The Scream

The Scream.

It was only a book. He was sure there were very many more like it, and more than a handful were probably even worse. The Restricted Section of Hogwarts' library was so called for a reason, after all. As he had reached adulthood he had been permitted to share more of its secrets; quite apart from becoming an Auror, he had been The Boy Who Destroyed Voldemort and Ended The War, so he supposed he had the right.
He had never found that book again, though, and therein lay the problem.
He had seen it often since that fateful night, but only in his nightmares where the face entrapped there would rise from the printed page and scream to be released. He had never told anyone about that book, not even Hermione and Ron, for after the event he had seen his parents in the Mirror of Erised and had been caught up in dreams of what his life might have been like, had they lived. He had forgotten all about the book, for several years.
The first nightmare had been halfway through his sixth year, and he had woken with a silent scream, drenched in sweat. He could barely even remember the nightmare, but snatches of it remained with him for days. After that, it occurred several more times a year and its after-effects lingered for longer every time. The rage he felt against the world in general and Voldemort in particular had been as much of a constant in his life as his friends had been, and it seemed that the face in the book was also determined to secure a place in his life,

*****

"Harry, what's wrong?"
"Nothing! I'm okay!" he said, sitting up in bed and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It was a cold midwinter night and the cool air chilled his brow. The moon was full and as Ginny sat up beside him the clouds parted, outlining her in silver and darkening her hair to deepest auburn against the alabaster of her skin.
"No you aren't, Harry," she said softly, stroking his hair and gasping in surprise as she felt its dampness. "Have you got a temperature?"
"No. It's nothing like that. It was the dream again, Gin."
"Oh, love! I think it's time we went to see Albus, don't you?"

*****

"Tea?" twinkled the aged Headmaster of Hogwarts School, waving his hand to summon a small occasional table and a tray of tea and fairy cakes.

Once they were settled and all the social pleasantries had been taken care of, Dumbledore turned to Harry, his face grave.
"Now then Harry, would you care to tell me what it is that brings you here today? I know that this is more than a most welcome social call."
Harry cleared his throat sheepishly, and his wife took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"Well, Albus, I don't think I ever told you this but back in my first year, that same evening I found the Mirror of Erised, I'd, erm...well, I'd been in the library, looking for something."
"Ah yes, yes, you were looking for information on my old friend Nicholas Flamel, weren't you?"
"Erm...yes. Yes I was. But I found something else instead."
"Indeed?"
"An ancient book...it screamed when I opened it."
"Yes, some of them do have a tendency to do that..." Dumbledore mused. "Many of them have to be chained down, you know."
"The book's given me nightmares ever since, and they're getting worse. I don't know why. And I've never been able to find it again."
"And so you came back to try to solve the mystery?"
"We were hoping you could help, Albus," Ginny said.
"I'll do my best," he said, rising to his feet. "Shall we?"

*****

They had found the offending book, after a while. They had struggled with books that tried to wrench themselves from their hands, books that began to smoke as soon as they were touched, books that made themselves invisible, and of course several that screamed, before they came to the right one.
It was the Headmaster who took it down from the shelf, examining the cracked leather bindings and faded gilt lettering of the cover.
"Would this be the one, Harry?"
"I - I can't remember. I think so," Harry said uncertainly, taking it from Dumbledore unwillingly.
"Open it," the Headmaster urged.
Harry swallowed, and glanced at his wife who smiled at him encouragingly. He took a deep breath and opened the book. The scream was horrific. Bloodcurdling. Harry took a step backwards as the force of the scream blew back his hair from his face, but he held the book open and watched as the printed face from his nightmares did its worst. After a minute or two, the screaming changed to a mournful wail, and eventually quieted to anguished moans and sighs. Wide eyed, Harry closed the book and replaced it on the shelf.
"What on earth IS that book anyway?" he asked.
Dumbledore shook his head. "Does it matter, Harry? Or is it more important that you have faced your fear, and not been found wanting?"
"I suppose..." he replied.
"It sounded so sad, at the end," said Ginny, slipping her arm around her husband's waist. "As if its anger had died and been replaced by sadness."
"Or acceptance," Harry said thoughtfully.
"Indeed it did, Harry. Indeed it did."