Someone Is Laughing...

John Harrison was walking home today. Normally, he would drive home, even if his house was only two blocks away from the building he worked at. But today he was walking, for the main reason that his car had not been driven to work, and was therefore not there for him to drive home in after work.

He had woken up early that morning, which had proved to be an extremely lucky occurrence. He had gotten ready for work in the usual manner - showering, dressing, eating, and leaving. The shower had been nice and hot - relaxing his tense muscles and clearing up the sinus problem he'd been having for a few days. He put on the most comfortable outfit that he was allowed to wear to work, which always made the day more bearable. He had a wonderful, and very large, breakfast provided by his loving wife.

He went out to the car in a good mood, turned the key, and, well, left the car in a not-so-good mood.

His wife, who had been so affectionate toward him earlier, now refused to let him borrow the family van, which would be used to pick up the children from a sleep over at a friend's house at some point during the day.

So, considering the fact that John had to be at work in less than a half an hour, he found himself walking out the door and down the bustling street. The sun was rising, blanketing its warmth over the city like a down-filled comforter, getting into every nook and cranny. The hairs on the back of John's neck prickled as he felt the warmth sink into his suit. It was fairly nice walking weather, he decided, a little grudgingly.

The people he passed smiled at him as he walked by, and moved politely out of the way. Not many children were out yet, which made a drastic difference in the amount of noise drifting through the air. As he listened to his footsteps on the pavement, his thoughts gradually became slowed, and he was eventually walking at a leisurely pace. He had taken in a breath of fresh air and thought, 'Not a bad day.'

A little ditty that had been stuck in his head found its was out his mouth, and he started walking to the slightly offbeat tune. He felt happier, more energetic, and was constantly smiling at nothing in particular.

He decided he should walk to work more often.

He arrived at work on time, whistled his way on up to his office, and sat down with a thump on his swivelling chair. It greeted him with an enthusiastic creek, and his desk had seemingly grown taller and sprouted white paper, which was being shed onto the floor. He rubbed his hands together and got started for the day.

The day, which he had guessed would be long and grueling, actually went by extremely fast. In what seemed no time at all he was leaving for lunch. He went to a small cafe that he had never gone to before that was right down the street, and was pleased to find that the food was really quite good. He gave the waitress a large tip and smiled before walking back to work.

He decided he would walk to work tomorrow, and maybe even the rest of the week.

Gradually the papers dwindled down, and at the end of the day, he could actually see the beautiful, dark wood of the desk. He borrowed some cleaner from one of the janitors and rubbed it until he could see his own reflection staring happily up at him. It's a wonderful day, he thought to himself, before grabbing his briefcase and heading out the door.

Outside of the glass doors, the sun was shining down steadily on the streets. Car windows winked at him, and he pulled off his coat so he wouldn't get too hot.

And so, John Harrison was walking home today, and enjoying himself very much.

He smiled and said hello to a few of the people he walked by, and he noticed a few children walking about. But, contrary to his thoughts that morning, he didn't mind the yelling and screaming of the children, for they were always paired up with either a loud joyous laugh, or a tiny suppressed giggle.

As he walked down the street, he saw the library that sat on the corner he passed by every day. It was a beautiful old building, but he had never given it much thought before now. He considered going in. 'I could borrow a few books to read', he thought, 'for me and the children'.

He turned the corner, and just as he was about to walk up the pavement leading to the library entrance, he heard something and stopped. He turned around and looked to the middle of the side road, and saw two men standing there, talking to each other. One of them had shouted, which was what had caused John to look in the first place. They were both wearing long cloaks, which he figured must have been hot in this weather.

His conscience told him to turn around and walk into the library as he had planned, because this was really none of his business. His curiosity told him to just kind of edge closer to the two and eavesdrop on the conversation, just to see what they were talking about. His conscience told him that curiosity killed the cat. His curiosity pointed out that he was not a cat.

Curiosity won.

He slowly walked closer to the two, and tried to look as if he wasn't actually listening, but they didn't seem to notice him. In fact, they didn't even seem to notice that they were standing in the middle of a street. He walked nonchalantly by, and strained his ears for their conversation. At about twenty feet away, he could hear them fairly well.

"...know it was you, Peter," said the taller of the two. He spoke in a voice that almost made the hairs on the back of John's neck stand on end. It was so quiet, and yet the tone was clearly threatening. The short man looked around nervously.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about..." He was backing up toward the opposite end of the street, and the tall man followed him steadily. John noticed that he was holding something in his hand. It looked like an ordinary stick.

"Yes. Yes, you do, Peter." There was a sort of fierce determination hidden beneath the calmness of his voice. The little man seemed to notice it too, and John could see the sunlight glinting off of little beads of sweat on his forehead. His eyes were wide, and were darting left and right constantly.

"Pl-please, Sirius, I don't understa-" The man called Peter jumped as he was cut off by the enraged yelling coming from the man in front of him.

"It's no use lying!" He became quiet again, but had stopped moving. "Don't you see? It won't do any good. There's no one here to listen to your filthy rubbish. No, you can't squirm your way out of this one, Peter. I'll make sure of that." Every time he said Peter, it was spat out with malicious contempt.

John found himself staring in fascination at the two, and as he quickly glanced around, he saw that a few others had stopped to watch, also. They must have heard the man yelling, he thought, as he watched them both start walking again. Peter looked around frantically, seemingly looking for ways to get away. He stopped moving completely, though, when the man with black hair began to raise his arm. He was still holding the stick.

"No! No, stop, please, you don't understand! N-no! It was Remus, I saw him talking with them, i-it wasn't me! I-"

"You shouldn't have joined the Dark Lord, Peter!" He yelled.

"Padfoot... my friend... please-"

"Don't you dare call me that, you filthy, backstabbing bastard!" Peter recoiled and cowered in the tall man's shadow. "You betrayed your family! You betrayed your friends!" He paused and his voice became solemn. "And you are going to pay for it." He raised his hand.

Suddenly, John caught the short man's eye. Time seemed to stand still in that moment, and John felt as if something very heavy had just been put onto his shoulders. He suddenly had the feeling that this conversation was much more important than it seemed. His future depended on it. The peoples' futures around him depended on it. It was history in the making. And yet John couldn't be sure how. He just knew it.

They had looked at each other only a moment when Peter looked up at the tall man again. He stood up quickly, no longer cowering in the man's shadow, and put on a face of sorrow and disbelief. John noticed one of his hands slip into his pocket silently. He then spoke very loudly, in an almost pleading voice.

"L-Lily and James, Sirius, how could you?" The tall man's face became blank for a moment before becoming one of undescribable rage. He started yelling.

"You-!" he began, but he did not get any farther. John saw Peter's hand come out of his pocket, clutching something, and suddenly, there was a loud bang, and John's vision was obscured by a blinding red light. He fell backward and landed heavily on his back.

As the smoke cleared, John stood up, rather painfully, and looked over to where the two men had been standing. There was blood everywhere. It was in puddles on the pavement, it was running down into the gutters, it was splattered all over people and the walls of buildings. He felt something trickle down his face and wiped it. His fingers came away red.

His mind had yet to register the reality of the situation, and he stared at his fingers in shock. He wiped them clumsily on his trousers, and looked up. He could hear the screaming already, but it did not seem real, somehow. He looked at the scene in front of him.

People were were either running away or sitting beside someone on the street. Many were covered in blood. Various limbs were lying on the street. At least ten bodies were littering the road, but John did not get an exact count, since the people who were running around were obscuring his view.

Then he saw him. The tall man was still holding the stick up, a stupefied look on his face. Peter was nowhere to be seen, but, John noticed, there was a puddle of blood where he had last been standing. The black-haired man did not seem to notice the screaming civilians running frantically on the streets. The sound of crying women did not seem to have any effect on him whatsoever. He simply stood there, as if confronted with a particularly tough problem to solve.

And then he laughed.

It was a quiet sort of chuckle at first, then rising in volume until it became a hearty guffaw. After a few seconds more it turned into the laugh of a madman, high-pitched and maniacal, and it sent shivers up John's spine. His stomach turned over.

He ran over to the grass and vomited until there was nothing left of the lunch he had eaten just hours before. He continued to dry heave after that, and could not stop until a full minute later. When he did stop, he felt weak and tired, and his knees were trembling uncontrollably. He made his way shakily towards the end of the street, which was the fastest way to the police station.

What had happened? he thought. It was so sudden, so unexpected. Was it even real? The blood on his cheek had been real. His empty stomach was real - the lunch he had eaten at the cafe was lying in a puddle just a few yards back. He remembered sitting at one of the tables just a little while ago, not worrying about anything except whether there was enough salt on his food. He turned a corner, and could still hear the man's laughing. His mouth began to water again.

He felt someone grab his shoulder and stop him. He turned and saw a man who was dressed in a dark blue cloak.

"Would you please come with me, sir?" John nodded dumbly, still in shock. He was lead into an alley where the man faced him and started talking in a very unsympathetic tone.

"I know you've been through a terrible ordeal just now, but I need you to tell me what happened."

"Are... are you with the police?" The other man hesitated.

"...Yes. Yes I am. And it is imperative that you tell me what happened just now." John nodded again and took a deep breath, fighting off a wave of nausea once more.

"I-I... can't. It's..." He put a hand on his stomach and staggered over to a wall, leaning onto it for support.

"All right, then can you tell me who was involved?"

"...Someone... someone named Peter..."

"Last name?"

"I... I don't know."

"Do you remember what had been going on before that happened?"

"They... they were talking about something... betraying someone... their friends... a dark lord..."

"Anything else? Do you remember anything else?" The anxiousness in the man's voice was evident.

"I..." John paused. Everything was already slipping through his memory. He couldn't remember the entire conversation. He could just remember the last part, and the blood that covered the street... "Yes. I remember, the man... the man named Peter. He... said..." He took another breath. "He said, 'Lily and James, serious, how could you?'. I can't remember anything else. I-I'm sorry, I just..." He clutched his stomach - sharp pains were cutting away at his insides.

"That's perfectly all right. Thank you for your help. Now I'll help you back to your home, but first if you could just turn around so I can check your back for any injuries..."

John did what he was told.

"Obliviate."

***

John blinked. He blinked again. Where was he? Ah, yes. Going home. But he was in the middle of an alley. How had he gotten there? Wrong turn, he figured, and steered himself out of the darkened passage. He saw police cars gathering just around the corner, but did not go over to look at them. He looked at his watch. He was late getting home. He started walking in the direction of his house. He could hear men and women shouting, and the blaring of sirens, but did not stop. His stomach felt odd.

He continued walking away from the scene, because he really needed to get home. His wife would worry about him, and his children would be home soon. He felt light-headed and paused for a breath. The screaming was quieter now, but he could still hear it quite plainly. Must have been an accident, he assumed, and started to walk again. He stopped, however, when he heard something. Something that he had heard before.

Laughing. Someone was laughing over by the accident. John felt his stomach do a sort of sommersault and he staggered a few feet. It sounded so familiar, like a sound that one hears and remembers from a nightmare they've had. He suddenly felt sick.

He rushed to get home after that, wanting to get into the shower and go to bed. Sweat plastered his hair to his face and he was shivering. His right hand felt numb from holding the briefcase so tight. He decided to take a shortcut through his neighbor's yard, but was whipped in the face with a small branch while passing by a couple of trees. It didn't hurt badly - just a warm, stinging sensation - but when he brought his hand away, there was blood. He ran across the yard and onto the front porch of his house. He opened the door and ran past his wife, who looked quite worried, and straight into the bathroom. He lifted the toilet seat, but as he stood there, nothing came up. He was retching spasmodically, but there was nothing in his stomach to vomit. He could not catch his breath, and his wife knocked on the door, asking if he was alright. He told her he was fine, and that he must have gotten food poisoning from the cafe down the street.

After a few minutes he felt better, and got into the shower. The blood washed from his face and he watched it spiral down the drain with the rest of the water. There was not much of it, so it came off fairly easily. He didn't bother washing - he just stood there, letting the hot water wash over him. He felt the sore spot on his cheek. There was no cut. Must have healed already, he thought.

When he was done, he dressed into a pair of sweat pants and a shirt, and crawled into bed. His wife tucked him in, giving him a kiss on the forehead and wishing for him to get better. He fell asleep five minutes later.

He dreamt of two men standing in the street. There was a wave of blood, sirens, screams, and he was there, watching it all. He looked at the tall man. He was pointing at him and laughing.

John woke up at three in the morning in a cold sweat, out of breath and disorientated. He got a glass of water, drank half of it, and went back to bed.

When he woke up at five, he did not remember the dream he had. He got up, feeling slightly better than the day before, and got in the shower. He then got dressed and ate a small meal before kissing his wife goodbye.

He drove to work at six.