Chapter Text
JULY 4 | FRIDAY
Harry Potter has been back at Privet Drive for all of three and a half days, and he could already tell that it was going to be an unbearably long summer.
It wasn’t that his relatives were being any more nasty than they always were; quite the opposite, actually. They hardly spoke to him unless it was deemed absolutely necessary, and Uncle Vernon hadn’t even shoved him around yet. Usually they’d look for any little reason to berate him, or rough him up a bit, and maybe it was too soon to say, but they seemed to be avoiding him as much as possible.
Even with the lack of conflict from the Dursley’s, Harry found that he just… couldn’t relax. Everytime he managed to slip into sleep, it was just rerun after rerun of that night.
The third task. He’d been trying to do a good thing when he urged Cedric to take the Cup with him, they’d reached it at the same time anyways, and it should’ve been a win for Hogwarts either way. But—
Kill the spare.
Harry jerked suddenly, nearly dropping the bowl that he’d been washing. His eyes had drifted shut without him noticing, transporting him somewhere he would never forget, not for a long time. Trembling, Harry ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to take in deep breaths.
“Get it together,” he muttered quietly, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. He couldn’t afford to start losing it now, not when he didn’t have the support of his friends to talk sense into him and keep him grounded. Harry had managed to keep it together for the last few days of term, when things were the most hectic, so he could get through the first seven weeks of summer. Then he’d spend two weeks at The Burrow, two weeks with his friends.
Two weeks being safe. He just had to avoid anything that might set him off until then, so that his time at Privet Drive would be bearable. Harry knew better than to get his hopes up, but with his relatives not being as nasty as usual, it seemed like he had a fighting chance.
Kill the spare.
Harry flinched again, jolted back to reality by the sound of glass shattering. For a moment, all he could do was stare blankly at the pieces of the bowl in the sink, delayed in processing the fact that he’d just dropped it. He’d been thinking so hard about acting normal that he allowed himself to lose focus, to go back to… there.
“What did you do?” Aunt Petunia’s voice was sharp as she appeared in the doorway, expression tight. Harry couldn’t bring himself to answer, the words sticking in his throat as he opened and closed his mouth without a sound. It was his first real mistake since returning for the summer, and he dreaded finding out what the reaction would be.
Petunia surveyed the scene for a few seconds, but when she realized that Harry was saying nothing, she only pursed her lips. “...Clean it up, then go to your room. If you can’t handle the simple task of washing a dish, you don’t need to be taking up space down here.”
Harry nodded quickly, immediately turning back to the sink.
Petunia lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, her expression expectant as though she were waiting for him to argue. When there was only silence, she finally turned on her heel and left the kitchen with a sniff.
The moment she disappeared, Harry let out a shaky breath and began to clear the pieces of the bowl from the sink.
It could have been worse. A few years ago, before Uncle Vernon had gotten paranoid that the wizards would retaliate if he punished Harry, he would’ve stormed in and spent the next hour shouting himself hoarse. To this day, Harry could remember the feeling of being shoved into cupboards, or getting roughed up for smaller offences than this.
Instead, his aunt had simply sent him upstairs. It should’ve been a relief, but for some reason, it just wasn’t.
Harry finished cleaning the sink in silence, tossing the broken glass in the trash before making his way back to Dudley’s second bedroom. However uncanny it may seem, he wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to get some much needed rest. It was clear that his plan of staying awake to avoid nightmares wasn’t working; sleep deprivation would only cause him to make careless mistakes, and Harry didn’t want to push the limits of his relatives apparent indifference to his existence this summer.
Once he made it upstairs, Harry dropped heavily onto the bed and rubbed both hands over his face. It’s only seven weeks, he tried to tell himself. It could be worse. It could always be worse.
However much he tried to talk himself into finally getting a nap in, Harry still found himself delaying it in small, stupid ways. He reread the same chapter of his Defense textbook three times without absorbing a single word. He reorganized the sparse contents of his trunk. He spent nearly 20 minutes just staring out of the window, looking at the identical houses that lined the street.
Eventually, there was nothing left to do except lie down.
It was no surprise that Harry fell asleep almost immediately. He’d been truly exhausted, dodging sleep since he returned to the house, because he knew what was waiting for him when he finally managed to get to sleep.
This time was no different. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in bed.
The graveyard. Harry knew where he was before he even properly looked around.
He knew the crooked headstones, and the yew tree. He knew the piercing cold that seemed to literally seep into his bones, no matter how warm it should’ve been for the time of month that this had happened.
Most of all, he knew what was coming.
“No,” Harry muttered, already trying to back away. “No, this isn’t– this isn’t happening.”
He was painfully aware that what he saw wasn’t real, he’d always been mostly aware when he dreamed. He knew that he didn’t want to see what was about to happen, he didn’t want to be in this miserable place, and he regretted going to sleep.
“Harry.”
Cedric was standing several feet away, his wand held loosely at his side. He looked no different than he had that night; slightly out of breath from the maze, and confused by their sudden arrival in a completely new location.
He was alive. He was still alive, and Harry felt sick. He knew what came next.
“Cedric!” He shouted, trying to move, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. His feet were stuck where he stood, but the Hufflepuff turned, he looked at him as thoughn he understood, and for one impossible moment, Harry thought things might be different. Maybe this time he could stop it, he wouldn’t have to see it again, he could—
“Harry?”
Kill the spare.
“NO!” Harry was shouting before the flash of green even touched Cedric, before the elder’s body hit the ground. His feet still wouldn’t move, and the harder he struggled, the heavier his body became. Panic began to suffocate him as Voldemort’s laughter became clearer, echoing through the graveyard. It was the same, every time it was the same sequence of events, and Harry could only watch. Just like he had the first time, and the next time he slept, and every night after that. He watched, and he screamed, and tried to fight, but he just couldn’t.
“Harry.”
His head snapped up at the voice, and his breath caught in his throat. Cedric was standing again. His body was still lying in the grass where it had fallen, but somehow he was also standing no more than a foot away, looking directly at Harry.
A chill ran down his spine. This was different, usually the dream was just a replay of what had really happen, never anything new.
“You were supposed to take the Cup,” Cedric whispered, voice nearly inaudible.
Harry felt his stomach drop. He was, wasn’t he? None of this would’ve happened if he’d just taken the Cup, like he’d been urged to do. “I know.”
“You were supposed to take it.”
“I know.” The words came out cracked and desperate. “Merlin, I know. I should’ve listened. I thought I knew better, I thought– I thought I was doing something good.”
Cedric took a step forward, and then another. He was right there, close enough to touch.
“You should’ve taken it.”
“I KNOW!” Harry shouted. The guilt he’d been trying to shove down for days bubbled up to the surface all at once.
“I know, alright? I KNOW! I should’ve listened and taken it, I never listen, I always think I know best! I got cocky, I forgot there might’ve been something bigger going on! I should’ve known something might’ve been wrong with the Cup, I should’ve realized that the maze was too easy, and that Moody had been acting strange all bloody year, I just—”
Harry’s voice cracked, and he deflated, voicing going quieter. “I should’ve done something. I just stood there.”
Cedric didn’t respond, and Harry only felt worse. The guilt twisted tighter around his chest, making him feel vaguely sick. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, I wasn’t trying to get you hurt. I just… I thought we’d both win. That’s all.”
Cedric continued to stare for a moment, before finally smiling, but something still felt off about it. “You didn’t mean to kill me.”
For one terrible second, relief flooded through Harry.
“But you let me die.”
His breath caught as he immediately began shaking his head, protests escaping before he could even think about it. “No, no I didn’t mean—”
“You knew something was wrong.”
“I didn’t.” Harry promised desperately.
“You brought me there.”
“No!” The word tore itself from his throat. Harry stumbled backwards, finally finding the willpower to move, only to trip over a gravestone.
“I didn’t know!” He managed to shout, desperate for the other boy to understand, even though earlier he’d been aware that this wasn’t real. “I didn’t!”
His chest hurt, his eyes burned. Everything felt too loud and suffocatingly silent at the same time. It was too cold, it felt too real. Maybe it was real, he didn’t know anymore.
By some miracle, Harry awoke with a gasp. He was back in Dudley’s second bedroom, tangled in sweat soaked sheets, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might break his ribs. For several seconds he couldn’t breathe, or think, or do anything except for stare at the ceiling and try to come to terms with the fact that he was really awake.
That Cedric wasn’t standing beside his bed, staring at him in disappointment.
Eventually, Harry gathered the strength to sit up, glancing at the clock beside the bed. 5:41 PM. He’d slept for about an hour and a half, and felt no more rested than he had when he first came upstairs. If anything, he actually felt a thousand times worse.
His stomach churned unpleasantly, and his skin felt clammy, having broken into a cold sweat during the nightmare. If he closed his eyes for just a little too long, Harry could still see the flash of green light, could still hear Voldemort’s cold voice echoing through the graveyard.
It wasn’t fair.
The thought surfaced before he could stop it, but once he focused on it, the more strongly he felt.
Cedric was dead. Voldemort was back, and half the wizarding world thought he was lying about it. There wasn’t anything that Harry could do to change that, and yet he was the one who had to deal with the consequences, reliving that horrible night everytime he tried to sleep. Every single time he tried to get some rest, he was dragged right back to that graveyard and forced to watch it happen all over again.
How long was this supposed to last? A week, maybe? A month?
The entire summer?
The thought made his chest tighten. How could he handle this for so long?
Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The room tilted slightly, only settling back into place after a few harsh blinks.
Brilliant.
He crossed the room and reopened his curtains, squinting against the streetlight that always shined right outside of his window. Dudley and his friends were riding their bikes on the street, Mrs. Figg was watering her garden down the street, and there was a couple walking their dog. Everything looked painfully normal, and Harry felt anything but that. It was unbelievable how everyone else got to go about their lives normally, when he quite literally had the weight of the world looming over him.
“Boy!” Harry jumped as Uncle Vernon barked outside of his door, turning around warily.
“Yeah?”
The door opened, revealing his uncle looking at him suspiciously, as though he expected something to be going on. “Your aunt wants you to go weed her flower beds in the front. It needs to be done before you make dinner.”
Against his better judgement, Harry immediately protested. “It’s already nearly six! How am I meant to start cooking in a half hour if I have to weed the bloody garden?”
A dangerous look settling over Uncle Vernon’s face, and suddenly, Harry remembered where he was. Normally he would’ve kept his mouth shut; he knew better than to argue over something so minor, when his relatives were so quick to anger, but his head was pounding and he was tired and frustrated.
Vernon took a step forward, voice low. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” Harry muttered quickly, already bending down to put his shoes on. Seven weeks. This wasn’t worth it.
“That’s what I thought.” For a moment, Vernon continued staring at him, as though waiting for another challenge. When none came, he jabbed a finger toward the stairs. “Garden. Now.”
This time, Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes, brushing past him into the hallway. When he stepped outside, the evening air was still warm. His aunt’s flower beds lined the front of the house in neat rows, and honestly, there were hardly any weeds. With a quiet groan, Harry knelt in the dirt and got to work.
For a while, the repetitive task helped. It gave his hands something to do and his mind something to focus on. Pull a weed, toss it aside, move to the next one. A simple chore that he’d been doing since he was a child, and he was grateful for it.
Just when he was wrapping up, gathering all the weeds to be put in the trash, he heard the sound of wheels on pavement, immediately making him tense up. He’d honestly forgotten that Dudley was out with his friends. His cousin had been strangely… tame, the past few days, so maybe he wouldn’t even pay him any attention. Harry kept his eyes on the flower bed, suddenly taking an extreme interest in making sure that all the dirt was level.
“Look, Big D, your parents let your freak cousin out.” Harry heard Piers Polkiss’ unmistakable voice. “We haven’t roughed him up in a while.”
There was silence for a moment, before Dudley spoke up. “Yeah, he just sleeps and stays in the house. He’s been acting mental since he came back from school. Oi, Potter! Who’s Cedric, your boyfriend?”
It took Harry a moment to process the words that came out of his cousin’s mouth. Once he registered it, he turned slowly, finally facing the boys.
“...What did you just say?”
“You whine and call his name every bloody night.” Dudley grinned in the malicious way that he does, when he’s trying to rile Harry up. “You into blokes or summat?”
The boys around him burst into laughter, but Harry hardly heard them. His stomach had dropped somewhere near his feet, a sense of dread creeping in and taking over his entire body.
“You can hear me?” He asked, before he could stop himself.
His voice was so thin and tight that the laughter died down almost immediately, and Dudley blinked, looking at him warily. “What?”
“When I’m asleep.” Harry swallowed. “You can hear me? Dreaming?”
For a moment, nobody said anything. Dudley looked confused, and a little nervous; Harry had never reacted to getting messed with like this.
It was Piers who finally broke the silence, “Blimey, he really is mental.”
That earned another round of laughter, but Harry still wasn’t paying them any attention. Dudley had said that he called Cedric’s name every night. He didn’t even think his nightmares had been vivid enough for him to be shouting every singly night — the thought made his skin crawl.
“Course I can hear you,” Dudley said eventually. “Room’s right next to mine, isn’t it?”
“Every night?”
“Most of ‘em.”
A sick feeling settled in Harry’s stomach. Most nights? If Dudley was telling the truth, then that meant the nightmares were worse than he thought. Or just louder than he thought, and both possibilities were equally disturbing. If his aunt and uncle hadn’t said anything about it, then they must not have heard anything yet, but the fact that he made noise at all was a risk.
“Oi, are you gonna cry about it?” Piers jeered, clearly trying to rile Harry up again.
“What’s this Cedric bloke even done?” Dennis chimed in. “He dump you or something?”
The group howled, and Harry felt something inside him twist painfully. They didn’t understand, they didn’t even know the half of what he’d gone through, what he’d seen. The name was clearly just a punchline to them, something to laugh at when they heard it, but whenever Harry heard Cedric’s name, all he could think about was the look on everyone’s faces when they arrived back at the maze.
His grip tightened around the bunclde of weeds in his hands. “Just shut up.”
The words were quiet enough that he wasn’t even sure if they’d been heard, but the laughter from the boys faltered. He didn’t sound particularly threatening, just exhausted. Exhausted enough, apparently, that he couldn’t even be found funny; even Dudley’s grin slipped slightly. For a second, Harry wondered if his cousin was remembering the night that he’d come back from Hogwarts. The state he’d been in, and the fact that he’d hardly spoken more than three sentences since returning a few days ago.
If he was, he gave no indication. Dudley scoffed and climbed back onto his bike, his friends following suit. “Whatever.”
Within a few moments, they were racing down the street again, shouting over each other as though the interruption to their evening had never happened.
Harry stood motionless in the garden for a while after they’d disappeared from sight, the weeds that he’d pulled hanging forgotten at his side. Any other summer, he might’ve reacted to Dudley’s torment with anger and resentment, but… not today. He was just really tired — of the nightmares, of thinking about Cedric, of apparently being unable to control his nightly outbursts.
Honestly, most of his problems seemed to begin with sleeping. The realization settled heavy in his chest, because it felt so true. Whenever he closed his eyes, he relived the graveyard, which ultimately led to him being completely and utterly miserable.
Maybe that was the solution. Harry sighed, moving to toss the weeds in the bin that was kept outside. The idea was ridiculous, and he knew that. People needed sleep, he’d been lectured by Oliver Wood enough on the importance of getting a good night’s rest to be at peak performance.
However, people also weren’t supposed to spend every night watching their classmate die. He didn’t have to stop sleeping entirely, just… less. Enough to get by, while keeping the emotional torture to a minimum.
“Boy!” Harry jumped, turning to see Vernon standing in the doorway. “Get back inside, dinner isn’t going to cook itself! You should’ve been done by now.”
“Right.” He murmured, reentering the house, immediately heading to the kitchen. He felt calmer, now that he had a plan. He didn’t have to be miserable all summer, he could hopefully recover from what he’d seen at the graveyard.
The evening passed like every other. Harry cooked dinner — baked chicken and mashed potatoes — and the Dursley’s ate it, nobody speaking to him unless they absolutely had to. While everyone else went upstairs, he washed the dishes and wiped down the counters, making sure everything was pristine to Aunt Petunia’s exacting standards.
Once he was done cleaning, Harry made his way upstairs, quickly changing clothes and sitting at his desk with a textbook and some parchment, ready to get a start on his summer assignments. He threw himself into studying, focusing on the material to keep his mind occupied.
As it turned out, it wasn’t even difficult. By the time Harry looked up, stretching his arms over his head as he glanced at the clock, it was 2:47 in the morning; he’d already managed to pass a few hours. If he finished his Transfiguration essay, then got a start on Charms, it would be morning in no time.
Judging by the strain Harry already felt in his eyes, and the heaviness in his head. The next day would suck. He’d be tired and sluggish, and questioning his choices.
But at least tonight, Cedric Diggory wouldn’t die. For now, that was good enough.