The night is for sleeping, dreaming.  It cleanses the body and the mind of the filth left by an unforgiving life, for isn't all life unforgiving?  What chance have we to mend what is broken but with time?  And who is to say if mending is possible?  Ah, but to sleep, to dream.  To forget.  To forget all the horrible things that happen to us everyday is a blessing, for that is how we move forward.  The trouble is, some of us have much more to forget than others.  Some of us live entire lifetimes in moments.  Others live only moments in entire lifetimes.  And then there are a few… a very few…

            Harry Potter sat on top of his desk, unable to sleep, staring out the heavily barred window of his bedroom at number 4 Privet Drive.  It was raining outside.  Heavy, pounding rain that jarred the bones and chilled the soul.  He should know.  He had stood outside in the rain for nearly three quarters of an hour waiting for his Uncle Vernon to pick him up from King's Crossing, drawing cross looks from Muggles who couldn't understand why a kid would be so thickheaded as to stand out in such heavy weather without reason.  But Harry had had reason.  Good reason.  Vernon Dursley.

            His arm was still sore from being wrenched out of the car, his wrist turned in nearly the opposite direction as he was dragged into the house and up the stairs, his feet never quite catching the steps to relieve his twisted arm of his weight. He had been thrown unceremoniously into his bedroom before a padlock was clicked into place.  Harry sat now, cradling his arm in his lap as it swelled and bruised from its rough handling.

            'At least I'm not in the cupboard,' he thought, pressing his forehead against the cool glass and watching raindrops race down the panes.  Lightening slashed through the sky, throwing an eerie light through his sparse bedroom.

            Kill the spare.

            Harry squeezed his eyes shut at the vague memory of pain shooting through his scar.  A low rumble of thunder permeated his body and his breath caught in his throat.

            Cedric Diggory, the Hogwarts Champion, was gone.  Murdered. 

            Kill the spare.

            He wasn't even a person. Just a spare body that had come through with the portkey.  He wasn't the Boy Who Lived, and he wouldn't live.  It wasn't he whom Voldemort wanted, so he was killed.

            Twisted bloody irony.

            We'll take it at the same time.  It's still a Hogwarts victory. 

            We lost.  We all lost.  Both of us.  All of us.  But Cedric-

            Harry stared into Cedric's face, at his open gray eyes, blank and expressionless, his half open mouth, which looked slightly surprised.

            He squeezed his eyes shut again.

            Take my body back, will you?  Take my body back to my parents…

            Harry buried his face in his left arm and allowed his first tears to fall since the incident.  His first tears, far away from Hogwarts and Dumbledore.  Far away from Ron and Hermione.  All alone in the little bedroom at the top of the stairs at number 4 Privet Drive, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, cried.