Harry Potter and the Last Goodnight

Whenever Harry was dreading something, time moved quickly. So quickly, in fact, that when he found himself outside of Snape's office in the dungeon on Thursday evening, he wondered how he'd gotten there. Had it only been the day before when his heart had been light and he was happy with the world? He'd spent the entire afternoon brooding over what was to come for his Occlumency lesson. He would have much rather been at Quidditch tryouts, but under the circumstances, McGonagall insisted that Harry attend Occlumency.

Harry took a deep breath and knocked on Snape's door. The air smelled vaguely of the spiced salmon they'd eaten two days earlier for lunch. Harry wondered if the house-elves had mistaken Snape's office for the garbage disposal. It would have been understandable.

Instead of inviting Harry in, Snape met him at the door and closed it quickly behind him. He was carrying a leather-bound book in his greasy hands. "Have a seat, Potter. There are things we'll need to discuss before tonight's lesson."

Harry didn't protest, and took a seat behind one of the tables in the Potions classroom. Snape sat on the edge of his desk at near the blackboard and tossed the book over to Harry. "This is a dream diary," Snape spat. Harry flipped through the brown book quickly, and saw that it was filled with blank parchment. "Use it everyday. When you wake up every morning, you must record what you can remember of any dream you had the night before. If you have any sort of visions, sleeping or not, you are to record them in these pages. If you feel any pain, you are to write about it."

Harry frowned. A diary? His duty to the Order was to confide everything in a diary? Like some schoolgirl? "I don't know..." Harry began.

"You have no choice, Potter," Snape replied. The tension was growing between them. Harry wished that he hadn't thanked Snape earlier in the week. It was a moment of weakness. Why should he thank such a horrible monster of a person? "The pages are bewitched to copy to an identical journal. Whatever you write will be viewed by the Order. Do you understand?"

He nodded. The only way the Order could keep tabs on what sort of information he and Voldemort were exchanging was by monitoring his dreams and visions. Harry wondered where the other diary was, and who would be viewing it when he wrote. This would not be like keeping a dream record as he had done for Professor Trelawney. This was strictly business.

But all summer he hadn't dreamt about Voldemort at all. Of course, there had been just nightmares in general about the Dark Lord and Sirius's death, but nothing like a vision.

"Get up," Snape commanded. "It's time to see how much you've been practicing."

Harry glared at Snape, then reluctantly stood up from his seat. He pulled his wand out of his pocket, and then took a deep breath.

"Clear your mind, Potter," Snape said. "I'm not going to go easy on you."

He didn't expect anything less. The two of them assumed the dueling position. Harry did his best to clear his mind and have a defense of absolutely no thoughts. He was still feeling refreshed about yesterday. Ginny was not madly in love with him and he had fixed things with Hagrid. Of course, there were always the lingering thoughts of Ron's captain position and his newfound feelings towards Hermione. Harry tried to push that out of his mind.

Snape raised his wand and glared at Harry with his dark eyes. "Legilimens!"

Harry was a blank. He was a clean slate. He couldn't - wouldn't - allow Snape to access his memories. But he was weak. He had tried to practice on his own over the summer. It was particularly easy to clear his mind while ripping into Dudley's punching bag.

He'd managed to squeak out a feeble boil curse before he was taken inside his own memories to the Department of Mysteries, staring at the shelves of Prophecies. But it was no use; he fell to his knees on the dungeon floor.

"Tisk, tisk, Potter," Snape said, lowering his wand. "I thought you'd do better than that." But there was one tiny boil that had appeared on the tip of Snape's nose. He probably couldn't see it with his greasy hair in the way. Harry had at least succeeded in one thing. "Again."

Harry got up on his feet again, poised and ready for the next attack. He had to close his mind. He couldn't let Snape see inside of him. He had to be indifferent, the way he'd felt all summer. He could show no emotion. He could remember nothing.

"Legilimens!"

He gasped. His mind had been more vulnerable the second time. There were beads of sweat forming in the creases of his forehead. He must not let Snape see. He had too much to hide. He had too much pride.

Harry whispered the banishing spell at first. Then he saw a vision of Snape in Professor Dumbledore's office. Dumbledore peered down at him from the telescope on the upper level. Dumbledore was younger. His hair was still white, but his beard was not as long. "You're late, Severus. The alignment has passed."

Snape's memory snapped him back to reality and Harry found his voice. He shouted the spell at the top of his lungs. Snape was thrown back into his desk. The banishing charm was not nearly as powerful as it should have been, but it still had swept him off his feet.

Snape regained his composure. Something in his eyes changed as he watched Harry. "Good job, Potter." Had Professor Snape actually congratulated Harry? Harry thought that perhaps Snape had hit him with a delusional spell when he wasn't paying attention. However, the impressed glimmer in Snape's eyes quickly disappeared, and there was no doubt in Harry's mind that Snape enjoyed torturing him. "But let's see how much you can take." He raised his wand once again, barely giving Harry time to take a breath, and bellowed, "Legilimens!"

He was playing dirty. Snape hadn't given him the chance to recover and he was thrown off balance. Suddenly, he was in Dumbledore's office again. However, it was an older Dumbledore, the one that Harry knew, and he was sitting patiently at his desk as Harry threw his possessions around the room.

"No..." Harry brought his hands to his forehead, covering his scar. He didn't want Snape to see that. He was ashamed. That had been a time when he had lost control of his emotions.

Dumbledore was still at his desk, and Harry's heart quivered as a small tear ran down the headmaster's cheek. "NO!"

The Harry in the dungeon fell forward, painfully landing on his knees. Snape pulled his wand away. "Temper, temper, Potter," Snape said, making a clicking noise in the back of his throat.

Anger was rising inside of Harry. He was on his feet in a matter of seconds. He wanted to launch himself across the room at Snape and rip him apart with his bare hands. But this was what he needed to control. He couldn't lose his temper. He couldn't show emotion. He needed to be numb.

Snape's eyes narrowed as he watched Harry struggling to conquer his own feelings. "Maybe there's hope for you yet," Snape muttered. "Again!"

* * *

Harry stumbled back to Gryffindor Tower, his heart heavy and his scar sore and aching. The weight of the leather-bound diary felt like he was carrying a body underneath his right arm. There were still people in the common room when he returned, including Ron and Hermione, but Harry didn't even bother to stop and speak to them. He went directly up to his dormitory and plopped down on his bed.

How was he supposed to find the strength - the energy, even - to practice Occlumency twice a week? According to Snape, it was only going to get harder from here on out. When was he supposed to do his homework?

He felt himself drifting off to sleep and quickly stood up from the bed. He hid the diary inside of his nightstand and managed to get undressed before falling into bed out of exhaustion. He fell asleep on as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The first few hours of sleep were dreamless. He didn't hear the other boys enter the dormitory or Neville's heavy snores from his bed. It was during the in-between time, when the moon had disappeared but the sun didn't rise yet, that he slowly slipped in and out of consciousness.

Harry found himself in a room, unfamiliar and musty, sitting in a rocking chair. He could hear the wooden rocking chair creaking against the dusty floor, squeaking with every move.

He could see in the darkness. He could see his pale, bony hands folded in his lap. His dark robes stretched down past his feet. Creak. Creak. Creak. His rhythm did not waiver as a giant snake coiled at his feet, its red eyes glowing brightly.

Harry didn't know how to explain it, but he knew the snake was warning him that someone was approaching. "It is only Wormtail," he said. There was a knock on the door. Harry stopped rocking. "Come in. What news do you have?"

A short and feeble man, who Harry recognized as Peter Pettirgrew, entered cautiously. "We have bargained with one of the guards. He will let her go in return for money and safe passage out of England, Master," Wormtail replied. "But it is a lot of money. He requests one-hundred thousand Galleons."

"Give it to him," Harry replied. "She is worth more to me." There was a burning inside Harry in a place he didn't know existed: the hollow heart cavity in his pathetic excuse for a human body. When he spoke of her, it seared with desire. "Once free, they will all see to it that he does not make it out of the country alive."

"Yes, Master. And what of the others?"

A jolt of pain flared inside of Harry's head. He lifted his boney hand to his forehead, where he rubbed his scar.

Scar? He had no scar.

"He is watching!" hissed a distant voice.

The pain in Harry's head became unbearable. He felt as though it were splitting in two. He sat up quickly in his four-poster. It took him a moment to understand where he was. He had just been someplace else. A dusty room with a snake and a rocking chair and boney hands.

The visions had returned.

He was panting heavily in the darkness of the dormitory. Thankfully, it appeared that everyone was still asleep. Harry wasn't quite sure what to do. At another time, he would have jumped out of bed and wrote a letter to Sirius. But it was no use thinking of the dead now.

He could write to Remus instead. But then there was always the chance that the letter would be intercepted. He could go to Dumbledore. But somehow, Harry couldn't bring himself to wake up Dumbledore just before dawn to confess a vision to him.

And then he knew there was only one answer: the diary. He had almost forgotten about it. Quietly, he got out of bed and dug the journal out of his nightstand. He grabbed a quill and tip-toed down to the common room.

Afraid that the vividness from his dream would disappear, Harry threw the diary down on the nearest table and hastily lit a candle. He tried to recall everything from the vision, but it was all getting blurry. He could still hear the creaking of the rocking chair, but what exactly had Wormtail said?

There was something about money. They were going to bribe someone. They were going to bribe a guard to set someone free. To set her free. And "her" could only mean one person.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Harry's insides burned with anger. He loathed her. If he ever saw her again, he would kill her. There was no doubt in his mind. But Voldemort felt differently about her. He'd actually felt something for her. Harry could feel the familiar pain in his chest, but it wasn't the same as anger.

There really was a fine line between love and hate, he realized.

He wrote down everything he could remember about the dream. If only Wormtail had mentioned some kind of timetable. When were they planning on getting rid of the guard? When would the Death Eaters be free? Would it be possible to prevent their escape?

As Harry scratched the quill against the parchment, he realized that it was no ordinary paper. Every inkblot he made would duplicate itself in a blurry puddle, and then eventually sharpen into one copy of his handwriting. He wondered, eerily, who had the other journal, and where it was being kept. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He felt like he was being watched.

"Can you not sleep, Harry Potter, sir?" squeaked a voice from the corner of the room.

Harry slammed the diary shut and jumped out of his chair. He reached for his wand, then realized he'd forgotten it in his robe in the boy's dormitory. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that it was Dobby, the house-elf. He was dressed in brilliant scarlet shorts - hand-knitted, of course - and a vest of gold fabric. He looked a little bit like a genie from a movie Harry saw clips of once, but at least it was better than a tea cozy.

"Dobby!" Harry cried. "You scared me."

"Sorry, sir. I is just wondering why Harry Potter is up so early, sir." He approached Harry with wide eyes. He tugged nervously on one of his big ears.

"It's all right, Dobby," Harry replied. "Early?" Harry glanced out the window. The sun was peeking over the horizon. He could almost see the outline of the grounds below. He sighed. There was no point in going back to bed now.

"Early by wizard time," Dobby replied. "I is running late with chores, sir. My apologies, Harry Potter, sir."

"No problem," Harry replied. "How was your summer, Dobby?"

Dobby squealed. His eyes tightened with wetness as he took a step closer to Harry. "Harry Potter is asking Dobby about his summer? Oh, Harry Potter is truly the most kind, most generous..."

"It was good, then?" Harry interrupted with a grin. He did not want to hear about how great he was from the house-elf for just being polite.

"Oh yes, sir. Dobby went to London for five days, sir. The most days Dobby has gone without working." He seemed to be holding back from punishing himself. "I visited with other house-elves."

"Freed house-elves?" Harry questioned.

Dobby nodded. "Oh yes, sir. In fact, there is a group of freed elves in London."

Harry turned his head sharply. "What?" The only free house-elves he'd ever heard of were Dobby and Winky, and only Dobby was actually enjoying his freedom. Was there really a clan of free house-elves somewhere?

Suddenly, Dobby slammed his head on the table Harry was working at. "Dobby is running late, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby must bet back to work!"

"But Dobby..."

"Dobby is sorry, sir. Perhaps we can chat another time. Next time Harry Potter cannot sleep, sir, he should come down to the kitchen for some tea, sir." He tugged on his ear again. "But Harry Potter should leave his Wheezy and Young Miss at home, sir."

Harry laughed. Hermione hadn't exactly made the best impression on the house-elves with her liberating ideals. With a small smile and wink, Dobby snapped his fingers and disappeared from the Gryffindor Common Room.

After returning the diary to his nightstand drawer, Harry plopped back down on his four-poster and tried to fall back asleep, but it was no use. As the dormitory lightened from the sunrise, his fellow Gryffindors were waking up and getting dressed, hurrying down to breakfast. Harry waited for Ron to stir and the two of them headed to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Hermione was already there, reading her copy of The Daily Prophet over morning tea. She watched Harry carefully as he sat down next to her. "How was Remedial Potions?" she asked cautiously.

"Oh, wonderful," Harry replied sarcastically. He looked around the table, making sure that nobody was listening. He explained about the diary.

"I've seen one of those," Ron whispered. "Mum had one when she went to Hogwarts. It's called a Diary Dupuliquer. She and one of her friends would write back and forth to each other during their History of Magic class."

Harry couldn't help but wonder if this was the same diary that Mrs. Weasley had used during her school years. Perhaps she had the counterpart to the one Harry was using. He'd have to watch his language if Mrs. Weasley was the one reading what he wrote.

"Did you write anything in it yet?" Ron asked.

Harry looked down at his plate of eggs. He'd suddenly lost his appetite. "Well, yes. I did have a dream - a vision - last night." He told the two of them about how he'd been Voldemort again, and Wormtail was telling him all about the plan to break Bellatrix out of Azkaban.

"This is serious, Harry!" Hermione interrupted. "I know you wrote it down in that diary, but you should really go and talk to Dumbledore about it."

"That's your answer to everything, Hermione!" Harry snapped. He hated running to Dumbledore for every little problem he had. "Besides, I'm sure that he already knows. Probably, the whole purpose of this diary is so that I don't have to run to his office every time I have a vision. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the Order and the Ministry already have everything under control over at Azkaban."

Hermione still looked skeptical, but she dropped the subject. Harry was grateful. He hadn't made a trip to Dumbledore's office yet this year, and he wanted to prolong his first visit for as long as possible. Whenever Harry went to his office, it was almost always bad news.