ALWAYS & FOREVERMORE | harmione

𝐱𝐯𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦

Three days later

Is this some nightmare—? It must've been. It was all just a silly dream, one that would end in the morning; Harry was sure of it.

Multiple thoughts were racing through his mind; it felt like his head was about to explode. His eyes were glued to the ceiling above him, piercing it with their unwavering gaze. His body ached— more now than it ever had. Harry felt numb, unaware of the entire world around him. He lay motionless, trapped in the upstairs bedroom within Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, haunted by the memories. Harry had shut everyone out, even her.

His cheeks were tear-stained, sticky, and damp. His hair was filthy, messy, and splattered with droplets of blood and flakes of dirt. Harry was starting to lose track of time, the hours blending together. He had forgotten what it was like to feel empty, and had not intended on remembering so suddenly. Gasping for breath, the raven-haired boy choked back a hoarse sob, his hands grasping the sheets beneath him. He tightened his grip on the bed covers, his hands shaking.

Fighting against his tiredness was no longer worth it— nothing was worth it anymore. He might as well give in. Give in. Those words comforted Harry in an unknown way, almost making him feel like he wasn't completely alone. However, he knew distinctly well that the comfort he felt was nothing short of a lie. The truth had already been established; it had already been done.

Harry's eyelids fluttered shut, and he willingly let them, no longer afraid of what'd he see if he fell asleep. No nightmare could possibly be worse than reality so why did it matter? His breathing fell to a regular pace, his chest rising and falling slowly. The feeling in Harry's limbs hesitantly went away, leaving an odd tingling. His hands relaxed as he was whisked off into his dreams.

★ ★ ★

"HAND IT OVER!" A voice surrounding him boomed.

The voice sounded strangely familiar, but he couldn't place a finger on who it belonged to. His mind was too exhausted to worry about such minor details. It felt like he was on overdrive, never receiving his much-needed break. He wanted it all to end; the pain, the suffering, everything.

Harry looked left and right, but couldn't find the source of the voice; it was driving him crazy. He tightly gripped onto his forearm, suddenly feeling the urge to tear himself apart. His shoulders tightened, his neck growing stiff. Is this what death felt like? Would he even receive death's blessing? Or would he be stuck in this mortal world, living out his reoccurring nightmare?

"Make it stop—" He mumbled, his voice ragged. Was he even making a sound?

"Stop. Stop. M-Make it stop." Did anyone hear him? Harry could imagine the voice taunting him, laughing at his pain.

"MAKE IT STOP!" He screamed into the abyss, surrounded by never-ending darkness.

A loud cackle was all he heard in response, mocking him. So he was right— his suffering was amusing.

"STOP—!" Harry hollered, falling onto his knees; he was growing weaker and weaker.

Light. His eyes squinted to see. Was the light good? Harry couldn't tell; he wasn't even sure if he wanted to know. His vision snapped into focus, spotting his godfather, Sirius Black. He was safe now, harm couldn't reach him anymore.