Birth of a Nightmare Man

Chapter Fourteen

One Harry had recovered a little bit he Apparated purely by instinct, to a place he always knew how to get to. But of course, the only thing that met him was grass and trees. George's house wouldn't be built for a long time. Harry cried and screamed at the ground, then tore it up and away. He pounded the earth with his fists, causing the entire ground to tremble and then curled up in a ball.

He felt cold inside, cold outside. He barely noticed the tears anymore. He wanted his Dementors back. He wanted to wake up and find out it was all a really shitty dream, to be woken up by Rabastan who didn't want to be awake alone in the house. Or to be woken up by Rabastan screaming about 'those damn Dementors are breathing down my neck again, damnit Potter!'

Nothing happened. He didn't wake up. It wasn't a dream. Harry sat up, covered in dirt and eyes burning, a strange rage bubbling just under the surface. He wanted to reach out through time and space and squeeze the life out of that Order member. He'd resurrect the man only to kill him again, and again, and again.

"Fuck…" Harry muttered at last.

It was getting late, and chilly, and not in the way that meant Dementors were near. It was just fucking cold. He looked at the trees, then took out his wand. He had enough of being cold and miserable.

The shelter was crude but big enough for him. He even built a bed so he was off the ground. Done with that, he collapsed on the bed and buried his face into his arm for a few moments. He was tired, and angry, and sad.

After a while he took out his bag and started to root through it. He brought out the urn with Fred and George's ashes, so glad he had put protection around it to make sure it wouldn't be smashed.

"I think I might be royally screwed," he told the urn, voice hoarse.

He didn't think it could be fixed. Well, if he found a time-turner. But could one bring him back into the future, so many years? How did he even go back so far?

Trying Tempus again didn't bring Harry any relief, because it showed the same year. Putting the wand away so he wouldn't accidently blow up the shelter in sheer rage, Harry lay down and closed his eyes. He tucked the urn against his chest and wished he was home.

-o-

Okay, enough wish-thinking. Harry sat up and blinked blearily. He'd been sleeping for almost an entire day. He looked outside, making sure no one had discovered him before sitting down again on the bed. He rubbed his eyes and tucked the urn against his side.

"Any suggestions?" he asked it a while later.

No answer.

"No. I didn't think so," he continued. "Well, fuck…"

He couldn't think of anything. If he felt hollow before, it was worse now. He hated it. He really hated it.

"I wanna kill someone," he said. "But there's not much point to it anymore, is it?"

Oh, that was depressing. Harry got up and stretched. He felt icky and still tired. He felt angry and listless and Merlin, could he fucking get a break?!

Exploring the area Harry found a stream and undressed. He glanced back at the urn he brought with him to the stream.

"What?" he said. "I need to get clean."