Succor

01 | Cursed Blood

❝There are times when explanations, no matter how reasonable, just don't seem to help.❞

- Life's Journeys According to Mister Rogers: Things to Remember Along the Way, Fred Rodgers. 

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His head hurt.

That was the extent of what Harry's brain could currently comprehend; anything and everything else was easily shoved aside to make way for that blaring piece of information: It fucking hurt.

His head pounded; intense ebullitions of pain reverberated into a disoriented, muffled blur. Clammy, shaking hands desperately grasped onto the bedsheets, his breathing was ragged and erratic. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face.

The old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin.

He sat up, one hand still on his scar (a weak attempt to muffle the pain), the other reaching out for his new glasses (Sirius had bought him a self-adjusting pair), which were on the broken bedside table (Dudley had tried to sit on it). He put them on and immediately the world became clearer and sharper (since they were finally the right prescription). It was still night and the only light in the room was the orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside the window.

He clapped his hand to turn on the Pixie lamp beside him (he bought it last year when he had been staying in Diagon Alley), scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. An exasperated, skinny boy of 14 looked back at him, his bright green eyes telling unspoken tales of sleepless nights. He examined the lighting bolt scar of his reflection.

It looked normal—well, as normal as a cursed scar from a homicidal maniac with no nose could be—but, it was still stinging.

Harry tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had been (oh, so rudely) awoken. It had seemed so real...there had been three people in total; two who seemed familiar, and one who didn't.

Frowning, he scrunched his eyes shut tightly, there had been a beautiful snake on the hearth rug, Nagini was it?... Wormtail had been there too...and the cold, high voice of Lord Voldemort.

Harry felt like a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped over his face.

And not just ice-cold water, but ice-cold water with a few large chunks of ice still in it, that hurt and bruised your head when the bucket was dumped. Chunks of ice that happened to be shaped as extremely sharp and deadly needles pierced through your skin, going straight through your heart, impaling the organ, and making all the blood in your body turn until all you can do is breathe shallowly and hope it passes soon.

You know, that kind of feeling.

He tried to recall what Voldemort had looked like, but it was impossible. All Harry knew was that the moment when Voldemort's chair had swung around, and he, Harry, had seen what was sitting in it, he had felt a pang of horror that had awoken him...or had that been the pain in his scar.

And who had the old man been? For there had certainly been an old man; Harry had watched his old, frail body fall to the ground. It was all becoming so blurred; Harry put his face into his hands, blocking out his bedroom, trying to hold onto the image, but it was like trying to grab mist into his hands; the details fading away as soon as they appeared.

Voldemort and Wormtail had been talking about a previous Murder. There had been a mention of someone named Bertha. And they had been plotting to kill someone. Harry didn't need the dream to know that the 'someone' had been him.