Chapter Ten: Tracing Footsteps
Harry was seething. He stomped through the corridor, head pounding and knees aching.
Snape was unbelievable! Did the git really think that Harry should be able to fight off a full-grown wizard's attack after just two measly Occlumency lessons?
Harry had been mortified at the memories the oily professor had invaded tonight. Memories of Cedric.
They were in the Prefect's bathroom, dipping their feet in the water and laughing... They were standing close, squeezing together so they could grip a moldy old boot along with the rest of the Weasleys...
Snape almost saw a particularly embarrassing moment when Harry had tripped, falling straight into Cedric's arms, who caught him laughing and showered his flushed face with kisses.
Harry had actually yelled with the effort of shoving the great bat out of his mind, saving himself more moments before he saw anything too intimate.
And then Snape had seen the corridor from Harry's dreams. That had been the worst part of the night. The moody man immediately became suspicious, asking too many questions. Accusing Harry even more of not trying hard enough.
He hated this. With every fibre of his being.
Why was Dumbledore insisting that he get these stupid, useless lessons anyways? Hadn't they helped save Mr. Weasley's life?
Harry shivered, thinking of the view through the great snake Nagini's eyes as they prowled through the corridor.
It wasn't as if Harry chose to have this connection with Voldemort. He didn't exactly like it, but he didn't really deserve to be punished for it either, did he?
Just then, he arrived at the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. Still mentally cursing Snape, Harry grunted the password, codswallop, and climbed through the portrait hole.
"Harry! You're back!"
Hermione's voice broke him out of his thoughts.
"How was it, mate?" asked Ron.
"Dreadful," Harry stated.
"Oh," Hermione said, but she continued, still trying to maintain a positive tone of voice, "Are you at least learning more about Occlumency? Understanding it a bit better?"
"Not really," Harry said, shrugging.
"I do hope you're really applying yourself, Harry. Dumbledore said-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know Hermione. Look, I'm knackered. I think I'm just going to head to bed."
Harry didn't want to hear her lecture. He knew he should tell them what he'd realized about his recurring corridor dream - that it was, in fact, the corridor leading to the Department of Mysteries – but even that exciting revelation couldn't throw off the exhaustion and anger he was currently drowning in. Waving to Ron, who was glaring reproachfully at Hermione, he headed towards the staircase.
Just before he was out of earshot, he heard Ron hiss, "Well done, 'Mione, you must have broken a nagging record. Only about twelve words and you chased him away!"
Harry didn't hear Hermione's reply, but judging by her tone, she hadn't appreciated Ron's assessment.
Shaking his head, Harry entered his dormitory and fell straight into bed, rubbing his aching eyes with the heels of his palms.
He was still so agitated, so angry. He hated Snape, and he hated Occlumency, and he hated Dumbledore for ignoring him all summer and then forcing this on him!
He let out a growl, kicking off his trainers and yanking the quilt over him without even bothering to take off his robes.
He reached into his bag beside the bed, fingers fumbling blindly until they found the time-softened edges of a familiar piece of parchment. Then he threw the quilt over his head, grabbed his wand, and whispered, "Lumos!"
He unfolded the yellowing parchment quickly, tapping it once and swearing solemnly that he was up to no good.
And admittedly, Harry knew that what he intended to do was probably very foolish.
His eyes followed the ink patterns that bloomed on the page, spelling out names and taking the shapes of corridors and rooms.
He searched only a moment before he found the name he was looking for.
Draco Malfoy.
Some of the heavy, burning anger he'd felt only moments earlier seemed to lessen.
He traced Malfoy's footsteps along a corridor. Through a secret passageway. Down a staircase. Malfoy was probably out doing rounds.
Harry breathed a sigh. He didn't know exactly why he sought out the Slytherin. It felt like, even though they couldn't meet in the Room of Requirement that night, a little piece of Malfoy was there with him. It was somehow comforting to just see his name in the swirling ink. To watch his footsteps as they appeared and disappeared on the parchment. Harry traced their path absently with his finger.
Down another corridor. Briefly entering a classroom before returning to the hall. Steady. Reassuring.
And before Harry realized it, he was fast asleep. Dreaming.
...
Last year
Harry panted, wiping a trickle of blood off his face with his sleeve.
Cedric stood up straight, motioning to the gleaming Triwizard Cup that stood innocently on a plinth just a few feet away from them.
"You - should take it - Harry," he panted.
Harry shook his head, "No way!"
"That's twice you've saved my neck in here," said the Hufflepuff, "First from Krum, and now from a giant spider. You deserve it more than me."
"No, I don't!" exclaimed Harry incredulously.
Cedric walked over to him, taking his hand.
"No, listen," he said earnestly, "I wouldn't have gotten this far without your help."
"...Together, then?" Harry asked, emphasizing the first word significantly.
Cedric's breath caught, "You mean…"
"Well, we've done everything together for months now, including prepare for the tournament. We've been together for months. I think it's high time we told everyone."
"Even though that Skeeter woman is here?" Cedric asked, concern tinting his voice, "Harry, this won't be a page twelve story. The whole wizarding world will talk about the Boy-Who-Lived and his no-name boyfriend…"
"I don't care what they say about us," the dark-skinned wizard insisted, "Rita Skeeter has made up every conceivable story about me this year, and I just don't care about them anymore… but," he took a deep breath, "I do care about you, Ced."
Cedric mirrored the huge grin plastered on his boyfriend's face, and he leaned down to give him a quick peck on the lips.
"Together," Cedric nodded, squeezing Harry's hand in his.
Simultaneously, they both reached for a handle of the Cup.
Next second, Harry felt as if he was being pulled forwards by a hook just behind his naval. When the world stopped spinning, he fell to his knees, losing his grip on both the Cup and Cedric's hand.
Looking around, he saw mostly darkness, with mist trailing around him.
"Where are we?" asked Cedric from somewhere to his left.
"'Dunno," Harry said, sitting up. He accepted Cedric's hand and was pulled to his feet.
Still holding on to each other, they looked around.
"It's some sort of graveyard," Harry observed.
"Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?" Asked Cedric.
"Nope," said Harry.
"Why would they send us here, of all places?" Cedric wondered aloud.
Harry felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, and he gripped his boyfriend's hand tighter.
"They wouldn't," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Squinting his eyes into the shadows, he could barely make out a short figure approaching, carrying a bundle in its arms.
Suddenly, Harry was on the ground. Pain was ripping through his scar, and his knees had given way beneath him. Distantly, he registered the smell of dirt in his nostrils.
He could barely register Cedric shouting, "Harry! Harry, what's wrong?! Can you hear me? Harry!"
Forcing himself to look up at Cedric's terrified face, he ground out, "My… scar."
Then, he heard a high, cold voice rasp out, "Kill the spare."
And Cedric was enveloped in green light.
Horrified, Harry watched as if in slow motion.
Cedric crumpled like a discarded rag doll, landing with a sick, fleshy thwump on the ground.
His face was frozen, chiseled features still scrunched in fear and confusion.
Harry screamed.
He fought the pain in his scar and threw himself towards his boyfriend, but flat grey eyes stared glassily into the distance, unseeing.
Dead. Cedric was dead.
And someone was making a loud, horrible, inhuman sound.
Harry was being levitated somewhere. Rough ropes crushed him against hard, cold stone, holding him in place.
The horrible, heart-rending sound wasn't stopping.
He could taste salt in his mouth. Was he crying?
The figure in front of him was throwing the bundle into a cauldron, but he couldn't focus.
His throat was hurting. Why did his throat hurt?
Screaming. He, Harry, was screaming. He was the one making the awful, inhuman sound.
He tried to stop.
Breathe, he told himself, Breathe!
He was hyperventilating. Concentrating, he tried to look at what was happening in front of him.
Someone was directly in front of him – it was Wormtail. Holding a knife.
"B-blood of the enemy . . . forcibly taken... you will. . . resurrect your foe," He squeaked, slashing the knife on Harry's arm.
Pain. More pain in his arm. He screamed again.
He looked around, and could just barely see Cedric laying on the ground.
This couldn't be real. It had to be a dream.
He saw Cedric's eyes. Open. Unblinking. Lifeless.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could shut his mind as well. Desperately, he refocused on the scene in front of him.
Wormtail stumbled back from the cauldron, holding a bleeding arm to his chest.
It dawned on Harry what the bundle was that Wormtail had dropped into the cauldron, the same source of the high, cold voice that had ordered-
He shook his head, thinking over and over, Let it die, please, let it die!
But something was rising up out of the curling mists of the potion.
Pain exploded in Harry's scar, adding to the searing pain in his arm and the deeper, aching pain in his chest, as Voldemort himself stepped out of the cauldron.
With a deep breath, he said, "Robes. Bring me my robes."
With a shaking hand, Wormtail offered up a length of dark fabric to his master.
"Your arm, Wormtail," Voldemort hissed quietly.
"Oh! Oh, thank you, my Lord!" simpered the cowering man, extending his bloody arm that – Harry realized for the first time – was nothing but a stump.
"Not that arm."
Wormtail whimpered, extending his left arm, which bore the black snake and skull of the Dark Mark.
Voldemort lifted his hand, pressing a finger directly into the center of the mark, saying, "Let us see how many of my noble followers respond to my call…"
Dark figures began appearing, dotting the graveyard with more shadow, but Harry was losing focus again. He forced himself to watch as Voldemort catalogued his loyal subjects: Dolohov, Rockwood, Lestrange, the list went on. Harry's heart raced when Lucius Malfoy was revealed; he had always known that man was evil.
Then Voldemort turned to address him, "Ah, yes. Mr. Potter, the star of our evening."
His high, emotionless voice grated against Harry's ears, against his soul.
"My followers would have believed me beaten by you. Let's see how you fare against me now… Crucio!"
Everything around Harry became meaningless as his world was enveloped by the pain. Burning, scratching, ripping, tearing.
When he finally surfaced, he was blessedly numb, and Voldemort was laughing.
All of a sudden, Harry was dropped to the ground, having been released from the ropes' scratching grip.
He could still taste salt.
…
Present Day
Harry trudged towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom slowly and groggily. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. In fact, he hadn't gotten much sleep for a while. He'd been plagued with nightmares for months now, but this past week had been… worse.
It was odd and more than a little off-putting that his dreams had got worse right when he began his Occlumency lessons. He'd been visiting the long corridor at least a few times a week, but since his first lesson with Snape, he'd been there every night. Not to mention his other dreams.
Since returning to Hogwarts, he'd managed to avoid the worst of the memories from last year. The graveyard hadn't haunted him like it had when he was stuck at the Dursleys. Most nights, it seemed as though he was able to take solace in the good memories and flee from the bad ones.
But lately, it was almost as if he was being stalked by the graveyard, and by the corridor, and by a myriad of other ghosts that clung to his subconscious like barnacles on the bottom of a pier. Out of sight at first glance, but stubbornly clinging on and making everything darker, dirtier.
With a sigh, Harry scrubbed the sleep from his face roughly before opening the door to the classroom. He couldn't do much about the circles under his eyes that blackened his already dark skin, but he could at least make the rest of himself presentable. Especially before seeing Malfoy.
Most of the time, Harry didn't care what he looked like. Having grown up in horribly oversized hand-me-downs, he'd learned quickly not to care what others thought of his appearance.
But Malfoy was a different story. He seemed to care a great deal what he looked like, about others' opinions of him. And Malfoy had become important to Harry, to say the least. He hadn't been able to see much of the blond in the past week, and it only surprised him a little how much he missed him.
Even more so since the nightmares about Ced had gotten worse. Dreaming used to be a comfort to him, if only temporarily. He always woke up cold and alone, but sometimes while he slept, he would be right back in the library with Cedric, huddled over books on defensive spells, trading tips and secret smiles. Or he would be in the Prefect's bathroom, feet soaking in brilliantly colored bubbles, laughing because Cedric was laughing, and it was impossible not to laugh along with him.
Now, deprived even of the fleeting comfort of his dreams, Harry was lonelier than ever.
Malfoy helped.
Harry took his usual seat to Malfoy's left, running a hand through his ruffled hair to try and tame it. He was unsuccessful.
Malfoy noticed, apparently, as he smirked at Harry, flicking his eyes up towards his hair meaningfully.
Harry rolled his eyes, trying to hold back a smile, and sent him a rude gesture.
Malfoy scoffed, shooting back a mock glare. His eyes lingered on Harry's face, as they sometimes did. Harry felt a bit self-conscious of the bags under his eyes, but otherwise he didn't mind the scrutiny. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Just then, Umbridge stood to babble as usual about the day's reading before her swoopy, girlish handwriting appeared once again on the blackboard with the assigned pages.
Harry and Malfoy dutifully opened their books.
Almost before he could start pretending to read, Malfoy slipped a note under the cover of his book.
I'm wondering, Potter. Do you ever sleep?
Harry blushed at the words, but decided to try and play it off.
Never. I'm actually part Vampire, have I never told you? From my grandmother on my Dad's side.
Malfoy scoffed again under his breath.
Normally, I'd love to draw comparisons between you and vampires (like your shared affinity for sucking the fun out of everything, for instance), but you won't distract me today. What's going on with you? You've been walking around like the undead all week.
Harry read the note, smiling a bit at the playful jab.
I thought you said you weren't going to compare me to a vampire?
Harry suspected that Malfoy knew he would ask that question, because he took no time at all to scratch his reply on the parchment.
I happen to be exceedingly clever, and can accomplish both satire and concern at once. Now quit stalling.
Harry sighed.
Weren't you the one who told me never to put sensitive material in writing?
Malfoy looked up at that, eyes immediately finding Umbridge's toady figure. He nodded, then wrote:
Fair point. I'm glad you're finally learning from my wisdom, Potter. Tonight, the usual place, after dinner.
Harry smiled briefly before he caught himself.
See you then.
A/N – Hellooo! It's been a while. Again. But I'm back, and I bring with me this chapter – along with the complete recollection of poor Ced's death and the source of Harry's PTSD. I can't wait to get a little further along in this story so my sweet, battered Harry can find a bit more peace. This is a hard fic to write sometimes because of what a dark place Harry is in, but it's also therapeutic for me in a way. Like JK writing about the Dementors. This is my own little representation of my trauma and depression. Welcome to my brain, guys.
Anyways, thanks to all of you who have stuck with this story. And thank you so much to those who have taken a moment to share your comments and thoughts with me. You've no idea how much it means.