𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐒𝐈𝐀| ✔︎

𝐓𝐖𝐎|𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒

HARRY IS CONSCIOUS. He is aware of his surroundings, however even time will admit that he cannot quite contemplate if the feelings he felt the previous night were accurate. He felt he had very little control. His head is spinning and pounding like a small wall clock.

The feeling was uncanny. Every time he tried to think clearly his head would envision soft pink lips and white hair and delicate grey eyes along with the smell of honey. He felt alone and angry and robbed. He felt like there was something missing from him, but also given.

And here Harry is seated on the loveseat, merely in the Gryffindor common room. He stirs, watching as his teaspoon acts as a magic wand spinning the dark bitter taste of black tea into brown canola. If he'd bother to look outside, it's nearly dusk. The trees cover the sun falling into the horizon as the sky begins to form a purple tinge.

Hermione turns to him, the water in the kettle still lukewarm. Hermione wasn't much of the observant type when it came to her friends, but one look at Harry she could tell he was brooding by a simple act of tea-stirring. Has he had a bad dream? Harry? She tries to remember the last time Harry came running down from a dream about Voldemort, but the mood Harry is in... it's a different type of grief. She can't recall anything.

"Harry?" she calls.

But there is no response. Harry looks down at his tea as if it's the most riveting thing in the world.

There was something missing from him, but also given.

"Harry..." a soft, delicate voice (in more of a purr) is heard next to him, but Harry feels trapped. He begins to shake as the solemn words thump into his head. Louder. Louder.

"Harry you—"Again. But the voice is now a plea. He can't breathe. His hands are in his hair. Who is talking to him?

Harry no longer feels conscious. His breathing becomes erratic and is coming out in shallow bursts. It feels like the worst panic attack he's ever had. Now he is trembling. He closes his eyes. He wants to dig a hole and climb in.

There was something missing from him, but also given.

There is a ringing in his ear.

"Harry Potter you look at me!" The voice snaps, and Harry's eyes surge up. Hermione is looking at him. He spills his tea and curses, trying to wipe the damp away from his pants.

Hermione gives him a fragile but menacing look.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong? You're awfully warm. Do you need the hospital wing? If it's... You-Know-Who you can tell me," she says sympathetically and reaches to stroke his hand. But now that she has Harry's attention, it's hard to concentrate.

Come to think of it, he had no idea what was worse. Dreaming of being tortured by Voldemort via nightmares or dreaming of his school nemesis in a... sensual way?

But that was hard to determine, because Harry had appeared to be content and jovial in the dream, like he had lost control... but also had control. It was infuriating how he let his dreams mess with him so effortlessly.

There was something missing from him, but also given.

But what the hell was missing? What was given?

And he realised Hermione was still watching him. Harry wants to speak, but he can't find the words to do so. She sighs, reaching for the kettle and groping around it to pour more hot water on to her tea bag. Just as Harry tries to put how he's feeling in words, Hermione is speaking again about how his life holds no more surprises, no unplumbed martial depths.

"If a nightmare's the case," she pauses to unclench as Harry's eyes are atent to the warm water. "you could've come to me, or Ron. Or Pomfrey. Dreamless sleep potions are easy to compel. It's rather simple." Hermione says with a strangely casual voice. She reaches to pop a tart in her mouth.

Harry grumbles and leans his head back to look up at the tall ceiling.

"Hermione, whatever this is it's not simple." he says.

Hermione doesn't seem to understand, but perhaps others do not understand because not enough people listen.

"Then help me to understand."

Harry desperately wanted to tell her; to let all of his emotions (from not just the dream) pour and interlock in form of a civil conversation, but he was insecure and uncertain. People would say they know him, but only in his own façade. He'd come to the conclusion that people don't really know him at all.

So Harry didn't tell her.

He shook his head, yawning and stretching.

"It's fine, 'Mione. I'm certain it's the drowsiness making me crazy. I think I'll turn in. Goodnight." Harry says before she can protest.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Harry never knew how long the stairway to the Gryffindor dormitories could be until now, but perhaps it was just giving him more time to think. The taste of bitter tea was still at the back of his throat as he stomped up the stairs in anguish. There really is a sense of something looming. Why should this happen now?

And again, the words play at Harry's head; spinning in his mind like a miniature antique carousel.

There was something missing from him, but also given.

He is now further up the stairway.

Something missing. But also given.

When he reaches the door into the boys' dorm, there is a single, fuchsia rose. It is sealed with a spell and latched to his doorway. It's almost florescent in the moonlight. The rose smells sickly sweet. Harry's jaw drops.

Something given.

-

-

-

a/n: Votes and comments are love! ♡