The dreams in which I’m dying at the best I’ve ever had.  In those dreams, at least, I don’t see them dying.  By all rights, the dreams should have ceased when Voldemort died.

They didn’t.

If anything, they became worse.

I dream of her being raped, tortured, dismembered.

I dream of him being flayed alive and left to bleed to death.

In these dreams, I don’t know who is doing the torturing, I just hear their screams, smell the coppery tang of their blood, see the light die from their eyes, taste the bile rise in my throat, feel their blood cooling on my skin.

It’s the last that makes me fear myself, fear that I might be the one wielding the knife or wand on them.

I don’t dare mention these dreams.  If I did, I’d be reassured, placated, soothed.  None of that would rid me of the dreams.  In fact, they would probably increase the dreams.

I’m beginning to wonder if these dreams are a consequence of being the Master of Death.

I’ll never be free.