005.
Title: In the Dark of the Night
Rating: PG
Pairing: Seamus/Harry
Word Count: 690 (short, I know)
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Thanks, Rowling, you're the best.
Summary: Harry experiences a panic attack.
A/N: Figured I'd consummate the new journal with a little ficcage.
The dark would enter in.
Harry was alone in the house, with nothing but empty rooms and empty windows to distract from the fear, from the memories. They were
like many-eyed predators on the edge of his conciousness, hyenas prowling to rip at the kill, waiting for the cover of night. They lay in wait for his weakest moments, and then, when he could not resist, they struck.
Tonight was no different. The shadows stretched from the corner of the bedroom like so many fingers, reaching, vengeful. Despite being wrapped in his comforter, he shivered. Any moment, a face would appear in the window. A face, a man, with eyes that glinted with purpose and a yellow-toothed smile. He huddled in his bed, knees to chin, eyes darting from closet to window to corner and back.
The darkness pressed in with all its crushing weight, and the memories, the cruel images that seemed strong enough to spring from imagination into being. He squeezed his eyes shut against Ron, bleeding and gasping for help, strewn across his desk. But there was Oliver, twitching in pain, his mouth open in a wordless scream. His closet was full of bodies, his friends, his family, his teachers.
And then came the tears. Desperate, he willed himself to leap from the bed, to lift Hermione from her slumped position at his wardrobe, to drag the blades from her, to shake her awake. But he couldn't move. Dumbledore's crumpled corpse lay at his feet, and he couldn't move.
He screamed. He screamed and he screamed, all the anguish and the fear, the agony of waiting and not knowing, he screamed it. It was a savage, barbaric sound that filled his ears and tore his throat. He was on his knees in bed now, fists clenched so tight that even his nubby nails bit into his palms, face wrenched so that the corners of his mouth stretched to the point of tearing. He screamed until he thought he would turn himself inside out, and then he sobbed.
Breathing would not flow. Every sharp intake of air was faster than the previous, ripping into his lungs before exploding back out again. Some calm part of his mind wondered if he would faint, and the rest of him erupted in a blind panic. He senselessly clutched at his blanket, his hair, his throat, gasping, gasping, gasping.
And then there were warm arms around him, pulling him against a shoulder, holding him. "Harry, Harry," Seamus whispered, whispering softly into his hair, "Harry, I'm here, it's okay, I'm here." And slowly, Harry sunk into Seamus' chest, his face buried in the dip of his collarbone, wailing away the rest of his fear. His breath, still ragged, calmed, until he was no longer beating his throat with oxygen.
Seamus pushed Harry's shoulders back until he could look him in the face. "Are you okay now?" he asked quietly, his blue eyes full of tender concern. Harry focused on his freckles for a moment, unable to comprehend the question.
"I think so," he whispered, swaying a little. "I kept thinking of... of the war. And my people. I, not, you know, my people. My friends." He sniffed a little, and clutched at Seamus' shirtsleeve.
"Its not real, Harry," Seamus said quietly. And then he leaned forward and kissed him gently, sweetly, on the lips, and then the forehead, and then the eyes. "You lie down and go to sleep. I'll stay this time."
Harry obeyed, tumbling exhausted back onto the pillow. In no time at all, he was asleep, one finger still hooked in the cuff of Seamus' shirt, and one hand curled against his own neck. Seamus sat watching him, as he breathed softly through his sleep, his hair strewn across the pillow. He leaned over to his ear and whispered, "I love you, Harry, and I'll never let anything happen to you. You're safe now."
Rating: PG
Pairing: Seamus/Harry
Word Count: 690 (short, I know)
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Thanks, Rowling, you're the best.
Summary: Harry experiences a panic attack.
A/N: Figured I'd consummate the new journal with a little ficcage.
The dark would enter in.
Harry was alone in the house, with nothing but empty rooms and empty windows to distract from the fear, from the memories. They were
like many-eyed predators on the edge of his conciousness, hyenas prowling to rip at the kill, waiting for the cover of night. They lay in wait for his weakest moments, and then, when he could not resist, they struck.
Tonight was no different. The shadows stretched from the corner of the bedroom like so many fingers, reaching, vengeful. Despite being wrapped in his comforter, he shivered. Any moment, a face would appear in the window. A face, a man, with eyes that glinted with purpose and a yellow-toothed smile. He huddled in his bed, knees to chin, eyes darting from closet to window to corner and back.
The darkness pressed in with all its crushing weight, and the memories, the cruel images that seemed strong enough to spring from imagination into being. He squeezed his eyes shut against Ron, bleeding and gasping for help, strewn across his desk. But there was Oliver, twitching in pain, his mouth open in a wordless scream. His closet was full of bodies, his friends, his family, his teachers.
And then came the tears. Desperate, he willed himself to leap from the bed, to lift Hermione from her slumped position at his wardrobe, to drag the blades from her, to shake her awake. But he couldn't move. Dumbledore's crumpled corpse lay at his feet, and he couldn't move.
He screamed. He screamed and he screamed, all the anguish and the fear, the agony of waiting and not knowing, he screamed it. It was a savage, barbaric sound that filled his ears and tore his throat. He was on his knees in bed now, fists clenched so tight that even his nubby nails bit into his palms, face wrenched so that the corners of his mouth stretched to the point of tearing. He screamed until he thought he would turn himself inside out, and then he sobbed.
Breathing would not flow. Every sharp intake of air was faster than the previous, ripping into his lungs before exploding back out again. Some calm part of his mind wondered if he would faint, and the rest of him erupted in a blind panic. He senselessly clutched at his blanket, his hair, his throat, gasping, gasping, gasping.
And then there were warm arms around him, pulling him against a shoulder, holding him. "Harry, Harry," Seamus whispered, whispering softly into his hair, "Harry, I'm here, it's okay, I'm here." And slowly, Harry sunk into Seamus' chest, his face buried in the dip of his collarbone, wailing away the rest of his fear. His breath, still ragged, calmed, until he was no longer beating his throat with oxygen.
Seamus pushed Harry's shoulders back until he could look him in the face. "Are you okay now?" he asked quietly, his blue eyes full of tender concern. Harry focused on his freckles for a moment, unable to comprehend the question.
"I think so," he whispered, swaying a little. "I kept thinking of... of the war. And my people. I, not, you know, my people. My friends." He sniffed a little, and clutched at Seamus' shirtsleeve.
"Its not real, Harry," Seamus said quietly. And then he leaned forward and kissed him gently, sweetly, on the lips, and then the forehead, and then the eyes. "You lie down and go to sleep. I'll stay this time."
Harry obeyed, tumbling exhausted back onto the pillow. In no time at all, he was asleep, one finger still hooked in the cuff of Seamus' shirt, and one hand curled against his own neck. Seamus sat watching him, as he breathed softly through his sleep, his hair strewn across the pillow. He leaned over to his ear and whispered, "I love you, Harry, and I'll never let anything happen to you. You're safe now."