The sea of green never came. All that Harry could see was a blanket of darkness enclosing him, hiding him from the world.

So this is what death felt like.

Harry thought it felt unusually comforting; like a warm hug to ease the pain. But it couldn’t be that, it just couldn’t be.

What about the parchment?

Was anything that Dumbledore said true?

Would he wake up inside the cupboard in Privet Drive and realize that the Wizarding world was just a dream and nothing but?

Maybe he’d realize that the last sixteen years were all a figment of his imagination; that he would wake up to find himself together with his parents, no parchment, no dead Sirius, no Voldemort.

An argument between two people awoke Harry Potter from his sleep. His eyes burst open, sending in another round of throbbing pain to his head.

With the limited vision he had, he could see that it was barely morning and he was in his first floor bedroom but that wasn’t possible.

You get migraines even if you’re dead? Talk about twisted justice…

He groaned loudly. His head felt like it was being whacked repeatedly by a team of rogue bludgers. He looked around to convince himself that he was still in Grimmauld Place and not, though his senses tell him otherwise, among the deceased.

Ron and Hermione were at the far end of the room, fast asleep. They were sitting on two ancient looking stools which Harry felt could only seat the likes of Dobby.

Ron’s snores took over the whole room, it being the only sound Harry could hear. Normally, it would wind Harry up but in his present condition, it offered a slight reassurance.

He felt highly confused with the events before his blackout. His abrupt awakening scrambling his memory for a while, all of it was now slowly seeping back to his thoughts. A look of raw horror grazed Harry’s face as everything came back to him.

“Snape!” screamed Harry, his raspy voice resulting in a lot of stumbling towards his bed.

“Harry! Thank goodness, we thought you were—” Hermione sat down next to him, reaching out to hold his hands.

“He—he—Avada—murder—Snape—you—hold—” All of Harry’s memories were bellowing in his ear. He had to tell them; to let them know that Snape was a murderer.

Something else caused Harry to scream even louder, his hands leaping over to the table next to him, grabbing his glasses and wand.

“You!” he screamed, running over to the other side of the room, pointing his wand intensely towards Ron, “you—you—Fred—Mr.—betrayed—held me down—helped Snape!” Harry’s rage reached a point where he didn’t care who heard him, in fact, all the better that they’d run to him.

“TRAITOR! YOU MISERABLE LITTLE EXCUSE FOR A FRIEND! I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT A PIECE OF SHITE YOU TURNED OUT TO BE! AND TO USE SNAPE AS YOUR—”

Ron and Hermione’s faces went limp with shock. A few seconds into Harry’s barrage of insults, Hermione ran out into the corridors to run smack into a flustered Albus Dumbledore.

“Headmaster, help him, he’s gone delusional,” said Hermione restlessly.

“I AM NOT DELUSIONAL!” roared Harry, eyes bulging menacingly. His right arm was trembling viciously, confused as to whom to point his wand at.

“That’s a pretty poor way of showing it, Harry,” said Hermione.

The Headmaster quickly stepped over to Harry, his robes unusually messy, tangling over his arms.

“Harry, calm down,” he said, taking hold of Harry’s shoulders, clutching it painfully. “What you saw wasn’t real, Harry. None of it ever happened.”

Harry fell silent but the rage in his eyes didn’t dwindle an inch. He didn’t lower his wand for fear that it might all be a trick. Nothing made sense. How could all of it be a dream when he could still feel the pain from where the Weasleys held him down?

He bit his tongue hard, the strong metallic taste pacifying Harry to try to form a coherent sentence.

“Brilliant,” croaked Harry, both his hands balled tight into fists, “bloody brilliant. So you’re telling me that I’ve managed to find a way to dream standing up and with my eyes wide open. Really, Headmaster—”

“Harry,”

“I wasn’t asleep, Professor! I’m absolutely sure that I was wide awake because it felt so real. I saw all of them. I could smell the food that Mrs. Weasley made. I could hear—”

“Harry,”

“What?” said Harry harshly, “Professor?”

“You weren’t dreaming, Harry.” Dumbledore frowned slightly, telling Harry that what he was about to say was far from good news.

Harry stood up, hands deep in his pockets. Everything felt so out-of-place now; like they were all circular jigsaw pieces trying to fit in a square shaped puzzle.

“But you just told me that –”

“What you saw wasn’t real, Harry,” interrupted Dumbledore, “though it was far from a dream either, it was a delusion, a fantasy, if I may.” Dumbledore reached for his spectacles, wiping off a layer of invisible dirt.

Harry felt bewildered at the least. He pinched himself, hard, causing him to flinch. That wasn’t a very well thought of move because the pain in his arm didn’t sit well with the throbbing soreness of his head.

“It wasn’t real?”

“The Headmaster said it about a hundred times, Harry,” said Hermione, sighing at the question with her hands on her hips.

“I wasn’t asking him, Hermione,” said Harry through gritted teeth. Hermione could get so exasperating at the most inconvenient moments.

“D’you think that You-Know-Who could’ve cursed Harry?” asked Ron. Harry felt a tiny pang of guilt about all those insults he threw at Ron but he wasn’t about to apologize until he knew exactly what happened.

Dumbledore looked Harry in the eye, an expression of guilt and unease ghosting beneath his features. “No, I doubt Voldemort had anything to do with it.”

Ron and Hermione jumped at the brisk manner in which Dumbledore said the name.

The parchment.

Harry blanched at the thought. He wanted to smack himself for forgetting that everything in this house was bound to be more than an innocent decoration.

He could feel his throat drying up. How could he be so stupid? What if it made everyone who looked at the parchment have these hallucinations too?

“I knew it,” snarled Ron, “it’s that evil scumbag Snape! He must’ve slipped in–”

“I think it more likely that I cursed Harry than Professor Snape, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore icily.

Ron looked down but Harry knew it wasn’t because he felt ashamed at calling Snape an ‘evil scumbag’.

Dumbledore looked Harry in the eye. “I have to go to the kitchens for a moment, Harry. Will you be alright?”

“Yes, Professor,” said Harry, seriously doubting if he would ever be alright.

As soon as Dumbledore was out in the hallway, Harry made to sit down on the bed. He turned to face the two people left in the room, looking wary of Harry, as if they were expecting another outburst.

“What – what really happened last night?”

“We’re the ones who should be asking you, Harry! We were all right there in the kitchens, then you just started screaming bloody murder that Snape was about to – well – murder you!” Ron was waving his arms around, making Harry close his eyes.

“Ronald here was biting my head off that Professor Snape poisoned you earlier,” said Hermione, glaring at Ron.

“Well, who wouldn’t put it past him? Then that blasted hag of a portrait had to go and start a screaming contest with Harry, no one knew what to do!”

“Honestly Ron, you and your dramatics,” said Hermione, shaking her head, “anyway, Harry, Professor Snape wasn’t even in the room! He left before Mrs. Weasley came to prepare the decorations.”

Harry remembered the onslaught of insults he set on Snape before his nightmare. “Oh yeah… I remember that… But I saw him Floo in and –”

“No one flooed in, Harry,” stressed Hermione, her eyes filled with concern and pity that Harry hated to see.

“But I swear…” Harry was twisting the sheets with both of his hands, he couldn’t understand anything.

“After that, you were thrashing about everywhere! It had to take me, Fred, George, dad and Bill to hold you down. Blimey, Harry. Not one of your better birthdays, eh mate?” murmured Ron.

Harry moved ‘til his back met the headboard, he leaned his head on the wall and closed his eyes. He didn’t feel like sleeping but the sight of Ron and Hermione staring at him so anxiously made him feel sick.

What the bloody hell is happening to me?

“Hey Ron,” whispered Harry, “sorry ‘bout those—things—I said earlier… I didn’t mean it, really, it was just—”

“Don’t bother, mate,” said Ron, shaking his head, “I know you weren’t, er, yourself… At least we got something good out of last night.”

Harry looked pointedly at Ron.

“That portrait of Sirius’ mum went mad every single day we came here. We didn’t need to do anything to set it off it just went on and on and on after Sirius…” Ron broke off the sentence, looking at Harry hesitatingly.

“Well, the good news is that it shut up, permanently, I reckon. Tonks had to go and trip over the rug again while we were carrying you upstairs but the thing never blasted out anything, not a single screech or anything.”

Harry was saved from replying by Dumbledore entering the room.

“Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger, could you grant me the time to have a little talk with Harry?”

They wordlessly walked out, Hermione casting worried glances over her shoulder as they passed.

Dumbledore didn’t bother to sit down, he flicked his wrist and the curtains instantly drew back, making Harry slap his palm to his eyes.

“Close the curtains,” he murmured, “it’s too early…”

Dumbledore ignored Harry’s grumbling and started softly, “Harry, the Order is working full force to get to the bottom of your condition. Sadly, we don’t have anything concrete except that it would be most likely that you will continue to have these visions daily.”

What else is new? When’d I ever get problems that only last overnight?

“So now I get to have someone watch me everyday?” moaned Harry, the prospect of having anyone follow him around everywhere didn’t look very good.

“Everyone has been graciously lending their time to find a solution, Harry. We’ve also come to the conclusion that you would most likely have these occurrences only after sundown.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Harry, a miserable smile on his face, “they’ll have to tie me to the bedposts or something like that just to restrain me, right?”

“We won’t do any of the sorts, Harry. We will just be there to protect you.” Dumbledore looked troubled, a gleam of distraction twinkling in his eyes.

“From myself, you mean? Have I been scratching my eyes out or biting my tongue till it falls off?” said Harry, “Don’t spare me any details, Professor Dumbledore; I’m going to go through all of it anyway.” Harry stood up and stomped towards the curtains, fiercely pulling them closed.

He glared squarely at Dumbledore. Harry knew that everything was far from the Headmaster’s fault but he was just too tired to blame himself anymore.

“No, Harry. You simply tend to,” said Dumbledore, smiling, “raise your voice a tad.”

Harry stared. How could Dumbledore find the humor in this?

“Is there anything else, Professor? I want to doze off for a bit,” he lied, Harry didn’t feel the least bit sleepy but he really didn’t want to lengthen their conversation.

“One more thing, Harry,” this time, Dumbledore’s eyes hardened, he almost looked frightening. “The only fact you should never forget during these nights is that none of it is real.”

“Yes, sir,” he said softly, his heart feeling as heavy as an anvil. “I’ll try…”

Supper passed without much incident. Remus came through the Floo at about an hour before sundown so Harry had the time to go over last night’s events. Halfway through, a blood-red feather fluttered onto Remus’ lap, making him jump up and mutter apologies to Harry. He had to go away for a while, Remus said. Harry didn’t mind being alone yet he couldn’t deny that the thought of staying in Grimmauld Place alone made him a bit wary.

Fortunately, he remembered to ask Remus how to operate the lights in every room. At least, it wouldn’t seem as dark as usual.

He spent a lot of time in his room, talking to Hedwig, mostly. He jumped at every little noise; irritated at his lack of composure, he strode over to his bed and sat down.

The door burst open; Harry grabbed his wand on the bedside table and jumped to the edge of the bed. His heart thundered when no one came through the door way instantly. He edged over to the door, ready to start blasting hexes at anyone when suddenly; Severus Snape banged it open, causing the door to crash into Harry’s nose.

He jumped back, seeing stars and lights bobbing up and down. “Shite! That hurt!” said Harry, rubbing his nose gently. It was bleeding slightly but Harry’s nose had gone through worse.

Ignoring Harry’s nose, Snape strode in and turned to face him. Wand in hand, Snape conjured a vial of blood-red potion but didn’t give it to Harry.

“The Headmaster has given me the utmost pleasure of being your nanny, Potter,” he snarled, looking ready to bite anything that could cross him. “He has also been kind enough to tell me the reason why you need one. The ‘Hero of the Wizarding World’, fainting at birthday parties, I daresay we might need someone with a lot more backbone than—”

“I fought it, didn’t I?” said Harry, hand still clasping his bleeding nose, “I didn’t sit down and cry while I thought you were about to murder me!”

“Oh yes, it was a most estimable gesture... Of course, passing out after five minutes of earsplitting shrieking scarcely helps your feral reputation but it was noble nonetheless…”

Harry rolled his eyes; he wasn’t in the mood to start an insult match with Snape, he was too nervous about the visions he’s going to have.

“By the way, Professor Snape, I might have a broken nose. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I think it might need a bit healing.”

At least healing can fix my nose, what about yours?

Of course, he didn't actually say that last thought but Snape still looked like he swallowed one of Hagrid’s rock cakes. After a few seconds though; Harry felt his airway begin to clear and the bleeding slow to a trickle.

“Thanks,” he mumbled softly. He sat down on the bed, it had new covers and it smelt like the Dursley’s flower patch, he’d wondered who did the housekeeping since there weren’t any house-elves in Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore told Harry about making Kreacher work in the Hogwarts kitchens and he really couldn’t care less. At least, he didn’t have to deal with muttering and cursing all day long.

Harry almost forgot that Snape was still there when his professor slammed down the potion onto the desk. “Drink this before you choose to rest your overworked mouth, Potter.”

Snape’s mouth turned to a firm line before continuing. “Don’t you expect me to extend my expertise to your cause when term starts, I don’t care for the kind of blatant favoritism the Headmaster has been partial to,” he spat out, eyeing Harry’s scar in disgust.

I’d rather take the hallucinations then sudden death, please.

Harry stared at the potion. “Sleeping Draught, sir?”

“Have you gone and got yourself Confunded as well, Potter?” mocked Snape, a twisted smile on his face irking Harry.

“Idiot boy, the sopophorous beans contained in the Sleeping Draught will only cause the drinker to stay in a deep sleep yet the incidence of their dreams will still occur,” said Snape, “causing you to be unable to wake up to end it. Though I do believe this would be just treatment, the Headmaster tells me otherwise.”

Before Harry could snap back, Snape strode over to the door and walked out.

It was hours when Harry began to feel drowsy; nothing was happening yet and a flicker of hope burst to life inside of him.

Maybe it really is a one time thing…

He was lying down on the bed, his eyes staring at the ceiling. The room was pitch-black but a soft light from the doorway helped Harry see faint outlines of the objects around him. Sometimes, he could hear the soft hoot Hedwig always made when she slept but that was it.

“Harry,”

It was nothing but a whisper yet terror was too much of a mild word to describe what Harry felt. He had heard this voice only once or twice before but he knew it by heart. It was once a voice Harry clung upon, a voice of reason and guidance. None of that was evident tonight; he could hear disappointment, anger and shame. He knew it was so because they were the first and only emotions he was choked by for his whole life.

“You aren’t real,” cried Harry, he shoved his brow towards his sleeves, layers of sweat marking itself on the fabric.

“Harry please…”

“YOU AREN’T REAL!” Harry roared. He twisted to lie on his stomach, burying his face onto the nearest pillow, biting into the fabric to keep himself from screaming. It wasn’t long until his rapid breathing made him gasp out for air.

“Have you forgotten, Harry? That night… We helped you, didn’t we? We love you, Harry…”

“No—No, you don’t! Please… Go away… Just—” Harry willed himself to focus.

Think, Harry! It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real!

“Harry, why do you turn away? Harry…”

“I know you aren’t real! Go away!” he screamed, wishing that the roof would cave in; the only way to stop all of this.

“You have disappointed me, Harry. Our sacrifice has been for nothing. You can’t even—”

“No, no—you’re not—I don’t know you!” Harry propped himself on his elbows, it was the only way that he could breathe while forcing himself not to look towards the door. He was shaking mildly now, his every breath making the bed shiver.

“You don’t know your own father, Harry?”

Dumbledore’s lecture flew out of Harry’s mind. This was too much.

“I DON’T HAVE A FATHER! THEY’RE DEAD! HIM AND MUM! YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A DAMN CURSE! YOU’RE NOT REAL! YOU’RE NOT—”

“Look at me, Harry.”

Harry didn’t budge. His gaze was settled onto the pillow beneath him. He forced himself to stare at the damp fabric, a mixture of sweat and tears enveloping it.

“Look at me.”

Go on. Keep doing this. At least I won’t need to look at you!

“I’m disappointed in you, Harry. You’re just like Snivellus, haven’t you noticed?”

Harry’s eyes shot up. The fake James’ disdainful manner shattered Harry’s defenses. He jumped off the bed instantly, the blood rushing to his head making him want to sick up, he fell to the floor as his vision doubled.

“You’re Dark, Harry. There’s no need to believe in fake assurances from Dumbledore, you know he’s just twisting you around,” he snarled out, his hazel eyes looked like it was lit by torches. “You’re Dark; like Snivellus killed your godfather, you were the reason we were murdered, don’t you know that? We were nothing. Cedric was nothing. Sirius was nothing. It was all supposed to be you. I thought you were intelligent, Harry, another disappointment.”

His throat closed up entirely. Harry couldn’t feel an inch of himself try to scream back a reply. His eyes felt like it wanted to roll out of his head. Hadn’t he been thinking that all along? That he really was Dark and that everyone who died because of Voldemort was his fault? It was the truth and Harry knew it. He felt ashamed to believe otherwise. It was the truth.

“My only son, the next Dark Lord…” Harry heard a loud ‘tsk’-ing noise. “If I had known that you would turn out like this, I would’ve strangled you in your sleep.”

“No…” It was nothing more than a ghost of a word. Harry didn’t have the strength to truly fight back. He felt too exposed; too violated.

Snape’s potion, a tiny voice of sanity called out to him.

Snatching his gaze towards the table, Harry saw where Snape set the small vial. It wasn’t there anymore; all he could see was Sirius’ broken mirror. It was grimy and smeared with blood everywhere, a pale shadow of itself.

Harry clenched the edges of the bed, forcing himself to stand up.

It isn’t real!

His hands were trembling, he forced himself to grab the mirror but it didn’t change its form. A horrible chill surrounded Harry, enclosing him, robbing him of his breath. The broken shards were shaking, growing back into place slowly. Harry couldn’t tear his eyes off the sight, as if his head was petrified to stay in one direction. Millions of colours swirled onto its surface, resembling a twisted kaleidoscope, and formed into the image of the last person he wanted to see.

“Sirius,” he murmured. His vision blurring as tears began to seep yet again.

It was the same Sirius that he saw at the Department of Mysteries, just before he fell into the veil. His fathomless face stared blankly into Harry’s eyes, a face devoid of emotion, of love.

“I trusted you.”

An enormous wave of nausea crashed into Harry’s senses. Those three words felt worse than all those times he had seen a Dementor, than the time when he was tortured by Voldemort and even when he saw Sirius fall through the veil.

The one person Sirius trusted.

He let go of the mirror, forgetting everything that he was. He was nothing. His hands stung excruciatingly, he turned it over. His palm was cut in deep and uneven angles, the number of which was too many to count. Grabbing his foul looking sleeve, he wiped the blood free flowing from the cuts. He didn’t care about the pain. All he could see were the words etched onto his skin.

Murderer.

A herd of Thestrals were gnawing at Harry’s insides; grabbing hold of them and tearing it apart piece by piece until he could feel nothing; no pain, no emotions. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to.

Harry had had enough. He used all the energy he had left to race towards the door, the blurred outline of light from its edges being Harry’s refuge.

The door burst open, causing Harry to kneel down at the burst of light. He squinted slightly to see his father grabbing hold of his robes.

“NO! LET GO OF ME!” he screamed, he tried desperately to wriggle free of his father’s grasp but he was too strong.

“LET GO! GET OFF ME! GO AWAY!” Harry went on and on, fervently hoping that his father would give up and let him be.

Harry could see him grabbing his face, forcing him to look at him. His touch scalded Harry, feeling himself burn with hate and anger. It made Harry burn up inside, hating the way that the touch made him feel miserable, instead of loved like he had imagined.

This last thought served as the final blow to end it all. It was all that Harry could take. He slumped to the floor, his mind telling him to fight yet his body leaving him in the dust.

Everything whirled around him, his father, the door, the whole room seemed to change. He could faintly see Severus Snape kneeling down next to him, talking to him but his mind couldn’t comprehend a single word. It was as if the only thing that could make him happy now was a long and quiet sleep.

The last thing he saw was Snape kneeling next to him, wand over Harry’s heart. Everything went black.

“Potter, wake up! Ennervate! Ennervate!”