Sometimes Harry had bad days. Sometimes he'd wake up, hours after Draco, his head pounding like cannon fire. Sometimes it was like he had died again, and he'd wanted to go, to hop on the next train to beyond, but hadn't been allowed to. Someone had botched the resurrection and he was left just a pile of rubble, the ruins of who he had been.
He was buried under the sheet, somehow too hot despite the lightness of the linen and everything ached. He was so weak, so tired, so heavy, and there was pounding, crashing– but he'd shut his eyes in an attempt to alleviate the pain, the misery, and he saw blood.
He heard Hermione screaming, Ron walking away, the accusation written across his face. There were the pieces of Colin Creevey and the alabaster skin of Nymphadora Tonks, the slack jaw of Remus Lupin, the puddle of what used to be Lavender Brown and half of the Weasley twins, Fred, skull caved in like the wall that crushed him. There was Severus Snape, being devoured whole and alive, a horrible shade of blue and midnight purple. There was the barbaric hollering of Vincent Crabbe, the howling of Gregory Goyle, the smell of burning skin, melting muscle, bubbling blood. And there was Theodore Nott, a boy Harry never really hated and really hardly knew at all, bleeding out on a flooded bathroom floor.
Sirius Black, looking at him, pleading with him for salvation as he fell into the Veil.
A laugh, a jeer. The Boy Who Lived, come to die.
Not soon enough.
Harry had this recurring dream. He supposed, in theory, it was a nightmare; it checked all the boxes, really, but it hadn't scared him, left him shaking awake in a cold sweat, in many, many months.
By now, Harry supposed, it was normal. Just a part of his nights.
It always began at the top of the Astronomy Tower.
The Cloak slid over him like a second skin, soft as silk and surreal. But it hid him away, and, as the door to the tower stairs slammed open, echoing off the turret walls, Harry felt it tighten ever so slightly around him. He could not move.
There was nothing to be done as Snape stormed into the summit, his expression masked both by shadows and a lifetime, Harry came to know, of careful, painstaking curation. He paused steps from Dumbledore, the old headmaster feeble and shaking and far too weak to be the soul of the school. Snape's arm was outstretched, wand steady. Languidly, lingering behind like a devil that existed only in the dark, was Bellatrix, eyes glinting, grin giddy.
Please, whispered Dumbledore, and Snape choked avada ked– and Harry screamed.
The dream always went this way. Sometimes, Snape's curse would kill, and the old headmaster would tumble backwards over the ancient iron rail, the thud as his body hit the ground shaking the whole of the dream. Sometimes, in later iterations, Snape wouldn't do it; his curse would falter and Harry would have to watch as Bellatrix, a mad cackle, finished them both before uncovering Harry himself. I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black, she hummed as she aimed her crooked wand at him.
But now, Harry's scream was choked and broken as the Cloak wrapped tighter, binding him like Nagini, sticky with the rot of Bathilda Bagshot, the second skin tensed so taut he couldn't breath, his jaw trapped open, mid-scream, soundless, wordless, suffocating, dying. But nobody saw him. Snape's Killing Curse blazed green, and Bellatrix's laugh echoed and Dumbledore fell, meeting the earth with that eternal, sickening thud.
But Harry couldn't do anything, couldn't even feel sorrow or regret or hatred or fury. All he could feel was the fear, hidden away as he was, wrapped up tight in Peverell's Cloak. He was hidden, hiding to death, and he didn't want to die.
It was like knowing where he wanted to go– unsure until Draco threatened to choose for him, and then, instantly, he knew. He thought he wanted Death, until he was asked to die. And, for the second time in his terribly short life, he was reminded that Death, like everything, had a place and a purpose, and it was not time. He was not ready. I have to go back, don't I?
Back to the burden that was life. Back to the earth spinning beneath the stars. The stars–
He was falling backwards, the Cloak slipping off him, dancing hazily in front of his eyes, and he gasped, feeling the air rush miraculously into his lungs. But he was off-kilter, he was still in so much pain. He could hear from somewhere distant, back beyond the Veil– I killed– I killed– I killed–
A blemished hand, pale and rough and strong reached through the Cloak-cum-Veil, grabbing Harry's lingering wrist.
And the universe righted itself.