Nightmares
Harry didn’t have nightmares about Voldemort for five years after the war, and he had never before dreamt about the Chamber of Secrets, but on the night before his wedding, he awoke in a cold sweat, head still aching from too much drinking.
At least his scar wasn’t burning, he thought as he rolled out of his empty bed to go make tea.
Ginny was sitting at the kitchen table, awake, a cup of chamomile already in front of her. “I thought the firewhiskey would knock you out, if nothing else,” she said with half a smile, and put on the kettle. “Nerves?”
“Nightmare.”
“Want to share?”
Harry sighed and almost shook his head; he didn’t want Ginny to know of his insecurities, and he certainly didn’t want to remind her of her first year on the night before her wedding. But she pierced him with such a calm, supportive gaze that he slipped into the chair across from her, put his head in his hands, and started to talk.
“I was… I was standing up there, everyone with me, waiting for you. You were late. No one knew where you were, but everyone just kept telling me you would get there eventually. Then they started staring at me, wondering why you wouldn’t show, and I get nervous and worried and I run away.”
The tea kettle whistled, and Ginny stood up to pour his mug. She didn’t say anything.
“Then… then, all of a sudden, I’m at Hogwarts, and I’m running, and I get to the edge of the lake and there you are - only you’re… different. You sneer at me and you tell me I’m a fool to think you would ever marry me, you laugh at me. And… and you’re holding that Diary, from your first year. You wave Tom Riddle’s diary in my face and you say you only followed me around to figure out how to get him back, that my only distinguishing trait is that I was lucky enough to kill the much better wizard, and that it’s time to set things right…”
He took a gulp of the tea, welcoming the burn of still-too-hot water because it would prove, at least, that he was awake now and had been asleep.
“And then, well, then you’re gone and he’s there and he’s mocking me again, saying that you’d rather die for him than live with me, and I’m trying to save you and I’m trying to kill him but I can’t, my wand doesn’t work properly and everyone is around and they’re all laughing at me, they’re all on his side, and he fights me into a corner and raises his wand and says ‘You were never worth the lives you ended, never worth the sacrifices you inspired,’ and then…”
“You wake up?” Ginny supplied.
Harry nodded, bleakly, and took another scorching gulp of his steaming chamomile. “I know it’s just a nightmare,” he said. “I know it’s not true. But… to think of losing you… losing everyone…”
Ginny reached out and put her hand on top of his reassuringly, silencing everyone. “After my first year, I had dreams about the Chamber.”
“Ginny, you don’t have to,” he began, but she cut him off.
“Every night, as I fell asleep, I would hear Riddle’s voice telling me I was just a foolish little girl who would never be missed, that I wasn’t worthy of anyone’s interest, that you would never come to rescue me. And I dreamt that you didn’t rescue me, and I died in the chamber, or was sucked into the diary and lived, trapped in ink and parchment, forever - which was probably worse. I didn’t sleep for weeks.” She sipped her tea, and smiled wanly at him. “But then my mother told me something. She said that no one is worthy of love because they’re interesting or brave or powerful or anything. We are loved because we are loved, and worthy of that love only because we love as well.”
Harry felt a sudden wave of warmth for Mrs. Weasley rise in his chest. “And that stopped the nightmares?”
“No. But when I fell asleep, and I heard that cruel voice, I shouted out what my mother had told me. And that stopped the nightmares.” She smiled at him, eyes sparkling with drowsiness and, Harry had to admit, love. “Do you love me because I deserve it - because I am unerringly wonderful - or simply because you do, for no specific reason?” Harry thought there were too many reasons to name - he loved her smile, and her laugh, and her skill on a broom, and her wit, and her ability to tell stories, and her sense of humor, and the fact that she understood him, and the fact that she wouldn’t let him worry and stew over things, and…
And then he realized that he could find someone cheerful, with a vibrant smile and a ready laugh, someone great at Quidditch, someone who could act and who wouldn’t let him stew, but it wouldn’t be Ginny and that wouldn’t be the same.
“Just because it’s you,” he said. “Just because I do.”
She got up, took her empty mug to the sink, and then returned to the table and wrapped her arms around him. “And I you. Tom Riddle is a liar, and a dead liar at that. And even when he was alive, and charming, and listened to every little problem I had while you were too wound up to notice I existed, even then he couldn’t hold a candle to you. I don’t love you because you’re the hero, Harry. I’m not marrying you tomorrow for money, or fame, or pride. I love you because you’re you.”
Twenty minutes later, Harry was asleep next to his fiancée.
He didn’t dream again that night.
At least his scar wasn’t burning, he thought as he rolled out of his empty bed to go make tea.
Ginny was sitting at the kitchen table, awake, a cup of chamomile already in front of her. “I thought the firewhiskey would knock you out, if nothing else,” she said with half a smile, and put on the kettle. “Nerves?”
“Nightmare.”
“Want to share?”
Harry sighed and almost shook his head; he didn’t want Ginny to know of his insecurities, and he certainly didn’t want to remind her of her first year on the night before her wedding. But she pierced him with such a calm, supportive gaze that he slipped into the chair across from her, put his head in his hands, and started to talk.
“I was… I was standing up there, everyone with me, waiting for you. You were late. No one knew where you were, but everyone just kept telling me you would get there eventually. Then they started staring at me, wondering why you wouldn’t show, and I get nervous and worried and I run away.”
The tea kettle whistled, and Ginny stood up to pour his mug. She didn’t say anything.
“Then… then, all of a sudden, I’m at Hogwarts, and I’m running, and I get to the edge of the lake and there you are - only you’re… different. You sneer at me and you tell me I’m a fool to think you would ever marry me, you laugh at me. And… and you’re holding that Diary, from your first year. You wave Tom Riddle’s diary in my face and you say you only followed me around to figure out how to get him back, that my only distinguishing trait is that I was lucky enough to kill the much better wizard, and that it’s time to set things right…”
He took a gulp of the tea, welcoming the burn of still-too-hot water because it would prove, at least, that he was awake now and had been asleep.
“And then, well, then you’re gone and he’s there and he’s mocking me again, saying that you’d rather die for him than live with me, and I’m trying to save you and I’m trying to kill him but I can’t, my wand doesn’t work properly and everyone is around and they’re all laughing at me, they’re all on his side, and he fights me into a corner and raises his wand and says ‘You were never worth the lives you ended, never worth the sacrifices you inspired,’ and then…”
“You wake up?” Ginny supplied.
Harry nodded, bleakly, and took another scorching gulp of his steaming chamomile. “I know it’s just a nightmare,” he said. “I know it’s not true. But… to think of losing you… losing everyone…”
Ginny reached out and put her hand on top of his reassuringly, silencing everyone. “After my first year, I had dreams about the Chamber.”
“Ginny, you don’t have to,” he began, but she cut him off.
“Every night, as I fell asleep, I would hear Riddle’s voice telling me I was just a foolish little girl who would never be missed, that I wasn’t worthy of anyone’s interest, that you would never come to rescue me. And I dreamt that you didn’t rescue me, and I died in the chamber, or was sucked into the diary and lived, trapped in ink and parchment, forever - which was probably worse. I didn’t sleep for weeks.” She sipped her tea, and smiled wanly at him. “But then my mother told me something. She said that no one is worthy of love because they’re interesting or brave or powerful or anything. We are loved because we are loved, and worthy of that love only because we love as well.”
Harry felt a sudden wave of warmth for Mrs. Weasley rise in his chest. “And that stopped the nightmares?”
“No. But when I fell asleep, and I heard that cruel voice, I shouted out what my mother had told me. And that stopped the nightmares.” She smiled at him, eyes sparkling with drowsiness and, Harry had to admit, love. “Do you love me because I deserve it - because I am unerringly wonderful - or simply because you do, for no specific reason?” Harry thought there were too many reasons to name - he loved her smile, and her laugh, and her skill on a broom, and her wit, and her ability to tell stories, and her sense of humor, and the fact that she understood him, and the fact that she wouldn’t let him worry and stew over things, and…
And then he realized that he could find someone cheerful, with a vibrant smile and a ready laugh, someone great at Quidditch, someone who could act and who wouldn’t let him stew, but it wouldn’t be Ginny and that wouldn’t be the same.
“Just because it’s you,” he said. “Just because I do.”
She got up, took her empty mug to the sink, and then returned to the table and wrapped her arms around him. “And I you. Tom Riddle is a liar, and a dead liar at that. And even when he was alive, and charming, and listened to every little problem I had while you were too wound up to notice I existed, even then he couldn’t hold a candle to you. I don’t love you because you’re the hero, Harry. I’m not marrying you tomorrow for money, or fame, or pride. I love you because you’re you.”
Twenty minutes later, Harry was asleep next to his fiancée.
He didn’t dream again that night.