Book 8: Harry Potter male reader insert The Diary of Elizabeth H. (L/n)

Chapter 5: Scars

(Y/n) rubbed his eyes, rolling over in his bed. Except it didn't feel like his bed. He reached out to cuddle with Hermione, but sprang to his feet, wrenching his eyes open.

He let out a scream of terror as he say Hermione's dead body laying in the cold dirt next to him.

"Scary isn't it?" A hollow dead voice called out to him, as Grace stumbled towards him. Her flesh was sloughing off in long grey, rotting strips, maggots and other insects crawling around just under the surface.

"What the hell!" (Y/n) cried reaching for his wand to find it wasn't there.

"Scared are you (Y/n)?" Grace asked, her eyes glazed over, cold and dead. She pointed at him with a skeleton hand, the flesh on her fingers having rotten off, leaving the bones exposed.

"Just a little terrified kid aren't you?" Grace mocked him. (Y/n) found himself backing away from her against his own volition, unable to stop himself.

"Running away again? Just like the little kid back then you couldn't save your mum and now you can't protect your family can you?"

(Y/n)'s back hit something cold. He shakily got to his feet looking behind him to see a stone gravestone. The names:

Richard (Y/n)

Rose (Y/n)

Steven (Y/n)

Garth

Sylus

Were engraved into them.

"All your fault. All of them you were unable to save." Grace told him.

There was suddenly the sound dirt shifting, and (Y/n) felt cold dead hands grab onto him.

(Y/n) let out another scream, as the dead decaying bodies and his family and friends reached out from the grave, holding him in place.

"And soon she'll join them, and there's nothing you can do!" Grace told him, as she grasped a terrified looking Penelope in her arms.

"D...don't..." (Y/n) attempted to call out his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Too bad you're so powerless (Y/n). Such a shame she'll never be able to grow up!" Grace told him, and suddenly there was a great green flash of light.

...

(Y/n) bolted upright bed, his pajamas drenched in sweat. He reached over quickly, placing a hand on Hermione, letting out a sigh of relief as he felt her move slightly with each breath.

He turned to check the clock next to him. It read 4:36. He sighed and swung himself out of his bed. He wasn't getting back to sleep.

The war and fight may have ended five years ago, but the nightmares certainly didn't. It had been a lot worse a few years ago. Back then they were nightly.

Horridly realistic nightmares that showed him those most important to him dying in horrific ways. They got better with therapy, although they never truly went away.

He was no stranger to waking up in a pool of his own sweat. After he had showered quickly he got dress and quietly when down the stairs.

It wasn't just nightmares either, sometimes when he was in a crowd of people he'd feel something moving behind him, or catch a glimpse of Voldemort's pale snake like head, or hears his hiss like voice from behind him.

He waved his hand lazily, brewing a pot of coffee. He was sure Hermione would want some when she woke up. Two slices of bread flew from the pantry over (Y/n)'s head and into the toaster, which clicked gently as it turned on.