Every Halloween was cursed with new nightmares.

This year was no different. 

The scrape of chairs and cutlery was cutting through the thrum of indistinct, menacing voices in his ears. Thousands of ants were crawling over his skin. Colours were pummeling him from all sides until he could feel nothing but the tilting earth beneath him.

He turned his gaze towards the Head Table, searching for - 

No black. 

Right. Voldemort – call – what if –

His chest seized up. He couldn't breathe. 

That horrible piece of cloth was clawing at his face, his throat, suffocating him. 

"Harry?"

A wall was coming closer, flaming red and bushy brown masked behind an assault of blues and purples.

"Wha – going on  – mate!?"

He was trapped, he couldn't even scream for help –

Screech!

"– Pomfrey – wrong! – "

He clenched his eyes shut, blinded by white. A touch on his face had him thrashing uncontrollably.

"Breathe – "

Browns and oranges were rushing past him in a dizzying blur, bringing waves of heat and chill. 

He wanted to claw out of his skin. 

The sensations stopped. 

Then, a wall of white air was closing in on him. 

He tried to turn away from the bright green that was aiming at his face – 

"Swallow – " 

No! He mustn't let the green touch him!

The buzzing in his ears rose to a thunder. 

A leaden chill suddenly settled in his stomach, he felt sick –

" – t's it, Harry, breathe. In, out, – " he heard Madam Pomfrey say, behind the white teddy bear costume covering half her face.

And then, everything went numb. 

He was somewhat aware that she was talking to him. But a haze had settled over his mind, masking the outside world. 

So instead, he drifted through the grey fog of vaguely disconcerting thoughts.

Each Halloween had cursed him with new nightmares, and this year was no different. 

Voldemort, the man's visage of twisted glee. Harry almost believed Voldemort had cast a Halloween Curse on him along with the Killing Curse; except that one stuck where the Avada Kedavra had not. 

Then, there was the yearly masqueraded Trick-or-Treating in primary school. More often than not, it had Dudley and his friends masked behind costumes of wannabe-villains that would have looked ridiculous to Harry had he not been 'treated' to their yearly Halloween 'Witch Huntings'. Even the students who usually refrained from bullying Harry would add to his torment, taking their chances of 'tricking' him. 

These instances had never failed to land him in the school's infirmary. The nurse would look at him with a gaze of distaste, and would, with the most disgusted expression that could be considered prim – a face quite like Aunt Petunia's – dig out rubber gloves and a medical mask from the backmost corner of her cabinets. She would make a show of putting them on, prod and pinch Harry, and barely slap on some rudimentary plasters before sending him away as quickly as she could.

At Hogwarts, where Harry had believed himself finally free of his Halloween Curse, he found himself still hunted by ill-fortune: The troll in his first year. The basilisk in his second. Sirius Black in this third – though that turned out not as disastrous. The Goblet of Fire in his fourth.

And now?

Today's Halloween Feast and Masquerade, in which, as long as the person's identity was distinguishable, everyone was encouraged to wear a costume and face paint or mask, had brought the memories of 'Witch Hunting' back with a vengeance. 

Harry had doubted it was a good idea to attend today's Feast, but Hermione had convinced him that seeing Ron trying to dress up as a Smurf would be worth it. 

He was not sure where he was now; probably in the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey must have given him something because his limbs felt too numb and too heavy to move; his senses too sluggish to register anything but a vague sense of foreboding, wishing… 

Wishing Snape was here. 

The man had, grudgingly at first, taken Harry under his wing. Harry would forever be glad that he had stayed behind after a lesson in his first year, requesting an explanation on a homework comment that contradicted information in his textbook. 

Over the years, Harry had gradually learnt to look behind the mask of barbs and insults to see Snape's care, and now, the Potions Master had become a mentor to him, something of an older brother, or perhaps a father. 

And Snape had been summoned by Voldemort today. 

Harry had found a note " Away on urgent call. Reread Chapter 12. " on his table when he had arrived for 'detention' before the Masquerade, secretly hoping that Snape would be able to keep him from attending. 

And now… What if Voldemort decided to top off his Halloween Curse – ?

Harry felt his fear rising again, even through his grey doze.

What if, this year, something happened to Snape ? What if – 

Footsteps interrupted his thoughts. 

Harry hadn't even realised that the cottony feeling had lifted from his ears, or that he would immediately calm at the familiar heavy, quiet footsteps.

He opened his eyes just as Snape stopped at his bedside, looking him up and down with an expression that, in the darkness, looked suspiciously worried.

Harry, too, took a good look at his mentor, though Snape was far too adept at hiding his expressions to let anything show. 

Nothing seemed off at first, black robes not an inch out of place. But when the man pulled his hand from his pocket, a silvery flash clanked to the floor.

The Death Eater mask.

Yet Harry was not afraid. He smiled weakly, hoping to reach the man behind his stock-still facade.

"Are you alright, Professor?"

As Snape bent down, Harry could feel the fine tremors running through the man. 

"Go back to sleep, Potter."

Despite his worry, Harry felt his eyes drop, unable to resist the quiet command. Just before he fell asleep, he heard Snape whisper,

"It will take more than one curse to strike me down."