Nothing In This World (BEING EDITED)

II.

Chapter II: Eight Little Peppers and How they Grew
WARNING: Strong language and mentions of sexual relations

14 years later

Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. With a jolt, he sat up straight, covered in sweat. He let his head hit the pillow again; laying there in the darkness of his room, he had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed to his face. The 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, and the other reaching out in the darkness for his glasses, which were on the bedside table. He put them on, and his bedroom came into clearer focus, lit by the faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the door from outside in the hallway.

Harry ran his finger over his scar again; It was still painful. He turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the side of the door. A skinny boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright green eyes puzzled under the untidy curly black hair. He examined the lightning bolt scar of his reflection closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging.

Harry tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken. The first part of his dream had been weird. He had dreamt about his potions professor, Severus Snape. It wasn't the first time this had happened to him, and he knew it wasn't the last. The dream of Snape wasn't frightening, just weird. He felt a surge of energy pass through him as his fingertips felt like he had just touched lightning. Then, just like it always happened, his happy dreams turned into nightmares. It had seemed so real. There had been two people he knew and one he didn't. He concentrated hard, frowning, trying to remember. The dim picture of a darkened room came to him. There had been a snake on a hearth rug, a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail, and a cold, high voice, the voice of Lord Voldemort. He's had this dream several times before since the start of summer, and each time, it was the same. Harry felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very thought; the door to his bedroom opened, causing him to jump.

"Fuck me! Dad!" Harry breathed out a heavy sigh of relief. "You scared me."

"Alright there, son, you look like you've seen a ghost!" Asked Arthur, letting the bad word his son said slide. Harry looked back at the older man who had red hair that was beginning to be slightly gray and nodded. "I didn't think anyone would be up when I got home."

"Yeah, I'm good. Did I wake you?" Harry looked back in the mirror. "I couldn't sleep," he knew he wasn't being completely truthful, but it was better than having the man worry. His  scar was still hurting considerably, but he wouldn't tell his parents quite yet. "Is everything alright?"

"No no no not at all, I was just getting home from a ministry dinner party, and I heard you get up. I wanted to make sure we're alright." Arthur Weasley-Malfoy paused and looked at Harry. The boy's green eyes shine brightly in the dimly lit room, and he notes how anxious his son was. It had been fourteen years since they (his husband) had adopted Harry into their family. Even all these years later, their family still felt complete as if Harry was supposed to be theirs. "Everything's fine. Your papa and your siblings are fast asleep. What are you doing up so early in the morning?"

"Bad dream! Couldn't sleep. I was going to let Hedwig out of her cage so she could go fly for a bit." There was silence between them as Harry's father moved closer to him. He gently placed a finger on the scar (causing Harry to wince. No one had touched his scar before: except him and his headmaster. Albus Dumbledore).