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“No! No! Not Fred! Anyone but Fred!”
Harry Potter sat bolt upright in bed, panting loudly. Sweat had soaked himself and his sheets. He had reached his hand out in terror, grabbing desperately for Fred Weasley as he dreamt his death. This had happened every night for the past two months, the only variations being the people and the actual acts of their deaths. They came in no specific pattern, but each dream was equally as horrible, especially those who he did not see die with his own eyes. Cedric Diggory, Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore, Hedwig, Alastor Moody, Dobby, Fred, Nymphadora Tonks (Lupin, he reminded himself), Remus Lupin, and Severus Snape. Each time their deaths become more horrible. Last night he’d dreamt that Dumbledore was tortured to death by a masked Death Eater and had cried out over and over for Harry to stop him, but Harry couldn’t move in the dream. He’d had to watch as Dumbledore died, disappointed in Harry.
It always took a few moments when he woke up in the morning before Harry realized that Lord Voldemort was gone and that Ginny really was lying on the bed beside him. He turned to her quickly, just to reassure himself. Sure enough, the shock of long red hair was snuggled deep under the sheets as a soft morning summer breeze blew in from the open window. They were in Ginny’s room at the Burrow on an early August morning. Birds were chirping happily outside, although that didn’t reassure Harry at all; the birds had chirped cheerfully during Voldemort’s reign. With a sigh, he buried his nose in Ginny’s hair and threw his arms around her, trying to make himself believe that life was going to go on.