Harry Potter and the Valley of Souls

The storm clouds rolled into the sky above Surrey each night between nine and ten o'clock like a commuter returning from a long day at the office. The routine was the same. It began with a smattering of rain beating against the slate roofs and the vinyl siding, followed by whipping winds turning over whatever loose articles a muggle had been most unfortunate to leave outside. Finally, the rhythm would be pierced by the crashes of thunder, slashing into the calm of the evening like a freight train rattling through a graveyard.

It was the thunder that jolted Harry awake.

Feeling around for his glasses on the unsanded wooden block he used for a nightstand, Harry Potter sighed. "I should be used to this by now," he thought, grimly. He eyed his pillow, briefly considering a feeble attempt to cover his face and drown out the noise. The scene was the same almost every night since he returned to the Dursley's almost three weeks ago, but inwardly Harry was grateful for the nightly interruption to his slumber. The storms, especially the thunder, kept him from dreaming too deeply.

So far this summer, his dreams were only of jovial memories. In the early part of the night, he thought mostly of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and his two best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. He reflected upon their adventures during happier times when the boys played Quidditch and the trio visited Hagrid or bought candy at Honeydukes on the Hogsmeade weekends. Every so often, the dreams also took him to an earlier time in his life, when he could remember his mother cradling him, whispering sweet lullabies to his infant self. He knew he was watching an episode from his early childhood, but Harry dared not to linger in this time. This was the only early evening dream that he allowed himself that involved other victims of Lord Voldemort, namely his own parent. Harry did not want to stay to see who else might turn up in these private dramas. So far, he realized, he'd been lucky during the hours immediately after he went to bed. The early evening dreams hadn't yet trickled to Siri-

Harry choked as soon as his godfather's name entered into his brain. He felt the familiar bile rise from his stomach, catching in his throat and resting briefly beneath his developing Adam's apple. He knew it was only minutes before the ritual would begin again.

Shutting his eyes tightly, Harry willed himself to drown out the sound of the storm outside. Though he didn't want to, he thought about the weeks he had just lived, immediately following his annual return from Hogwarts. Though he had not yet had a birthday, he felt immensely older than when he'd stepped onto the train at Hogwarts and stepped from the train at Kings Cross Station.

"Perhaps seeing death makes you older," he thought. But as soon as this rationalization entered his consciousness, Harry realized it didn't make sense. When Cedric died during the Triwizard Cup, Harry didn't suddenly feel as though a weight had been set down upon his shoulders. And that time it had only been he to defend against Lord Voldemort and his band of Deatheaters. This time, there had been more of them and more defenders, wizards on both sides with far more skill. Yet, Harry felt most responsible.

"No," he told himself firmly. "Dumbledore told me it wasn't my fault. I couldn't have stopped him."

Harry opened his eyes and stared at the blank wall nearest to him, allowing his memories to drift to where they had been pulling him nightly for almost a month. It had been four weeks, just four short weeks since the battle in the basement of the Department of Mysteries. Harry Potter had once again confirmed his title as "The Boy Who Lived," emerging victorious from another bout with Lord Voldemort, but his only true family had been taken from him forever. A shield charm would not have helped to protect Harry from the litany of horrific memories that flooded his brain during the waking hours. The battle had been devastating on all of them, but Harry had been allowed one grace. Over the summer, he had mastered Occlumency enough to be able to remove certain memories from his brain as effectively as if he had used a pensieve. Unfortunately, though, he was only able to remove one memory at a time as the one he wanted most desperately to obstruct from his sleep was particularly arduous to erase, but necessary if the boy was to achieve even minimal rest. For his sanity's sake, Harry couldn't think about the last moment. He had blocked the last image he had of Siri- he swallowed hard, not allowing the inevitable to happen just yet- the last image he had of his godfather from his mind. He did not want to see his father's best friend and the only father figure he knew falling away from him, just beyond his grasp as the murderer laughed the laugh of someone who only knew pain as happiness. His dreams, he had learned while watching the attack on Mr. Weasley last December, were too much of a sensory overload and he could not yet deal with this news. He did not want to smell the acrid stench of wood from wands burning from inflicting pain and harm. He did not want to taste the warm blood, his blood, dripping from his scar onto his tongue as he fought for his life and the lives of those he held dear, and he certainly didn't want to feel his own futile rage as Lupin held him back from the last moment, when all he wanted was to rush towards the veil, screaming desperately for Sirius.

"Urp." That was it. Harry didn't even feel the floor beneath his feet as he bolted towards his bedroom door and rushed for the washroom. He reached the toilet just as the first spews of vomit exited his mouth. Lurching and shuddering alternately until the episode subsided, he finally allowed himself to feel the cool porcelain of Aunt Petunia's immaculate floor as he sank down amongst the washroom mats, the nightly ordeal once again coming to a close. Tears sprang up into his emerald eyes and as he fought against the dam of emotion, Harry knew that the storm raging inside one resident of Number 4, Privet Drive was going to once-again rival the fury beyond the windows.