Another Nightmare

He was twitching and twisting, all his being transfixed by a sudden sear of lacerating agony, his body convulsing vehemently in an unavailing gasp for breath through the constriction of the throttling spasm. He could not fight it, he could not scream, he could not think.

The throes came to an abrupt halt, his body numb, his senses deadened. Slowly regaining calming self-awareness, he made another attempt to breathe in, prevented yet again, now by his paralysing stiffness. He could feel no pain, not even stifle, the staggering realisation dawning upon him - he could feel nothing. He tried to move. Nothing happened. He wanted to look about, but he did not seem to remember how. Suspended in the void, he felt being swept over by a surge of panic and an imperative impulse to cry, which he rushed to obey... But no sound followed.

Then a yet unknown different ache filled his self, replacing the fear. He had no body to pain, but the ache was there all the same - drawling, festering, screwing into his consciousness. Snatching at this feeling, though baneful, nevertheless sharply awakening to existence, he willingly submerged into intent exploration of ache to promptly find himself being drowned by a desolating sensation of loneliness. Desperately, he struggled to remember who he was and whether there were more to his life than this hopeless incorporeal emptiness.

Solitude was not at all novel to him, he worryingly realised, for he had been an orphan. Then he managed to vaguely remember not one, not two, but many, growing close to him, declaring amicable intentions, promising support, offering trust. Surely, they would not dream of him being left alone, of him being beaten by suffering. They would come and rescue him any moment now...

No... They would rather let him sink into oblivion. They would even forget his name...

To rescue him from what? Gripped in an irrepressible thrust, his memories whirled him back through loneliness, fear, numbness and pain to the flash of green light and a vision of raising wand. Brusquely, the whirl arrested, the time flow reversing once more to recover its proper direction. The wand swayed and pointed and a jet of green light shot from its end, the blinding flash hitting him.

He woke up with a start. Staring dumbfounded into the blurred darkness dimly illuminated by firelight, he hesitantly proceeded to grope his gaunt body covered in cold sweat with a shivering now moving hand, and not only was able to take a breath of air but even to release it in relief. Wearily, he stood up from his high-backed chair and stumbled to the small contiguous room containing a wash-stand and a mirror, relieved once again at the sight of scarlet shimmer in the eyes of his reflection. Everything was normal, he had his body. It has been just another nightmare...

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Well, surely it was easy enough for you to realise that this story was about none other but poor Voldie reliving through a nightmare the memories of him trying to kill the baby Harry but loosing his body instead, with none Death Eater coming to his rescue, his very name sinking into oblivion, replaced by the outrageous "You-Know-Who".

Please, review, criticise and correct!

I am not English, so I do not delude myself into believing my use of English language be always proper. And as to my writing style, I have reasons to fear that my proliferation of epithets and my high-flown manner are ludicrous. I guess what I'm trying to say is, please, I need to know your opinion even if it is a flame. Thanks for reading!