This wasn’t the first time Harry had a weird dream. Most of them had been about him by himself, wielding a sword that looked remarkably like the Serpent Slayer and using it to kill monsters and Death Eaters. The memories were... horrible to say the least. Harry still hadn’t recovered from the dream where he’d gone into a place called St Mungo’s for two whole days and slaughtered an entire horde of zombie-like creatures that had once been the hundreds of patients, Healers and medi-witches. Harry had woken up and puked in the bathroom for a solid twenty minutes after he woke up from it. The worst of those dreams and that one in particular had been how Harry felt in them. It seemed this dark, twisted version of himself had actually enjoyed all that killing in his dreams. He’d relished in slicing Death Eaters or sympathisers in half and loved to torture his victims as he got closer to Voldemort. There was a sadistic streak to this Harry that, fuelled by the rage of something that the real Harry didn’t yet know but nonetheless still sickened him.