discontinued, re-write titled "Mind Over Matter".
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❞𝐘𝐨𝐮❜𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞. . .❞
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Liliana Granger never sought out the adventures of life, she'd grown comfortable in what she knew and applied...
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"Never a dull moment with you."
Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping Harry in the hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. He didn't argue or complain, but he wouldn't let her throw away the shattered remnants of his Nimbus Two Thousand.
He knew he was being stupid, knew that the Nimbus was beyond repair, but Harry couldn't help it; he felt as though he'd lost one of his best friends.
He had a stream of visitors, all intent on cheering him up. Hagrid sent him a bunch of earwiggy flowers that looked like yellow cabbages, and Ginny Weasley, blushing furiously, turned up with a get-well card she had made herself, which sang shrilly unless Harry kept it shut under his bowl of fruit.
The Gryffindor team visited again on Sunday morning, this time accompanied by Wood, who told Harry (in a hollow, dead sort of voice) that he didn't blame him in the slightest.
Ron, Atlas, Liliana, Ben, and Hermione left Harry's bedside only at night. But nothing anyone said or did could make Harry feel any better, because they knew only half of what was troubling him.
He hadn't told anyone about the Grim, not even his five best friends, because he knew Ron would panic, Atlas would question him tirelessly, Liliana would worry, Ben would try and reassure him with explanations as to why it was there, and Hermione would scoff.
The fact remained, however, that it had now appeared twice, and both appearances had been followed by near-fatal accidents; the first time, he had nearly been run over by the Knight Bus; the second, fallen fifty feet from his broomstick.
Was the Grim going to haunt him until he actually died? Was he going to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the beast?
And then there were the Dementors. Harry felt sick and humiliated every time he thought of them. Everyone said the Dementors were horrible, but no one else collapsed every time they went near one. No one else heard echoes in their head of their dying parents.
Because Harry knew who that screaming voice belonged to now. He had heard her words, heard them over and over again during the night hours in the hospital wing while he lay awake, staring at the strips of moonlight on the ceiling.
When the Dementors approached him, he heard the last moments of his mother's life, her attempts to protect him, Harry, from Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort's laughter before he murdered her...
Harry dozed fitfully, sinking into dreams full of clammy, rotted hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell again on his mother's voice.
*・゜・*:.。.*.。.:*・☆・゜
It was a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the main school on Monday, where he was forced to think about other things, even if he had to endure Draco Malfoy's taunting. Malfoy was almost beside himself with glee at Gryffindor's defeat.
