"Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?" - Albus Dumbledore
He had begun to dread the walk back to his dormitory, not because he disliked the Tower, but because it meant sleep was nearing. Sleep. Something he desperately needed if the bags under his eyes were any indication, but yet sleep was his worst enemy, something he tried to avoid at all costs. He wanted to tell someone, but he couldn't. He had tried to speak to Flitwick, but the words just wouldn't come out, as if something had held his tongue.
Up the stairs he walked, before stripping and rolling onto his bed. It always went like this. He futilely would try and keep himself awake, doing whatever he could to prevent sleep from overtaking him. The more he succeeded the more it made sleep inevitable. He had gone through so many vials of pepper up but yet even that couldn't stop his eyelids from drooping and his head from hitting the pillow.
It began like the night before, a slow spiralling descent as he appeared in a field with the sun above him and darkness surrounding. The dense fog appeared to almost cling to him as he moved quickly, running southwards hoping that tonight he would be able to escape. A banisher cleared the space in front of him briefly, only for the mist to quickly return.
He pressed onwards, switching direction briefly attempting to throw off whatever pursued him. Even now he was breathing heavily and his lungs began to burn, but Harry couldn't slow else it would close the gap. A whisper in the distance reached his ears, and whatever thoughts of respite quickly left him. Pushing his body onwards he resumed the gruelling pace, as he neared a small hill. His strides widened and he ascended, panic overtaking him as he increased his speed yet again.
Reaching the top of the hill, he looked around him briefly, seeing nothing but fog. That gave him no comfort, only heightened his nervousness. How much longer did he have to run? Surely he had to wake soon? Whatever thoughts he had were dismissed from his mind as he heard laughter, the same laugh from the graveyard. His blood ran cold, and he realized his foolishness. The hill. It was not safety, nor was it secrecy; he had to get off of it immediately.
Whatever protests his body gave were overruled by his mind and his feet took him swiftly from the hilltop. Panting he incanted "Homenum revelio" only for his wand to spin around and lightly shake. Nothing. His willpower to stay awake had failed him, now his magic was lying to him. He knew it was wrong, that whatever pursued him was close by.
It was his last effort, he knew that this body was about to give out, that whatever he had left he had to give now. Digging deep he just let it out, transitioning to a full-on sprint with no destination in mind, doing whatever he could to put distance between himself and his pursuer. He had to last, surely his other self was about to wake, praying that morning would come and would release him from this realm. His legs gave out, and he collapsed on the moist ground below him, his body wracked with spasms as he gasped for air. He willed himself to get up, to keep moving, but it no longer responded to him, taking a respite it sorely needed.
The fog shifted, as a shadowy figure with red glowing eyes approached him causing him to freeze and abandon whatever attempt at recovery. "An admirable attempt at escape, but nonetheless futile. Truly you grow more impressive by the day.", the man spoke as he raised his wand, eleven inches of yew was placed next to his forehead and Lord Voldemort incanted four syllables, and he screamed.