Forget-Me-Not

3. No regrets

Harry slowly opened his eyes and stared at the familiar ceiling above his bed. Some cracks spread out like spiderwebs. He slowly blinked to try to distinguish what was still a dream and what was reality.

It was getting tough to tell the two of them apart, and his head felt like it would explode if he tried, so he just let it be. For once, he didn't struggle against the feeling but let it wash over him like the waves against a beach.

This disassociation he began to feel over what was his dream and reality had only grown over the past few days as he continually fell into a magical coma. A low hissing sound left him as he felt it prick his chest again as he slowly sat up, the bead sheet pooling around his naked torso.

Harry stared down at the white textile as he slowly moved his hand and stroked it over the soft cotton fabric, feeling the strings underneath his fingertips before slowly pulling it away from his stiff body. His head pulsed with every movement, putting his feet down on the ground.

Honestly, the last dream wasn't that terrible. He would even go so far as to say it had been enjoyable, filled with dancing, colours, and laughter. It was almost as if he could still hear the ringing laughter of Loki ringing in his ears.

What Harry didn't understand was why it made him want to cry. There was nothing sad about the memories at all, quite the opposite. It was as if he had a front-row seat for a new romance novel that Hermione used to leave all around the house and that he had glanced at perhaps a few times or finished. Not that he would admit it out loud.

Harry groaned as he stretched his arms above his head as every movement hurt, his stiff body protesting loudly. It was pretty strange to wake up as calmly as he had now done. Usually, he would have these weird dreams and violently come out of them, or his head decided to kill him slowly.

Harry's magic wasn't any better; ever since those dreams had begun, his body hurt, and his magic had become more uncontrolled. They became more and more reactive and leaked out of him more often. But the worst (or perhaps the best) was that he began to feel something he couldn't put his finger on what it was, but he knew that the feeling was of great importance.

Something that was about his dream prince, Loki. Harry groaned as he tried to drive that thought out of his mind. The last thing he needed right now was to fall in love with the imaginary dreamy man, or whatever he could call him. Either way, he would choose the thrilling dream of Loki over the other visions of the war, Voldemort, or see all of his loved ones' dead bodies staring up at him with empty eyes.

Not only was his brain against him, but now his body and back, in particular, felt particularly stiff while Harry was stretching.

The torture he had endured during the early part of the war had caused some damage to his nerves in both arms and hands. And some nights, his body couldn't control the phantom pains we're running through his nerves and woke him up with stabs of pain. It had been like an eternity since he had woken up like this, quietly, slowly, and at his own pace. It was as if his body and brain had finally agreed to give him a day off.

Harry went to the bathroom and continued with his morning routine. But after he'd showered, the towel hanging over his hips and water droplets still rolling over his skin, he got stuck in front of the mirror staring.

Harry let his gaze sweep over his body, slowly taking in the changes that had begun to show. His hair was now under his shoulder blades and was straighter than before, and no longer an uncontrollable mass on his head. Harry looked down at his wrist where the flower mark had changed again. He stroked his fingers slowly down the new flowers, and it looked more and more like an exclusive tattoo.