Psycho

      “Bone of the father, unknowingly given,” Wormtail’s rasp echoed across the fog-sunken graveyard. A short, balding man, he raised a long bone still clinging to bits of flesh with his wand and dropped it into the cauldron. Sparks erupted as it hit the bubbling liquid.       “Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed,” his voice wavered. But the faithful servant of the Dark Lord unsheathed a silver knife from his belt and, with one swift motion, severed his own hand. The stillness of the night broke with the sound of boiling liquid and Wormtail’s whimpering.       “Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken,” he turned toward the boy with a scythe pressed to his throat. Step by step, Wormtail approached, raised the bloodied knife, and drew a deep gash across the boy’s arm. A wild, searing pain shot through Harry Potter’s limb, then coursed through the rest of his body.       No one heard him scream. Wormtail, ignoring the boy writhing in agony, let the blood drip steadily into the cauldron until flames burst upward from its depths. Harry’s scar ignited with blinding pain. The fire stabbed at his eyes, yet he couldn’t look away. Something was forming in the blaze.       “The Dark Lord shall rise again!” came a voice from somewhere distant—probably Wormtail, offering praise to his master.       “My wand,” said a tall, hairless figure with eyes like blood-rubies and long, skeletal fingers glowing pale under the moonlight. “Give me your hand.”       As Voldemort touched the twisted snake mark on Peter’s wrist with his wand, shadows began to rise from the mist—figures cloaked in black. Harry couldn’t see their faces, only their eyes. Dozens of pairs staring directly at him… until Voldemort raised his wand.       “Now you die,” he said—and a green flash erased everything.       Harry Potter shot upright in bed, gasping for air, drenched in sweat cold as rainwater trickling down his spine. His heart pounded violently, echoing in his skull with each pulse. The scar on his forehead throbbed again, bright with pain.       He reached for his glasses and glanced at the wall clock—the same one Dudley had broken years ago, smashing the painted cuckoo that never came out again. It read 4:30 a.m.       There was no point crawling back into the cold, sweat-soaked sheets. He stood. His eyes landed on an empty blister pack of Phenazepam—strong sleeping pills, the only thing that gave him even a few hours of nightmare-free rest.       “Empty,” he thought, shaking the package. He checked the desk drawer, the dresser, even his school trunk—nothing.       “Looks like I’ll have to go to Chad again.”       Prescription meds didn’t come easy. Harry had no intention of seeing a doctor—he didn’t want to. Truthfully, he was scared. Fear had settled into his room over the past three weeks on Privet Drive like a permanent guest. Despite the summer heat, he kept the windows locked at night, sweltering in stale air. The door was always shut. His wand never left his pocket.       The only person who could sell him the sleep he needed was Chad, a man living in a rundown shack five kilometers from the Dursleys’ house. With no better idea, that’s where Harry headed.       The sun had only just crested the horizon, casting faint golden rays across a mist not yet dissolved by the morning light. The cracked asphalt glistened with dew, turning each fracture and faded road marking into sharp, high-contrast lines. Soon, the heat would return and with it a new coat of dust, dulling everything once more.       Leaving the tidy streets of Little Whinging behind, Harry rode his old folding bicycle, its frame creaking with every bump. The town slowly came to life around him: a newspaper lifted by the breeze, spinning into the air from an overturned bin, people moving behind drawn curtains.       The house he sought was a one-story shack with boarded windows, its paint long faded and flaking from the walls. The overgrown garden and collapsing fence gave the place a ghost-town feel. By half past five, frozen from forgetting his jacket, Harry arrived at the dealer’s.       “I’ll have to wait another three hours, maybe more,” he thought. “Chad doesn’t get up before ten, and he’s a real bastard if you wake him. Hikes the price, too. Best to wait.”       He left the bike on the walkway and sank into a worn-out armchair on the porch, the cushions sagging from years of use. Ignoring the chill, Harry pulled a pouch of tobacco, a filter, and a rolling paper from his pocket, and started twisting a cigarette with stiff, half-numb fingers.       A few hours later, the local dealer—Chad—stepped out onto the porch of the old house he’d inherited. Slumped in the armchair, legs curled up, was the pale kid who’d started showing up recently, the one haunted by nightmares.       Chad grunted. Unshaven and barely twenty, he pulled a newspaper from the mailbox and sat down across from the boy.       “The sun’ll wake him in ten minutes. We’ll talk then,” he thought and started reading.       “STREET KILLER STILL AT LARGE — SCOTLAND YARD PARALYZED!       A wave of fear has gripped the cities of Britain as notorious fugitive Sirius Black continues his spree of brutal, inhuman murders. A year after his escape from a maximum-security prison, police efforts remain fruitless.       Incidents across London, Manchester, and Liverpool leave citizens shaken and outraged. Scotland Yard urges extreme caution: avoid traveling alone after dark. Authorities appeal to anyone with information to come forward and help stop this reign of terror.”       “Chad.” Harry’s voice cut through the silence. He hadn’t blinked once, staring at the older man. “You got anything?”       “No, kid,” Chad replied, rolling a cigarette. “Told you already — nothing till next month.”       “Chad, I need it—”       “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the whole sob story a dozen times now. I don’t have the pills you want.”       Harry let his feet drop to the rotting, filthy floor and kept staring without blinking.       “What?” Chad snapped, the paper ripping in his hands. He brushed aside an old soot-covered pendant shaped like a hawk. “Don’t stare at me like that.”       “What if it’s not what I want?” Harry asked. “You got anything that helps me sleep?”       “How old are you, anyway? I don’t sell hard drugs to kids.”       “Fine. Forget it. Just let me know when you get the pills.” Harry stood and walked off into the street.       “Yeah, right,” Chad muttered under his breath. “You’ll be back tomorrow, passed out on my porch again, junkie little freak…”       The streets of London’s rougher districts were eerily quiet in the early hours. Now and then a door creaked open, or someone cursed loud enough to echo between the buildings. Harry pedaled slowly, eyes fixed ahead. The sunlight was blinding, and it only made his headache worse.       Sleep deprivation had plagued him for nearly two weeks. Every morning felt like punishment, every day a countdown to the fragile mercy of another pill.       But good things don’t last. A week ago, Chad had said he was out of sleeping meds. Harry had rationed his last three doses over four days. Now he had nothing left.       “Guess I won’t be sleeping tonight,” Harry muttered, pausing under the shade of a low-hanging spruce. “Unless I find something else. But where?”       Right now, food seemed more important. And the easiest, cheapest option was a sketchy local kebab stand. A slab of greasy meat, some shredded vegetables, a stale bun — enough to get him through the day. He handed over three pounds to the Black man running the stall, ate quickly, and crawled into an abandoned house he’d found a few days earlier. There, in the cool shadows, he lay down.       His eyes stopped burning in the shade, leaving only the dull sting in his scar. Wind rustled through the attic rafters, and Harry shivered harder with each passing minute. But he didn’t care about comfort. Not now. He dozed off and fell straight into another dream.       “You won, Harry,” said Cedric.       They were back in the maze. The Triwizard Cup stood nearby, and the corpse of an Acromantula was plastered across the stone wall—slain by Harry’s curse.       Turning to Cedric, Harry immediately saw Amos Diggory behind him. The older man stared at him unblinking, judgment carved into every line of his face.       “No, Cedric. We both did,” Harry whispered, shrinking beneath the weight of that gaze.       “You’re giving me the win?” Cedric asked. His arm was badly torn, ribs clearly broken. He wasn’t a fighter. He’d barely make it to the cup alive.       “No. We’ll share it.” Harry wanted—desperately wanted—to stop Cedric from touching that portkey. Not under his father’s eyes.       “Then let’s grab it together. On three.”       “One—” Amos shook his head, eyes full of cold contempt. Pain gripped Harry’s chest. He had to stop Cedric.       “Two—” Amos began to cry. The scorn turned to pleading.       “Three.” Cedric spoke the word. His father screamed silently.       They touched the cup together, hope burning in their eyes.       The green flash came instantly.       Cedric collapsed lifelessly at Amos’s feet.       The man knelt beside his son, tears streaming down his face. But soon, he looked up—straight at Harry.       “You killed my son.”       The words were whispered, but they struck like a curse.       Harry jerked awake, heart racing, hands trembling, scar flaring.       The decision came easily.       He needed something—whatever it took, whatever the cost.       “Chad, open up!” Harry pounded on the door.       “What do you want, Potter?” came the voice from a makeshift peephole hacked into the wood. “Told you—I’m out.”       “What else do you have?”       “For you? Nothing. I already said that.”       “I can’t sleep!” Harry shouted and slammed his fist against the door. The wood dented; his hand split open, bleeding.       “Then go see a doctor. How many times do I have to say it?”       “I can’t.” Harry’s voice dropped.       He didn’t know what Muggle doctors would do if they found out he was a wizard—or if they could even tell. But the lie came easily.        “If my relatives find out I saw a shrink, they’ll throw me out.”       Chad hesitated. Then, muttering curses, he opened the door.       Harry had never been inside the dealer’s house. He looked around curiously. The place was a wreck—walls stained with soot, the floor caked in filth.       Dusty old paintings still hung in antique frames, probably leftovers from some long-gone owner.       Chad led him into the living room and pointed to a worn-out brown leather sofa, torn in places and sagging under its own weight.       “I’ll get it,” he said, and disappeared.       Harry sat in silence, waiting. The scar still throbbed faintly, but if Chad’s stuff worked, the pain would be gone—at least for a while.       A wall clock ticked softly. The second hand seemed to slow with every tick. Harry watched it without blinking, waiting for Chad to return.       “Here,” Chad said, tossing him a small plastic bag filled with colorful, square paper tabs.       “What is it?” Harry asked, suspicious.       “Tabs,” Chad shrugged. “LSD, if that makes more sense. Put one on your tongue. Wait an hour. You’ll feel better.”       “Thanks,” Harry said, turning to leave.       “Thirty.”       “Oh—right.” Harry handed over three ten-pound notes and left the house in a hurry.       The thought of finally getting some sleep filled him with relief. Without wasting time, he mounted his bike and pedaled off—wobbling slightly, vision hazy, but focused only on getting home.