Isolation

4. Score

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He woke with a start.

He had dreamt of Astronomy Tower again. The sights, sounds and smells had all plagued him ruthlessly; so vivid and vivacious. Even his subconscious was keen to mock him with fruitful memories; licking away at his brain while he slept, so that the scene repeated itself endlessly in his head. They came every night, some more fierce than others, but there all the same. Nightmares. Tormenting him. Reminding him.

Failure.

Failure.

Failure.

He groaned into the too-soft pillow and turned over, squinting away a tenacious shaft of sunlight. The Autumn sun was irritating and warm on his face, and he didn't like it. It was too garish and deceptive, fooling hopeless morons into believing it wasn't freezing outside. He could already feel the chill creeping along his skin as he pushed away the blankets to set his feet against the bitter floorboards.

He shrugged on the robes he'd been given to beat a shiver, adjusting them over his boxers and vest. Merlin forbid McGonagall could have supplied him with a set of actual pyjamas that might do something to battle hyperthermia. He glanced out of the window, but all he could see were roof-tiles, bricks and the brazen sky that was too harsh with the sun. What was the point in having windows without a view? Stupid Gryffindors.

He realised how quiet it was then, and the silence buzzed in his ears, eased only slightly by far away birds. He arched a confused eyebrow, realising something at the back of his brain was telling him he'd already woken up once today. If it still even was today.

Yes, he'd definitely already woken. He could sense the whispers of recollection blowing across his nerve endings. It had been the Mudblood to rouse him again, with her sodding shower and clumsy footfalls. He remembered mumbling a luscious list of swear words into his mattress as he'd listened to her uncouth movements, and he'd been four more obscenities away from marching in there with dangerous intentions. But then a door had clicked closed and the sounds had stopped.

She'd gone. Thank fuck.

So the warmth had soothed him back to slumber. Back to the nightmares.

Leaving the bed, he slipped out of the room in search for something to do, and something to eat. He helped himself to a glass of milk and some cereal that Granger must've left out, reminding himself that he really needed to learn some wandless cooking skills if he ever wanted a warm meal here. Asking Granger was obviously out of the question.

He poured himself a second bowl of breakfast as his eyes settled on the clock, and he released an agitated breath. It wasn't even morning at all; not breakfast. It was almost three in the afternoon; the official sign that a normal sleeping pattern was lost with his wand. With his pride.

His eyes went to the main door, and while he knew it was inevitably pointless, he set his bowl of cereal down and decided he would test it. The second his fingers grazed the handle, sparks shot up the length of his arm; crackling in his veins like spitting flames.

"Shit," he cursed, eyeing the red sting crowning his fingertips. With a resigned breath, he went back to the kitchenette and turned on the tap to soothe his buzzing skin with some cold water.

Then his eyes fell to the kitchenette's tiles. And he started to count.

Needed to do something... Needed to keep busy...

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"You're very quiet," Neville frowned, giving her a long look. "Are you okay, Hermione?"