Through the Looking Glass

Chapter 6

His Deepest Fear

Darkness swallowed Harry, smothering him in its cold embrace. The darkness was his old friend. The voices approached, they always come first. They mingle and entwine in a seductive song, calling him with their screams. Their cries fill his senses, a seemingly endless refrain, pulling him closer. Fear and death saturate the air.

He can feel them hovering around him. They speak no words, for they need none. He knows why they are here. They've come to gather for their nightly ritual. He welcomes them, for they are his nighttime companions.

It begins - always the same. He walks a dark corridor, hidden from prying eyes, desperately seeking it. Where is it? Blood pounds in his ears; sweat runs down his back. How much further? Finally, his feet stop, somehow knowing the exact distance to travel.

The knob, cool to his touch, turns in his hand and he finds what he seeks. He only needs to take a few steps inside to see his hearts desire. He looks into it - and finds them. They smile and beckon to him, arms outstretched. His hand reaches out to touch them, desperately needing to feel their warmth. Tears run down his face as he watches a green light speed toward them. They fall, reaching out to him for salvation. He can't reach them and they are lost.

A cup, gleaming eerily and cold, is in his hand. He can't let go. It is already too late as he drops to his knees in pain. Moonlight kisses the headstones. A hissing voice commands, "Kill the spare." He knows where he is; this scene visits him every night. A fire, rope - and blood - he has returned to the rebirth. Red eyes sear him, taunting him, then their wands lock. Echoes pour forth, swaying to tuneless music. He feels a pull and is led to safety. He asks if his master is alive and pleased with his hard work. Did they suffer? Yes, but not whom he means, only the innocent have suffered tonight.

He changes, his disguise dissolves and the stage is set. A battle between cousins fills his vision. She is quick, but he is her equal. Fueled by years of hate - the duel blazes before him. The man laughs, "Come on, you can do better than that." He doesn't see it coming and the light hits him in the chest. Shock registers on his face before he falls though the black veil. He was quick, but she was deadly.

He descends through an endless tunnel and hits the floor. The walls gleam, water shimmering as it drips, creating rivulets. It is wet, cold - and slimy. So many bones cover the ground. They crunch under him as he scrambles to his feet and runs. He needs to save her before it is too late. She doesn't move. She is so pale. He doesn't have time to think. He hears the snake coming, chasing him, feels it biting him.

It runs warm down his throat, so sweet and satisfying. He sinks his fangs in deeper, harder, filling his aching need. The coppery tang coats his tongue, quenching his thirst. He smiles, thanks him - and slithers away.

He's in the woods; it's so dark he cannot see his hand in front of his face. A small glow erupts at the end of each wand. They encircle him, standing in their black robes and white masks. They laugh at his struggle, mock his feeble attempts to escape the pain. He doesn't truly understand pain, but he will receive his first lesson tonight. "Crucio!" The Dark Mark floats in the sky.

Harry's own scream awakens him. He is lying on his bedroom floor, soaked from his sweat - and panting. His stomach is rolling up into his throat. He crawls to his door and yanks it open. Uncle Vernon almost falls on top of him. Harry barely even registers that someone is near him. He rises to his feet and runs to the bathroom, reaching it just in time.

His stomach convulses, but nothing comes up except bile. Again and again he tries, but the foulness is in his head. Harry lies back, resting his cheek on the cool tile. His world is spinning and he has a vile taste in his mouth.

"What's wrong with you, boy? You're back only one night, and we're already subjected to your theatrics!" Harry opened his eyes. Images swirled in front of him before forming one picture. His uncle, in his bathrobe, stood in the doorway, fuming. His aunt is behind him, her presence almost completely blocked. No Dudley, he had probably slept through the whole thing.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Hoarsely he muttered, "Sorry." He rolled onto his hands and knees, clutched the countertop, and pulled his body up. He turned on the cold water and splashed his face. He tried to rinse the sinful taste out his mouth. The water was a feeble attempt. The flavor still clings to his tongue. Harry shivered and leaned on the counter, his stomach in knots. His world feels like it is tipping, about to spill from its container.

Harry took deep breaths. He hoped his aunt and uncle were gone. He didn't want them to see him weak. Hopefully, he opened his eyes. Uncle Vernon was gone, but Aunt Petunia remained. Her brow creased with concern, she held her hand out to Harry. He didn't understand why, but he grabbed hold of it. He knows that he can't make it back to his room alone.

As he clutched his aunt's hand he took a tentative step. He could barely move. His body wouldn't respond to his commands. He couldn't keep his head up; it kept falling to his chest. It was difficult to walk, his legs felt like rubber. His head continued to spin. His eyes wouldn't focus and the lids were heavy. Blackness descends; the color eases the ache in his head. His body sways into the wall, and an arm grabs him before he falls.

An eternity seems to pass before he makes it back to his room. His aunt sits him down on his bed and lays him back. He feels his glasses as they slide off his face. He hears two small clicks and knows that they are on his nightstand. Two thumps hit the floor. She has removed his shoes. Harry feels her draw a blanket over him.

His head hurts; it feels as if it will explode. The breeze from the window chills him and makes him tremble. He cannot move. If he tries, he will surely pass out. He keeps his eyes closed, and carefully turns his head to where he believes his aunt is, and says, "Thanks" just before the door clicks shut.

Harry knew that he would not be able to sleep any more that night. He drew the blanket tightly around his shoulders, and took several deep breaths. Then, he opened his eyes. He leaned close to his clock and squinted to read the time, 1:38. With deliberately slow movements - he lowered his head back onto his pillow and adjusted the blanket. Too many hours remain in the night. Harry concentrated on stopping the spinning of his head and the churning of his stomach. He continued to inhale deeply through his nose and slowly breathing out through his mouth. He needed to clear his mind. So, he concentrated on the image of a blank chalkboard. After several minutes, the nauseous feeling in his stomach lifted, but his head still ached and the tremors didn't ease.

The dream was worse tonight, the worst so far. Every night the dream altered slightly, but not much. The scenes that played out in his nightmares shifted to fit the puzzle his mind formed. Some images were constant, others played in and out of the picture. At times he would see Ron tied up at the bottom of the lake, Hermione's petrified body lying in a bed, Luna flying through the air, Neville's face covered in blood, or Dudley being attacked by the Dementors.

Other times, he would see things he couldn't possibly have any knowledge of: Broderick Bode being strangled by Devil's Snare, Bertha Jorkins having her memory charm broken and then being killed by Voldemort, Pettigrew's murder of the twelve Muggles before his escape from Sirius, even Barty Crouch, Sr. being murdered by his own son.

He knew he was responsible for the suffering, not directly, but if he hadn't survived the attack as an infant, they wouldn't have suffered. It was because of him that they were dead. He was death personified, fouler than any Dementor was or Death Eater, more lethal than the Dark Lord himself was. Ally yourself with Potter, choose to love him, and you will forfeit your life. He knows no mercy, he would accept any and all. His evil could infect anyone, even Muggles.

He wanted to feel safe, but he didn't, he never would again. He couldn't run from his dreams. He couldn't erase his nightmares. There was no escape for him. The prophecy followed him, relentlessly pursuing the one who was to be the saviour of all wizards. How could he save anyone, he couldn't even save himself? He had no special power. He was just a kid, a skinny half-blood who could barely pass Potions.

How could he conquer the greatest evil of their time? He wasn't a great sorcerer. He wasn't even that smart. He could train, but how long would it take before he became powerful enough to defeat Voldemort. How many would die needlessly?

The debate raged on in his mind, like on so many nights in the past. He couldn't begin to understand what he knew that Voldemort didn't. All the victories he had achieved came about either by luck or with the help of his friends.

Finally, the spinning slowed, but his head still throbbed. He got up and felt his way to the trunk at the end of his bed. Harry raised the lid and pulled out his pajamas. He changed, leaving the damp clothes in a pile on the floor.

On the bed, with his head in his hands, he sat. He tried to forget the images in his nightmare. They were painful, especially seeing Sirius and his parents. Every night, the nightmares would come, haunting him. He hates them, fears them. One, one is so sickening, he feels polluted. It didn't come every night. When it did, he felt a strong urge to shower, to cleanse his body, his very soul of the foul residue.

Just the thought of drinking his blood, enjoying the taste and smell of it, unnerved Harry. To have that image burned into his memory was terrifying. He felt as if he had betrayed the man and his family who had done so much for him.

Mr. Weasley had always welcomed Harry into his home, taken care of him - and provided for him without any question. He never demanded anything from Harry. He was a welcome member of their family. No compensation was expected. The whole Weasley family treated him as a normal teenage boy, not special or unnatural.

The morbid pleasure he received from such an unholy act made Harry feel like a traitor. Voldemort made him hurt the people he loved most. He had to find a way to stop the Dark Lord. He needed to protect those closest to him.

Someone had to stop Voldemort. If Harry couldn't do it, then The Order must. Somehow, someway, Voldemort will be defeated. The terror and misery he spread had to come to an end. Too many wizards and witches were living in fear, their lives shattered. Families were being torn apart, their loved ones victims of Voldemort's Death Eaters. The blood of the innocent had darkened the Wizarding World's soul. Evil was enveloping their world, it would never rest; it waits in the darkness, silently scheming. And, until this terror was removed, Harry couldn't go forward with his life.

Harry didn't believe that someone would decide his future. He would choose his own destiny. He would control his fate.

The sun was coming up on the horizon. Shades of orange, yellow, and red were brightening the sky. Soon, Hedwig would be back. He got up. Put on his glasses, and took the small water dish to the bathroom. Harry filled it and placed it back in the cage. He laid out several owl treats, to make up for last night.

Last night - what had happened? He remembered Uncle Vernon coming to visit him. Searching his memory, he thought he recalled his uncle asking for repayment for the years Harry had lived under his roof. After that, he drew a blank. Whatever he did, he hoped it wasn't too serious. He didn't want to deal with any more problems.

Harry lay back down. He closed his eyes, hoping not for sleep, but for peace. Ever since his first year at Hogwarts', he had been on a roller coaster ride of emotions and trials. Was this some sort of test? Was his endurance being measured? What was the purpose of all his suffering? There had to be a reason. But he had heard once that reason had no answers.

His life was pain. He had to learn to live with that fact. There was no one to turn to for help. See what happens when you break the rules and survive an Unforgivable Curse? You are shown no leniency. You are judged to a higher standard. You are worshiped, revered, and loathed. But you are not loved. You are not whole. You will never heal. Anyone who thinks differently is a fool.

Harry heard a bedroom door open and close. His aunt must be on her way downstairs to start breakfast. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He was exhausted. His limbs felt as if they were full of lead.

Not wanting to hear his uncle scream at him first thing in the morning, Harry rolled over and sat up. Outside his window, the sun shone, burning off the morning dew. A dense haze hung over the houses. It would be a hot muggy day. On days like this, he knew that mowing the lawn would definitely be on his list of chores.

His trunk lid was still open. Harry reached in and unpacked what he would need for the summer. He hung the calendar counting down his return to Hogwarts on September 1 above his desk.

As he stepped back to pick up the pile of dirty clothes, his foot kicked something. He didn't see anything. Maybe it had rolled under his bed. He got down on his hands and knees to peer under the bed. He saw a roll of parchment, Neville's letter. He had forgotten to owl it yesterday. He would have to send it later, after Hedwig had had some sleep.

Harry placed the roll on his desk, and returned to finish unpacking. He placed his books on his desk, and the leftover sweets from Honeydukes he hid under the loose floorboard under his bed. There was no sense in leaving it out for Dudley to find.

As he looked around his room, everything seemed to be in order. He gathered his dirty clothes and took them to the hamper in the bathroom. When he had returned to his room, Hedwig was waiting for him on his desk. She had a crumpled piece of paper in her claw.

Unable to think of what it would be, Harry walked over to her and scratched her head. "Sorry about last night, Hedwig. I hope I didn't hurt you."

Hedwig hooted, soft and soothing, as if saying she was fine. She held out her leg to him. He took the paper and flattened it out on the desk. It was the letter from Mr. Belladonna. Harry sighed. He grabbed his quill and opened his ink. He might as well mark it on the calendar. Not that he was afraid he would miss the appointment, but better be safe. He wrote in the square for July 2, '10:00'. That would be enough of a reminder.

Lupin suddenly came to mind. Harry wondered how he was holding up. He hadn't looked well yesterday at the station. Was it only yesterday? It seemed a lifetime ago. The thought of Lupin reminded Harry of the letters he must send to The Order every three days. He dipped his quill back into the ink and circled each date when a note from him was expected. The last date he marked was August 30. He counted 23 notes. There was no way he would get a reprieve and be able to leave Privet Drive this summer. He was stuck, which suited him just fine.

Quill down, ink closed, all done. Now, what should he do with the letter? He pulled open the top draw and threw the letter inside. He didn't want it lying out. He changed his clothes and ran his fingers through his hair. He whispered to Hedwig, 'Sweet Dreams', and headed downstairs.