There were some nights when the darkness wrapped around Harry in a suffocating dominance.

He would feel it trail down his throat in intimate caresses, seemingly harmless, until it was too late and its long fingers had twisted around his neck and lovingly choked him into oblivion. Every night was embraced with the hope that it would, just maybe, be a little easier to breathe. Sometimes it was; sometimes it was most emphatically not.

Now, he sat there, shivering in the heavy blankets, tears laying forgotten on his cheeks. Only a few minutes earlier he had raced from his bed and turned on the lights, trying to escape the grip of darkness.

A tender chill reached through the open window and stroked his skin, making him shake ever more violently. But he made no move to close it - in his view, there was no point. If he froze to death, more's the better. It would save him from the inevitable end of the day that he would have to face for the rest of his life.

Trying to battle his exhaustion, Harry raked his nails across his arms. They left pinkish marks behind them, which stung slightly, but wouldn't keep him awake forever.

But he was just so tired. Wouldn't it be easier to just let go and deal with the consequences of sleep when he woke up?

Harry knew the answer to that. This thought process was not uncommon.

Holding his head, he squeezed his eyes shut, and breathed deeply, trying to get a steady rhythm that might calm him down.

Eventually, he would sleep.

And it was also a certain eventuality that he would wake up, once again unable to breathe.