks, and Harry nods, turning away before she clears her throat.

"Vernon and I are taking Dudders to Marge's tomorrow. She has hay fever, and she needs us around."

Harry doesn't know why he is privy to this sudden piece of gossip. Marge must have called when Harry was out working. The Dursleys usually never bother telling him about their plans.

"Alright," Harry wonders whether they're dumping him with their neighbour Mrs. Figg or taking him along to Marge's house. Probably force him to sleep in the kennels with the dogs. Harry winces.

"Should I…" pack? He doesn't need packing. What he needs is already on him. His wand and glasses are always with him anyway. He doesn't need that many clothes either. At this point, Harry would really rather go stark naked than appear in these rags in public.

"No. You're not coming," Aunt Petunia drops her rag with a curl of her lip. "You're staying here, boy,"

Harry cannot help it, his eyebrows rise, and his jaw slackens. They've never left him alone in the house before. What if they lock him in?

The expression on his face seems to disgust Aunt Petunia more. "Don't look at me like that," she snaps.

"That's my face," Harry can't help but mutter.

"Curb your tongue, boy! As I was saying," she takes a deep breath, taking in the pungent odour of bleach wafting around the kitchen. "We're leaving you to take care of the house. I already left you the list of chores. You'd better not skip any. I counted the food in the fridge too. Only the ones on the low shelf are for you, and that's it. I'll know if you've fooled around,"

Harry nods, resisting an eye roll. Figures, only Aunt Petunia would be depraved enough to actually count the items in her fridge to make sure Harry doesn't take anything more than his share.

"And you better not. Fool around that is." She grabs her rag once again, turning away from him. "Vernon doesn't have the patience to deal with your insolence. You don't want the repeat of last summer, do you?"

She's not looking, but Harry shakes his head nonetheless. He resists a slight shudder as he thinks about last summer and then clears his own throat.

"Am I allowed to leave now, Aunt Petunia?"

She jerks her head once. "Then come make lunch. Dudders should be back from the library any minute now."

Right. The library.

Harry rolls his eyes and heads for the stairs, mulling his aunt's words in his head a few times. Having the weekend to himself could prove helpful if she actually meant it when they said they're not locking him in. He doubts Uncle Vernon was entirely on board with the plan, but he must have given in eventually, probably because of the chores.

If Harry's lucky enough, and they really do mean it, maybe he can try picking his cupboard's lock to get some of his homework done. He hasn't done a single essay from the start of the summer, mainly because his things weren't with him, but also because… well, because he really doesn't like thinking about Hogwarts more than he has to.

Or maybe it's not Hogwarts that he's trying to avoid, but the events that took place there last year. Cedric's death is still fresh on his mind.

Harry sets his jaw with another shake of his head and refuses to think about the subject anymore.

Two pieces of toast, the very last spoonfuls of their peanut butter jar, and exactly three stripes of bacon. It's more than he usually gets, but it is supposed to cover him for two days, so that's slightly disconcerting.

The Dursleys are gone before he wakes up, and it takes Harry a moment to realise that he's home alone. By himself. With no one else. Perhaps except for Hedwig, who had returned late last night, empty-handed… or clawed, once more.

"Good morning," Harry mutters to his owl, lazily reaching a finger for Hedwig to nibble on. Hedwig hoots around his finger, her feathers slightly ruffled from the windy flight. She looks famished. Harry supposes he should send her out to hunt since Uncle Vernon isn't here to pop a vein over Hedwig anymore.

Hedwig settles on his shoulder, and they venture downstairs. Harry fixes his glasses, his jaw tensing with a wide, eye-watering yawn. Last night wasn't pleasant. Not Mrs. Malfoy's level of gore, but the Cedric dreams were back. He doesn't know if it was better or worse.

Harry lets Hedwig hop on the kitchen table with a chuckle. Aunt Petunia would have kittens if she saw Hedwig on her pristine tablecloth now, preening her feathers. The image satisfies him, even if the feeling is short-lived and fleeting.

"You go, girl," Harry cheers on and turns to face the fridge.

So, two pieces of toast, a couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter jar, and exactly three strips of bacon… that's all he's getting. Hedwig flaps her wings and settles on Harry's shoulder once more, nibbling on his ear as Harry surveys the food with narrowed eyes.

"My ear isn't food, Hedwig," he distractedly runs his hand over her head, and she hoots again, almost as if she's thinking of jumping into the fridge.

"This food is for me," Harry says as he picks up one of the toasts. Still, he gives Hedwig more than half of his breakfast, which was only the toast, and then sets her to go hunt in their backyard, wolfing down his breakfast in two bites. Two not very large and not very satisfying bites.

He spends the rest of the day lazily going through his chores. Not even completing half of them, but most of them had been pointless anyway. If he cleaned the damned floor once more, he'd rub the tiles right off.

He doesn't spend much time attempting to pick the padlock on his cupboard either. He figures that if he is unable to lock it back up after, or damage it, Uncle Vernon is going to blame magic and damage him in return, so he kisses any thoughts of homework goodbye and aimlessly lounges on the couch for a bit.

When the sun starts setting and the weather cools down a little, he decides that he is feeling too cooped in. And since no one is here to stop him, he might as well go out and enjoy his limited freedom.

The slight weight of his wand in his jean pocket is comforting as he steps out of the house, locking the door behind him. The sky is a mesmerising orange, fading to purples and blues and blacks. The sun has long since disappeared behind the vast rows of identical houses.

He walks and just… keeps walking with no particular destination in mind. It's quiet, and no neighbours are peeking out their windows to stare at the 'unstable boy that the Dursleys were so gracious to take in'. Quite unlike what Aunt Petunia thinks the neighbours think of Harry.

Harry thinks that they're too busy living their lives to bother themselves with Aunt Petunia's words.

He occasionally encounters people. He only knows a few and studiously ignores them. Still, other than that, no one really pays the too thin boy with overly large clothes and dark circles under his eyes any considerable attention.

He catches Dudley's gang snooping behind the fences a little further away from the park, smoking something, probably cheap rollups. They sneaked out of their parent's bedrooms as they snickered and cussed between themselves.

He steers clear away from them and heads for the park. Judging by the darkening sky and rolling clouds, it should be mostly vacant by now.

Kicking away a can of soda along his way, he enters the park. There are still a couple of stragglers around, but they look like they're leaving. It isn't a big park anyway. He likes it.

He walks over to a bench. The pieces of cheap paint on metal are rusting and peeling off in some places, but he sits down anyway. He scratches some of the paint chips with his fingernails, idly glancing around the playground.

The bench isn't comfortable, but he could sleep here if he wanted to. It's in the open, and that somehow feels better. And maybe, just maybe, he won't have a nightmare for once. He laughs at his own joke. Then abruptly stops when he realises how pathetic it is making him look. Sitting in a vacant park, laughing at something only he knows.

He sits there for a little while, gazing up at the sky as it darkens further. The light bleeds away into inky blackness. It's getting chillier too. Harry wasn't expecting that when he stepped out for his stroll, or else he would have worn one of the Weasley jumpers over Dudley's rags. They all still fit. The first one he had received is only a bit shorter now. The sleeves fall short to the middle of his forearms.

The weather keeps getting colder, and Harry decides it's time he got back to Privet Drive. He frowns as he walks. It's only July. Generally, by this time of the month, even asphalt starts baking in the streets.

It shouldn't be this cold.

With a hesitant shrug, Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets, feeling the smooth sleek wood of his wand as it rolls under his fingers and feels his heartbeat slow down once more, even as the hair at the back of his neck prickles.

And then it's as if someone thrusts the whole area, or perhaps Harry, into a refrigerator; goosebumps rise along his arms and his breath mists in front of him. Everything is plunged into sudden darkness, the faint light of the stars above him flickers out, and he stills.

Harry turns around, and his blood runs cold.

Dementors.