Harry Potter and the Story of Eliza

Chapter Two:
Look at what you see

He felt it first-- the humid breeze across his forehead, sweeping his messy bangs out of his eyes. The moonlight dazzled him, and in the background came the sound of a horde of chirping insects. Harry turned suddenly, noticing for the first time that the sides of his vision were silvery, as though nothing here existed until he looked directly at it. Even now, the way the tops of the nearby trees swayed, the distinctive chirping of the insects, the sound of the distant wind were all blurring, deforming into vague thoughts, pictures, and ideas. Harry tried to hold himself in one place-- this was the clearest the dream had ever been.

A tall figure in black robes and an assassin’s hood stood there beside a girl with bushy, curly brown hair that shone in the moonlight. She curtsied and spoke, but the words made no sense. The only impression Harry received was that this person was evil.

The girl turned to look in his direction but none of her details were defined, allowing only small facts about her appearance to make their way into his mind. No sort of mental image formed, however, and before Harry could realize what he was seeing, the dream slipped out of his grasp.

It was silver… dark shapes, dark blurs, but nothing real to hold on to. Harry felt as though he was drifting through space. Harry turned, trying to hold onto the dream, but already the pieces of vision he had seen were fading, until all the images turned into swirling slips of ghostly silver that vanished altogether as he watched.

His eyes snapped open. He was in his own bed, the sheets twisted about him, and his blankets tossed unceremoniously on the floor. Sunlight still poured through his window blinds, creating horizontal stripes of light on his floor.

Harry staggered to his feet, clawing at his bedstand for his glasses before stumbling across his room and collapsing at his desk chair. Hedwig was still gone from her perch, and the repaired alarm clock showed the time to be after noon.

“I’m going nuts,” Harry muttered, resting his head in his arms. “I really, really think I’m going nuts.”

The empty cage offered no advice.

He stayed in that position for at least ten minutes, forehead against the surface of the desk, slumped in the old wooden chair and his glasses digging into his nose. The unbearable heat was making him sick to his stomach, although the dry cereal he had eaten that morning before his nap was not at all helping.

He probably would have stayed there longer, if something small and fuzzy had not collided with his head.

“Ow!” Harry glanced up, irritated. A tiny owl began buzzing around his head, acting like a demon-possessed honeybee and looking very pleased with itself as it dropped a letter onto Harry’s head, which bounced onto the desk. Pig seemed delighted with itself that it managed to hit his target.

“Why can’t you just act like a normal owl?” Harry asked it in his best imitation of Ron, although a small smile had crossed his face as he picked the (rather heavy) envelope up and tore the paper open. Two items fell out—a tie-dyed Pez dispenser and a sheet of parchment bearing Ron’s sloppy handwriting. Harry’s eyebrows rose as he picked the toy up. The head on the top looked as though it belonged to an elf with frizzy black and silver hair, and he could have sworn that she winked at him merrily as he examined it.

Harry shrugged, placing it back down on the desk, then unfolded the letter.

Harry—

Alright, it’s after your birthday now, so according to Dumbledore, you can come over. Dad didn’t want to go through the entire Floo powder thing again (although Fred and George think that it would be a great idea), so he got one of his friends to make him a Portkey to our house. So, get all your stuff together, and once you do that (be sure you’re holding everything you’ll need) open up that tie-dyed thingy. There’s a piece of candy inside—that’s the Portkey, and it’ll take the first person who touches it straight to the Burrow.

You’d better come over here soon—Fred and George are going to drive me mad soon, I’d expect. And mum keeps going on about ‘poor Harry’… I swear, she worries more about you than all of us combined.

See you later!

-Ron

Harry regarded the smiling toy with newfound respect. Any tie-dyed elf that could get him out of ‘lot sale land’ had to be admired. With that thought in mind, Harry went off to tell Uncle Vernon that he was leaving.

---

It took the threat of Sirius Black and the reappearance of the Weasleys to get the purple faced man to give consent of any sort. Once done, however, Harry lost little time in fetching his broomstick, empty cage, cauldron, and stuffing everything he wanted to bring to Hogwarts into his trunk. The difficulty there came from the mere thought of trying to pick up all that at once and still manage to release the candy.

Harry stood up, his Firebolt pressed against his ribs by an arm, his cauldron balancing precariously atop his trunk, which he held in his arms. The owl cage balanced on one foot, and he was trying to pull back the little head so that he could get at the candy without everything falling over on him, which wasn’t working particularly well. Finally, after almost losing his grip on the trunk, he rested some of the luggage’s weight on his bed and set the Pez dispenser between his teeth so he could get a better handle on the heavy objects.

“Excuse me?!” the dispenser squawked indignantly, one of its ears stabbing him in the chin. “And what exactly do you think you’re doing? You’re supposed to eat the candy, pal.”

Harry was so startled by this that he nearly choked. The cauldron, bird cage, and trunk fell to the ground with deafening crashes. Only the Firebolt was unharmed; as soon as it was released, it hovered a few inches off the floor as Harry jerked the tie dyed creation out of his mouth. “Wha… What?”

The Pez spit slightly, coughing. “I said, you’re supposed to eat the candy, not the dispenser,” it said, sounding thoroughly annoyed. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you plastic was bad for you? The carbons alone are enough to hash your intestines, and as for my ears… well, let’s not go there.” It scowled at him, muttering something about dili chovexani.

"I'm not trying to eat you," Harry said. "But I've got to put you somewhere, and my hands are full."

It snorted. “Well, at least your mouth is better than some places I could think of. But honestly, you could at least give me some warning before you go try and bite my head off.”

Harry looked apologetic, and he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know you could talk.”

The dispenser sighed. “Muggle-born, aren’t you?” it asked in a softer tone. “Figures… just don’t try and eat me again, okay?”

“Well, then, where am I going to put you? I have to hold all my stuff at once to take it with me.” Harry thought he had a very good point.

It looked thoughtful. “Grow an extra hand?” it suggested.

Harry didn’t look at all happy with this idea. “Rather not,” he said.

“Um… an extra finger, then?” it said hopefully.

Harry eyed the Pez dispenser. It was small, plastic, and didn’t seem to be able to do much else than talk. “I’ve got a better idea,” he said, and put it back in his mouth, careful at least not to let the head get anywhere near his skin, then turned to pick up his trunk once more.

“ARGH! You spit me out this minute, or so help me God I’ll… I’ll burst you into flames with my mind!” it yelped, trying to stab him with an ear. “Honestly, they don’t pay me enough for this….”

“Stop squawking,” Harry tried to mutter, which really came out more like, ‘stoff scoking’, but he figured it would get the idea anyways, and he set the cauldron on the trunk once more and replaced the broomstick under his arm.

“Make me, you soddened git!” it retorted, still trying to stab him with an ear. Giving that up, it tilted its head back and shot a candy right at his forehead, hitting him square between the eyes.

Fortunately for Harry, he had been bending down to pick the bird cage up, one finger closing on it as the Portkey touched him. He was struck with the familiar sense of being pulled weightlessly along, although he could still hear the elf-woman’s ranting. His feet hit the ground a few seconds later, and quite suddenly found himself in the Weasley’s living room. With a Pez dispenser in his mouth, a birdcage dangling by one finger, a cauldron balanced on a trunk, and a broomstick under his arm.

“Now SPIT ME OUT, YOU LITTLE SODDING PRAT!” the dispenser roared—or tried to; its voice was a bit high for roaring. “Don’t make me hit you with another one of those--”

Harry froze, dropping the dispenser from his mouth and let it fall onto the carpet. “… you’ve got more than one in you?” he asked, feeling like a colossal idiot.

“Of course I do, you twit, I’m a PEZ DISPENSER!” it snapped. “Now get me off this carpet—honestly, they really don’t pay me enough for this…”

Harry didn’t comply—instead he turned and set his trunk down, suddenly aware that several voices on the other side of the room were laughing at him. Ron, his entire face brilliant red from trying to be quiet, only managed to gasp a few words, none of which were distinguishable, and Fred and George, behind him, were giving each other high fives and looking very pleased with themselves.

Harry glared at them. “Thanks,” he offered dryly. “Just what I always wanted—the candy machine from hell.”

“The… the look on your face…” Ron gasped, still cracking up. “And… and…” he couldn’t finish his sentence, merely kept on laughing.

“Hey, I resent that!” the dispenser snorted. “First off, I’m not a machine, and second off, I came from their shop--” it jerked its head toward the Weasleys, “Not hell. I’d tell you to bite me if you hadn’t already.”

Harry turned to look at the tie dyed box. “Somehow, I’m really not surprised. You want her back, you two?” he asked the twins, picking the thing up gingerly.

“After it’s been in your mouth? Do we look stupid?” George grinned.

“Besides, she seems to like you,” his twin added.

The dispenser looked at them. “Take me back or I eat his soul,” it said sweetly, snapping at Harry’s finger. “Nobody puts me in their mouth… honestly…”

Fred reached out, taking it gingerly from Harry's fingers, a wicked grin creeping up his face. “Oh Ginny!” he called, in a very fake 'sweet older brother' voice that didn't mean one bit of good for anyone.

Harry watched as the toy was taken out of his sight, feeling rather sorry for the younger Weasley before turning to Ron. “Exactly whose idea was it to send me that?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Take a wild guess.” Ron was still looking amused.

Harry made a face. “Very funny. Laugh, why don’t you?”

Ron waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, already done that.”

“I’ve noticed.” Harry turned and looked around the room. “Where is everyone?”

George shrugged, leaning against the wall casually. “Mum’s in the kitchen, probably making everything in the cupboards—she probably thinks you were starving over there—Percy’ll be a canary for about five more minutes, and dad’s at work.” The redhead paused for breath, then grinned wickedly. “So, Harry old bean…”

“No.” Harry said at once.

George looked hurt. “But…”

“No.”

“Spoilsport.”

Ron rolled his eyes and grabbed Harry’s wrist, leading him into the kitchen. “Come on… if mum doesn’t see you soon she’s going to throw an apoplectic fit.”

Once inside the room, Harry saw what George meant when he said that Mrs. Weasley was making everything in the kitchen. Dirty plates were piled haphazardly in the sink, and all available counter space was covered with bowls, dirty mixing spoons, and bits of ingredients. Mrs. Weasley herself was beating something so furiously Harry thought that she must have had something against the food she prepared. Her brilliant red hair, up in its usual frizzled bun, was coming undone, and so intent was she in her work that she didn’t notice the two boys in the doorway.

Harry cleared his throat. “Mrs. Weasley?”

The stirring ceased as Ron’s mother raised her head, a broad smile crossing her freckled face. “You’re here!” She quickly set the bowl down on the only available space on the counter and gave Harry a motherly hug, the flour on her hands leaving dusty white marks on his shoulder, which she brushed off quickly.

“Thanks for inviting me, Mrs. Weasley.” Harry grinned, eyes darting around the room. “What’re you making?”

“Oh, just dinner, and I’ve got canning to do.” Mrs. Weasley waved the topic aside. “Are you hungry, dear?” she asked, offering him a plate of cookies.

Harry took one, thanking her.

Ron’s mum smiled again. “Oh, dear, if you don’t mind, we were planning on getting your school supplies tomorrow.”

“When’s Hermione getting back?” Harry glanced at Ron, who made a face.

“Tomorrow morning, but she’s not coming over here until late… five-ish? She has to fly back from Bulgaria.” He made a face at these words, doing a rather bad impersonation of Victor Krum. “‘Oh, Herm-own-ninnie, I vill fly you back and ve vill see the stars…’ You’d think Hermione would have better taste.” He crossed his arms, his expression sour.

“Oh, yes that’s right, Ron.” One of the twins had entered the kitchen. “You’d think Hermione would have better taste than to date a world famous Quidditch player.”

Ron glared, his ears going red.

“Couldn’t we wait for Hermione to get back? Then we could all go together,” Harry pointed out, taking another cookie.

Mrs. Weasley paused. “We have… business… tomorrow. At least, Arthur and I couldn’t come.” Harry noticed that she didn’t at all specify the type of business she was involved in, and she quickly changed the topic. “So, how are the cookies?”

“Goud,” Ron said through the cookie. “Spiffing, mum.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Percy, in all his pompous glory, walked into the room, brushing a yellow feather from his shoulder. “Mother, is there any way at all you can keep them from enchanting the food? I’ve been turned into a bird seven times in the past two weeks already.”

Ron snorted into his snack.

A stern expression crossed Mrs. Weasley’s freckled face, and she began brushing flour off her apron. “I’ll talk to them,” she promised.

Percy, eyes set on Ron, who seemed to be having a coughing fit, glanced at Mrs. Weasley. “I should hope so,” he said seriously. “Jokes are one thing, but they’ve taken it too far this time.” Percy waited to make sure everyone seemed to agree with him, then strode out of the room.

Ron rolled his eyes. “You’d think the world was ending,” he said, leaning towards Harry so his mum wouldn’t overhear.

Harry nodded his agreement.

“So,” Ron said, changing the subject. “Do you want to practice Quidditch?”

---

Fred and George joined the game before it got going properly, substituting small rocks as the snitch and throwing it about randomly. The only hard part about the practice was that with his Firebolt, Harry was hard pressed not to give into temptation and fly above the trees around the empty lot, where they might have been seen by passing muggles. An hour or so into the game, though, Fred decided to liven up the play by combining Quidditch with Quodpot- substituting the old Quaffle Ron was tossing for a lit firecracker that he’d made. Unfortunately for Ron, he was a bit too startled to get rid of it in time, and it ended up hitting him with a blast of purple and gold sparks, nearly tossing him off the broom.

Needless to say, Fred and George found this hysterical.

“Bloody gits,” Ron had muttered, righting his broomstick and brushing ash from his nose. Both twins, by the look of it, had their pockets stuffed with the explosives. Ron made a rude gesture at the pair, who grinned.

The game ended soon after that, right about when George suggested adding muggle explosives.

“Gits,” Ron muttered again, dismounting his broom.

Harry landed as well. “By the way…” he started. “What is Quodpot?” He felt sure he’d read the word in some book or another, but he must not have been paying attention to that part.

Ron made a face. “Bastardized Quidditch—the American version. It’s the reason they don’t have any decent professional teams. They don’t care about sports, no… they just want to blow stuff up.”

Harry had a sudden mental image of the twins loose in that country, and he shivered. “Scary,” he commented.

Mrs. Weasley, as soon as they had entered the house, bustled them in, saying something about ‘dinner’ and sitting the family down at the table. Harry ate as much as he could of everything—as much as other things might have changed, Mrs. Weasley’s cooking had remained superb, and by the end of the meal, he felt more like a blimp than a Quidditch player. The only thing at all amiss with the meal that he could pinpoint was Ginny—she seemed uninterested in anything, and her food had gone untouched before she declared herself not hungry and sprinted up the stairs to her room.

Harry secretly felt that the Pez Dispenser had warped her.

It wasn’t long before the sky outside began darkening, and he and Ron were shooed from the living room to Ron’s bedroom, with strict orders to ‘go to sleep, and no talking’.

As usual, Ron and Harry quickly ‘forgot’ the no-talking rule, and Harry was blissfully distracted by thoughts of Quidditch teams and fantastic games that Ron had seen.

The lights eventually turned off, and Ron snuggled into his blankets, across the room from Harry’s bed.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“D’you… I dunno… ever think I could play Quidditch?”

Harry was quiet for a minute. “Y’know, I think if you tried out with a decent broom, you could get onto the team.”

Ron didn’t answer, but Harry knew he was grinning at the thought. He smiled himself, buried his face into his pillow, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

---

He could see her clearly now—and it wasn’t Hermione, although she did resemble her. The moonlight illuminated the plains of her face, revealing a very classical beauty about the girl. Her features were composed of high cheekbones, a very slight bump in an otherwise straight nose, a small mouth, and almond shaped eyes. She wasn’t what one would expect to see on the cover of a magazine by any means, but if he went to a museum and looked at some of the Greek marble statues, there would be quite a similarity. Her curly brown hair shifted slightly as she curtsied before Voldemort, eyes falling shut. “My Lord?”

The dark robed figure shifted. “Diawna,” the dark lord hissed, sounding pleased.

“You summoned me?” the girl—Diawna—asked.

The dark figure asked her something in return, but the words were beginning to fade and garble, and his reply was indistinguishable. The girl bowed again, nodding, and her face went out of focus, once more becoming a blur with curly hair.

Harry’s eyes snapped open.

He lay in the bed beside Ron’s, clutching the sheets with both hands and the details of the room blurry without his glasses. He felt very awake suddenly, though, as he put on his glasses, he saw that the clock beside his bed read ‘if you’re still awake, you’re insane’, which translated into the wee hours of the morning.

The covers were uncomfortably hot, and Harry got to his feet, half a mind set on going down to the kitchen and getting himself some sort of midnight snack, the other half just wanting to do something that didn’t involve sleeping again. This was getting ridiculous.

He had gotten halfway across the room before something squeaked horribly, and Harry hoped it wasn’t the floorboards—he didn’t want to be responsible for waking up the rest of the house. A few seconds later, though, came the sound of a very high pitched voice cursing up a storm on the other side of the door.

Harry winced. The voice belonged to the insane Pez Dispenser.

The door cracked open a bit more, and the thing stuck its elfin head through the gap, whereupon it promptly groaned, muttering curses. “Wrong room,” the thing muttered. Harry shushed it, jerking his head at Ron, still sound asleep.

It didn’t take the hint, jerking and somehow bouncing itself further into the room. “Hell, he’s gonna wake up anyways—com’on, I need to get the little girl’s mum.”

Harry looked at it, cocking his head to the side and blinking sleepily. The toy sounded—worried. “What’s wrong with Ginny?”

“She’s sick.” The dispenser wobbled slightly, before regaining its balance and fixing minuscule green eyes on him. “Not sure with what…she sounds pretty bad, though. I think it might be that…waddaya call it….strep, I think, or was it strap?” It shook its head, an astonishing feat, given that it was stuck on a hinge.

“Um… it’s ‘strep’,” Harry said, worry crossing his face, and without another word he scooped the toy up into his hands. “Come on, we’re going to get Mrs. Weasley.”

“Thank you,” it said, seemingly restraining an urge to bite his hand. “She doesn’t sound good at all, but she won’t tell anybody…stupid humans,” she said, again shaking her head. “If I could get sick, I’d tell somebody if I did.” It looked up at the ceiling, seemingly fascinated by her newfound perspective, so far off the ground. “Wow, it’s high up here,” it commented, sounding mildly stoned.

Harry felt guilty about waking up Mrs. Weasley so early in the morning, but once done, the woman at once rushed into her daughter’s room, and Harry got to witness wizarding strep firsthand.

Ginny looked awful—her face was covered in sweat, but she was shivering and clutching her blankets. An expression of distant, dull pain had descended on her face, and her chocolate brown eyes were glassy. On the first sight of her daughter in this state, Mrs. Weasley went at least seven shades paler, eyes widening before she scrambled to her bedside, crouching on her hands and knees so she could see her closely.

One palm went to Ginny’s forehead, drawing away after a minute with a whispered curse. Ginny didn’t respond, her eyes had gone closed and she trembled beneath the sheets.

“Come on, baby,” Mrs. Weasley whispered, drawing her child closer to her and picking her up, along with the blankets she was wrapped in. “We’re taking you to St. Mungo’s.

Mr. Weasley, having heard his wife get up, had appeared in the doorway as well, a sleepy, concerned look on his face. “Molly, what…”

He didn’t have time to finish the words—his wife carried her towards the door, and as she moved, so did the shadows and lights of the room, and Mr. Weasley saw Ginny’s face, and whatever he was going to say died in his throat.

“Wake everyone up… I won’t leave any of the children by themselves.”

Harry moved to the side of the room, giving Mrs. Weasley room to pass him—he felt largely useless, and after his friend’s mum had passed, Mr. Weasley turned and looked at him.

“Will you wake up Ron, Harry? Meet us in the living room. We’ll go by floo powder…” Arthur broke off, then vanished from the door up the stairs, the wood creaking under his rapid pace loud enough to stir probably even the ghoul in the attic.

---

Harry had, of course, heard about St. Mungo’s many times before—it seemed to be the only wizarding hospital anyone ever mentioned. What’s more, from what he could gather, it was also where they kept the insane, such as Neville’s parents.

He had no idea it was going to be so big, though.

They emerged from an ash-free fireplace easily big enough to fit them all comfortably. The room itself was white, with red carpets and it had a very professional air about the place. It was divided into two parts—one was busy, almost a hallway type room, the other side was completely silent, with figures simply standing about and, by their postures, busying themselves with odd tasks to conceal their boredom; it seemed to be some sort of a waiting room.

Mrs. Weasley wasted no time looking around, however—two mediwizards stepped forward, taking the girl from Mrs. Weasley’s arms. Harry noticed she seemed reluctant to let her go.

“We’ll take her… names?” the bloke on the left, a man with friendly blue eyes, said at once.

“I’m Molly Weasley—that’s my daughter Virginia,” she said, and before she could stop herself, she added, “will she be alright?”

The man gave her a small smile—he must have heard this a thousand times before. “We’ll do our best… could you come with me? What exactly…” his voice faded and melded with the other sounds of the room.

Arthur joined his wife before glancing at the rest of the lot. Fred and George were silent (for once), and both looked at their father sleepily. Percy had been wringing his hands together beneath his sleeves as he did his best to look calm, and Ron simply looked worried.

“Wait in the reception room—we’ll call for you later.”

Fred and George blinked like owls, but before anyone could say anything, Mr. Weasley had hurried after his wife and disappeared through a door.

Harry glanced around, feeling helpless and awkward, and noticing Fred and George moving towards a wall, he did the same. He hadn’t noticed the wood and red chairs that lined the edge of the room, and a receptionist eyed them suspiciously as he sat down. Harry turned his gaze away quickly, reminded of Madam Pince.

“So, what do we do now?” he asked.

Ron, next to him, shrugged. “I dunno…” he whispered, eyes wide. “She must have been really sick… Mum would never come here otherwise, we can’t afford it…” He slouched yet further, looking thoroughly miserable and more than a little tired.

Harry took a deep breath. He didn’t at all like the feeling of being powerless… he shook his head, the early hour (though here it might as well be noon—there were no windows) getting to him. He fought it off, however, the thought of dreaming again not at all appealing to him.

Ron didn’t speak again. His eyes had drifted shut, and he rested his head against the back of the seat. He certainly didn’t seem to share Harry’s sudden dislike of sleep, and within ten minutes, Harry didn’t have anyone to talk to, if Ron’s snores (which he still denied existed) were any indication.

---

The clock on the far side of the wall stirred him from a half-asleep, half-awake state hours later. Harry glanced up at it, feeling as though he had only closed his eyes for a moment, and for a minute he stared. If that piece was at all accurate, it was nearly eight in the morning.

He looked around him. Ron was still asleep (and drooling, Harry noticed with slight amusement—it was another thing Ron denied that he did with a passion), and the twins had followed his example. Several other people waited in chairs, some napping, others fretting and playing with their hair. One old lady sat knitting, as though this were the most natural place in the world for her to be.

Harry got to his feet, wincing as his back protested loudly, and he walked around the room, being careful to stay away from the other half—the one with the mediwizards and the Floo fireplace.

Next to the row of chairs, there were a pair of double doors, which Harry opened just out of curiosity. It was a hallway, light flooding in through glass doors at the front end, and as he watched a car passed by. It was the entrance from the muggle London, obviously.

Two figures appeared on the other side of the glass, one a formidable old lady who seemed to be scolding someone behind her. A boy ran after her a moment later, and together they entered the hall.

“Hey,” Harry called towards them, and Neville looked up, blinking at the sight of him.

“Harry… what are you doing here?”

Harry held this door open for the pair, but Neville shook his head, motioning another door.

“I’m with the Weasleys, and Ginny got sick. You?”

Neville smiled sadly. “… well… my parents are here.”

Harry blinked, suddenly realizing he should have known this—apparently lack of sleep was taking its toll on him, and he let the door fall shut behind him as he talked to Neville. “Oh,” he said, not knowing what else to utter.

“’s alright,” Neville shrugged, going through the door next to the one Harry had just held open for him. The old lady followed, and Harry did likewise.

He knew the moment the door had closed behind him he shouldn’t have done that—he was now in an entirely different room than the one he had just left. He glanced back at the door he had just entered and relaxed a bit… he could find his way back.

Neville’s grandmother was speaking to a woman behind the desk, who wrote something down on a piece of paper. Neville took a deep breath. “So… how’ve you been?”

Harry shook himself. “Oh… um… fine.” He wasn’t about to tell Neville about weird, reoccurring dreams. “Other than lack of sleep… I’ve been here all night.”

Neville’s round face looked sympathetic. “Ah… sorry ‘bout that. Is Ron here?”

The boy’s grandmother turned and told Neville to come with her, and Neville gestured for her to wait a minute.

Harry nodded, glancing behind him again. “Yeah… everyone’s asleep.”

“Oh.”

“Neville…”

“Just a minute, Gran…”

Harry shrugged, and an awkward silence fell.

“Well…” Neville scuffed one toe on the floor. “If you want, you can come with me… I don’t spend that much time with them at once… the doctors don’t like it.”

Harry was silent for a moment, not wanting to embarrass Neville… on the other hand, he wasn’t supposed to know why his parents were here, and so he nodded.

Neville smiled. “Thanks… I get kind of lonely when I see them. Come on…”

Harry followed, feeling as though he definitely shouldn’t be here. “So… which part is this?”

Neville looked at him, surprised. “This is your first time here, right? This is the… well, the loony bin part. They’ve got some big long name for it… but I forgot it,” he confessed, joining his grandmother. “Is it alright if Harry comes? He’s a friend of mine…”

Neville’s grandmother looked at him carefully, tapping her nails against her bright red handbag for a moment as her gaze traveled from his messy hair to his glasses to his rumpled clothing, then to the scar on his forehead. Even so, she was hesitant in replying.

“If you want…” she started, the expression on her face one of slight disapproval.

Neville nodded. “Thanks.”

“Neville, did you bring the card?”

The boy blinked. “Oops… Sorry, I… forgot.”

Harry followed them, saying little. Neville, on the other hand, began explaining awkwardly that his parents had been ‘disturbed’ since he was a baby, and that they came to see them every week when he wasn’t in school. He even confided to him that he didn’t like seeing them much—it scared him because one minute they’d seem perfectly sane and nice, and the next… Harry shivered, pitying his friend and yet not knowing how to fix this. It was like Ginny being sick while he stood helplessly on the side.

He didn’t like hospitals, he decided. Not as a visitor… maybe it appeared different to a doctor. Knowing that there was nothing you could do… the sensation of feeling so helpless and small… it was awful.

At last, they came to another desk, and Neville’s grandmother spoke to a man there while the two Gryffindors hung back in awkward silence. He nodded and got a key from his pocket, leading them to a room and letting the trio enter.

It was a nice, cheery room—lots of brilliant colors and pastels, but both people within it were lying down limply on beds at the far end. Harry hung back, but the quarters were small enough for him to see them both clearly.

Neville did look a great deal like his mother—they had the same round face, though her hair was curly and dirty blonde. Neither looked up as they entered, and Neville reached into his pocket for the card he had forgotten.

“Mum? Dad?” he went between their beds, something in his eyes pleading. Harry winced—they seemed to be begging, ‘please remember me… just this once. Just this once…’

His mother turned her head. “Hullo,” she said softly, arms around a pink and blue stuffed rabbit. Hope soared in Neville’s eyes, only to be shattered by her next words.

“You seem nice. What’s your name? You look like Frank.”

“… Mum… I’m Neville… your son…” he glanced at Harry, who took a step forward. The man who came with them was watching the pair like most people would watch a sleeping beast.

The woman shook her head rapidly. “No you’re not!” her voice was delighted, as though this were an excellent game. “Neville’s a baby… what’s your name?”

Neville slumped, but her words had awoken his father, who looked up sleepily, rising to a sitting position. He simply looked blank—blank stare, vacant gray eyes. Harry shivered—he reminded him of Professor Lupin’s description of someone who had been given the dementor’s kiss, though he knew the cases to be much different.

Neville tried talking to them another minute, and Harry looked at the floor, not at all wanting to be in this situation.

The blonde woman, the less crazy of the two, it seemed, noticed him, however. “Who’re you?”

Harry glanced up. “Oh… I’m… Harry Potter.”

Neville motioned for him to go along with it.

“Ooh…” she nodded, sitting up as well. “I’ve wanted to meet you! Thought you’d be about Neville’s age, but… I wanted to give you a present.”

Harry nodded, deciding to play along. “Erm… that’s very nice of you.”

She grinned, eyes shining like a puppy who had just been praised, and Harry felt another jolt of pity for the woman.

“See… it’s in my purse. Kept it hidden, I have.” She reached towards her bedstand, taking a small leather pouch from it and flung it at him. “Use it if he ever comes back for you… I have to wait for Frank, now.”

Harry caught it, startled. What was he going to do with a pouch. “Um… thank you,” he said, fully intending on giving it to Neville when they left—with any luck, he could slip it back to her.

Neville stared, looking startled. “Um… it was nice to see you, mum.”

The woman was busy staring off, and did not answer. The man continued looking blank, but he settled back onto his pillow like a cat whose sleep had just been disturbed.

Neville tried speaking to them again. “Well… mum… sorry, we would have brought you a card, but…”

There was no answer. She continued staring away, eyes unfocused.

Neville turned towards his grandmother, who reached forward and took his hand with surprising gentleness. “I think we’ll go now,” she told the man, who nodded, opening the door again.

Once they were safely out of the room and the brilliant cheery colors, Neville slumped with relief. “I’m… sorry, I should have thought… you didn’t need to… I mean… They aren’t that bad, normally…”

“Forget it,” Harry said, playing with the leather package. “Um… look, you might want to give this back to her sometime…” he shoved it into Neville’s hands.

Neville took it, feeling the old lining thoughtfully before frowning. “I think there’s something in here…” he muttered. His stubby fingers found the zipper, opening it and letting a ruby-colored stone on a gold chain slide onto his hand.

Harry stared—he hadn’t expected that, nor, it seemed, had Neville. Both the grandmother and the man had gone ahead of them, so neither noticed both boys paused in shock.

“Well…” Harry started in a shaky voice. “You definitely ought to keep that.”

Neville shook his head. “Mum gave it to you… she’s never done that before. It’s yours.”

He shoved the glittering jewelry into Harry’s hand, and as soon as he touched it, a thrill of magic filled him. Harry held it up, staring as it sparkled unnaturally brilliant in the not-overly brilliant lighting of the hallway.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Neville nodded. “I’d only lose it,” he said after a moment. “Come on, we’ve got to catch up.”

Harry nodded, noticing Neville’s grandmother had gotten much further down the hall than she should have. “Right… well… thanks a lot, then. And… sorry.” The necklace he shoved into his pocket.

Neville shrugged. “You don’t have any parents, either. We’re in the same boat, kind of.”

Harry didn’t think so—he didn’t have empty shells of his parents haunting his mind, but he walked faster all the same, wanting to put as much distance between himself and that horrible room as he could.

---

“Where were you?” Ron looked up as Harry reentered the waiting room.

“Neville came by… I was just chatting,” Harry tried to sound casual. Somehow, the thought of telling Ron about Neville’s parents didn’t at all appeal to him.

“Some long chat…” Ron muttered. “But mum came back. She nearly threw a fit when you were gone… Fred said you’d probably gone off to use the john, but… are you alright?”

Harry nodded. “Tired.”

“Ah. Well, anyways, it looks like we’re shopping with Hermione after all—mum and dad can’t make it to Diagon Alley because of Ginny, so… are you sure you’re alright?”

Harry was silent for a moment. “Ron, have you ever had really, really weird dreams that come back over and over again?”

“None I’d tell you about,” Ron muttered, the tips of his ears turning red. “But… that’s normal… um… no? Why? Did your scar…” he looked around at the other people in the room, then dropped his voice down to a whisper. “Did your scar hurt again?”

Harry shook his head. “No… I just have been having this… really, really weird dream. And there’s this girl… and it’s night…”

“Ah.” Ron nodded, his face suddenly knowing.

“Not that kind of dream. Pervert.” Harry sent him a mock-glare, which seemed out of place, given where he had just left. The chain he had put in his pocket suddenly seemed much heavier. “And there’s this girl who looks like Hermione, only it’s not, and she’s bowing down to Vold—sorry, You Know Who, and he’s talking to her… I’ll remember her name in a minute… started with a ‘D’.”

“Was she pretty?” Ron smirked.

“That’s not the point!” Harry gave him a Look. “And yes, she was. Kind of. If you like the type. But I’ve been having it over and over… and each time I can see more… and…” This entire thing now seemed very stupid. “Well, it’s been creeping me out.”

Ron nodded. “I think you need more sleep. And maybe, if she’s that pretty… did you like her?”

“Not going there.” Harry felt himself blush.

Ron simply gave his friend a self-satisfied smirk. It was something to keep his mind off of Ginny, after all.

Harry sighed, feeling very tired again. “But I mean it, that dream was creepy… it feels like… I dunno, a warning.”

Ron was silent for a moment.

There came the sudden sound of two voices humming ‘the twilight zone’ music, and Harry turned to see Fred and George standing behind him.

“Hullo, Harry old bean,” Fred grinned.

“Thought you’d gone off and left us,” George added.

“Inconsiderate, that was.”

“Wasn’t it, though, Fred? Irresponsible, if you ask me…”

“Throwing mum into a panic…”

“Well, she was there to start off with…”

“Too true… What was that you were saying? Something about a dream with a pretty girl?”

“Bugger off you two!” Ron scowled, muttering the words under his breath.

“Ooh… is our ickle brother having girl dreams too? Is it time to have…” Both twins went silent for a moment, then said together, in an ominous voice, “The Talk?”

Ron’s ears went red again.

“Um… I take it Ginny’s doing better?” Harry changed the conversation topic quickly.

They sighed, shrugging. Fred explained. “Yeah, pretty much. They’ll let her out later this week or so… Percy’s supposed to ‘escort us’ to Diagon Alley tomorrow…” Neither looked happy about this arrangement.

Harry made a face. “So… what? We’re supposed to spend the day here?”

“Pretty much, old bean.” George slapped Harry on the back, knocking his glasses askew. “Make yourself comfortable… dad said he’d take us out later this afternoon… meet that girl…”

“Her name’s Hermione. You know her name is Hermione. You’ve known her name’s Hermione for years.” Ron crossed his arms. “You sure she’s not in your girl dreams…”

Ron threw up his arms. “Bugger off!” he yelled, his language drawing several unwanted stares, and he slumped down into his chair.

“Fine, fine… we can tell when we’re not wanted.” George appeared hurt.

“Right… disgraced, we are. Poor us… whatever shall we do…” Fred shook his head in mock-sorrow.

“Well, there’s that pretty pre-grad… sure she’s around here somewhere…”

“Too true… ciao, you two!”

And with that, they both left the room.

Ron hit himself. “Tell me we won’t have to put up with them the rest of the day.”

---

The clock was broken, Harry was sure of it. Four in the afternoon, it read. As it had when he had last looked at it, and the time before that. The room had crowded, emptied, became full again, and so on. Once a bunch of Gypsies came through, sitting on the floor and refusing to leave until whoever was sick returned. Harry carefully avoided looking at them—they weren’t Gypsies as he’d pictured them. Then again, he had Disney’s image of them fixed into his mind, and he was sure that didn’t at all help.

Harry attempted to get out of his chair (a task that was mildly difficult due to the fact that his lap had been littered by the mass of candy wrappers and chocolate frog cards); he had spotted through the crowd a flash of red hair and was hoping, maybe, that it was a Weasley, and that they could leave now.

A minute later Arthur broke through the crowds, the skin under his eyes much darker than they usually were and his hands were clasped behind his back as he approached the group.

“We’re going to have to leave,” he explained to the throng of redheads as soon as they were in hearing range. “Molly’s going to stay with Ginny, but that friend of yours will be showing up in less than an hour…”

Fred and George nodded. “How is she?”

“Better,” their father said, looking preoccupied—obviously he had his mind on something else. “But… we’ll need to go out by the door, Harry.” He noticed Harry had his eyes set on the fireplace. “We’re not far from the Leaky Cauldron—we’ll floo home from there…”

Harry finished gathering up the candy wrappers, and, not having a garbage can handy, stuffed them into his pockets. Ron did likewise, and the twins rose to their feet.

“Percy apparated off a while ago,” Arthur mentioned, opening the door and walking through the next room towards the entrance to muggle London, the same one Harry had noticed Neville in earlier that morning. “So he’ll be waiting once we get home, so if we’re late… well, your friend Hermione won’t be off by herself….” He took a sharp right once on the pavement, heading to the next corner, and Harry recognized it as the side of a muggle record store—they had been closer than he assumed.

---

They were back in the Burrow at a quarter past four. By the looks of Percy, sitting and reading a report with his lips pressed tightly together in the living room, Hermione had not shown up yet.

In the meantime, Harry and Ron sat down on the couch while the twins wandered off to their room, probably to blow something up. It seemed like something the twins would do.

“When’s she going to get here again?” Harry asked.

“Five,” Ron muttered. “You know Hermione—she’ll show up just as the clock starts chiming. Until then…” He grinned suddenly. “What do you want to bet she’s sitting on the doorstep, waiting for her watch to strike exactly the hour?”

Harry shook his head. “She’s not that bad.”

Ron looked at him suspiciously for a minute, then looked at his watch. “Mine says 4:21… let’s see.”

With that, he crossed the room, standing on tip-toes, and snuck to the door. Then, with a comical exaggerated gesture, he unlocked and threw open the door.

Then paled. “Shite, Hermione, I didn’t think I was gonna be right.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, half convinced that Ron was putting him on, then caught sight of his bushy haired friend gathering up two bags filled with things that looked suspiciously like books. She’d taken to wearing a watch around her neck, he noticed, and she grinned at him.

“I… er… got here half an hour early.” Her voice was apologetic. “But I thought it would be a bit rude…” she stopped—Ron’s face was growing red from his not quite successful attempt to hid his laughter. “Why? What’s going on?”

Harry shook his head. “Hermione… It’s four twenty.”

“My watch says half an hour till five.” She held up the time piece up for them to see. “Victor gave it to me… the one piece of useful jewelry I’ve ever had, besides that time-turner… and… oh. Right… I set it ten minutes ahead of time so I could be on time for everything.”

Ron shook his head. “You’re hopeless.”

Hermione made a face at him, dropping a bag at his feet. “You can carry that,” she instructed, holding one of her own. “And there is nothing at all wrong with showing up a little early… Hullo, Percy… good summer?”

Percy looked up at her, nodding. “Very busy, thank you Hermione,” he said stiffly. Fred and George, on the other side of the room, nodded gravely to each other, and Ron dropped the books onto the sofa.

“Ron, there’s glass in there…” Hermione ran to the bag, picking it up and rummaging inside, then sighing in relief as she pulled out a crystal and gold unicorn figurine.

Harry raised his eyebrows—he’d seen things like that in muggle shops. “Wow, Hermione… that’s neat.”

Hermione nodded happily. “Victor gave it to me… Isn’t it beautiful?”

Ron made a face. “What’s it do?”

“It’s a statue, Ron, it doesn’t do anything.”

“Why not?” Ron poked it, and Hermione jerked it away from him.

Harry shook his head, covering his face with one hand. “Ron…”

His redhead friend shrugged, suddenly deciding to ignore the unicorn altogether. “Yeah, yeah. Onto more important things… I don’t think mum’ll want you sharing Ginny’s room this time (she got really sick last night), so I dunno where you’re going to be put. Percy’ll be taking us to Diagon Alley tomorrow, anyways…” Ron trailed off (why was he babbling? Harry wondered), eyes set on his father in the kitchen doorway.

“Hermione? I thought…” Mr. Weasley glanced at the clock, then shrugged. “I was fixing your room—come on, let’s get those bags unpacked.”

He strode forward, picking the bag the unicorn figure had been in, picking it up, and Hermione protectively took the glass sculpture in her left hand while she slung the strap of the bag over her shoulder and followed the elder Weasley into the side door. Harry glanced at Ron—wasn’t that where they had stored their car before it was wrecked?

Ron didn’t notice the look. He was glaring at the door as if something bothered him deeply, and Harry waved his hand in front of his friend’s face. “Ron?”

The redhead glanced up. “What?” he asked.

“Are you alright?”

Ron shrugged it off. “Fine… just with Ginny an’ all… nevermind.” He walked forward, opening the door and following his father, Harry in tow behind him.

---

The next morning was almost as hot as the day he arrived at the Weasley home. Brilliant sunlight streamed through the window and onto the bedspreads and the orange of the walls, playing over Ron’s empty tank and creating prisms of light around the room and its two sleepy occupants. This peace was disturbed at once by three smart raps on the door, a moment’s pause, then someone’s loud, unwanted entrance.

Harry scowled as he cracked his eyes open, shifting in his covers and trying to find the cool section of the sheets. Hermione shook her head, bushy hair clouding around her face as she leaned over him. “Come on! Breakfast is ready, and we’ve got to go out to Diagon Alley, and…”

“Five minutes, Herm! Please… just five more…” Ron called from the next bed, trying to bury his face into his pillow.

“Get up!” Hermione tried to snatch his pillow away and failed. Ron’s long experience with siblings had made him an expert at tug-of-war with any object.

“There’s eggs! And Percy’s cooking, and it smells delicious, and if you don’t come down, Fred and George will have gotten it all… come on, you want to eat, don’t you? And then we’ve got to get all of our stuff, because Percy wants to leave early (he said he was meeting Penelope there), and… Harry, don’t you dare go back to sleep!”

Ron used his best friend’s momentary diversion to snuggle deeper into his own covers.

“You two are hopeless.” Hermione reached forward and grabbed Harry’s arm, forcibly pulling him onto the floor. “There. Ron…”

Ron had both hands around the bedpost. “Not moving.”

Harry blinked, looking around for his glasses. “Ah, come on, Hermione… I had another one of those stupid dreams, and I couldn’t get to sleep for half the night…”

“What dreams?” Her head snapped back to Harry, brown eyes widening. “Did your scar—”

“No. He’s been having dreams over and over about this girl who looks like you, and she’s evil. That about sum it up?” Ron, feeling it was safe, released the bedpost.

Hermione at once grabbed Ron’s arms and pulled him onto the floor as well. “Up,” she commanded.

Harry nodded, his hand finally closing on his glasses on the bedstand, and he put them on carefully. “I’m up… could you give us a minute to get dressed?”

This simple request was met with crossed arms and a look of great suspicion. “Fine, fine. But don’t blame me if you fall back asleep and miss all the food.” She left the room after sending an extra-reproving expression at Ron.

Harry nodded, yawned, and grabbed his clothing out of his trunk. “You don’t think the dreams mean anything? I mean, yes, they’re weird, but I don’t get dreams over and over again. Not like this.”

Ron thought for a moment. “Well… we can’t tell her when she’s in mummy!mode. Let’s wait until after the food, then tell her.” He murmured under his breath as he dressed as well, then finally stood up as Harry was finishing his last shoe. “I’ll save you some sausage, if there’s any left,” he offered, then left the room.

Harry arrived in the kitchen not long after Ron. Percy nodded to him, then went back to reading his paper as he scrounged the remaining food. True to Hermione’s word, there wasn’t much left, and the meal was eaten in silence. Percy was waiting by the fireplace when the last plate was set into the sink, the jar of floo powder in his fingers. “Come on, we haven’t got all day. You first, Ron.”

Ron wiped his nose and nodded, taking the substance and throwing it into the blaze. “Diagon Alley!” he cried, then with a whoosh, was gone.

Harry followed suit, not quite able to shake the after affects of floo as he stepped out and was followed by Hermione, then Fred and George. Percy himself apparated, looking smug.

“I’ve got some business to take care of,” he said, as if this was of the greatest importance. “So I’ll be leaving right after we take the money out of the Gringotts account. I trust you will all be on your best behavior.” His eyes locked on Fred and George, who were giving mock-sniffles.

Harry felt guilty once more when the Weasley’s vault was opened inside the maze of tunnels—there was more than there was in his second year, but the few Galleons on the floor didn’t at all make him feel any better. He supposed Mr. Weasley had saved some of the money from the Galleon draw he had won two years ago, but it seemed to be running out once again. Ron said nothing. Soon after, they rejoined Hermione, who was finishing exchanging pound notes for galleons. Fred and George, Harry noticed, took none of the share of Weasley money when Percy distributed it amongst them out of the building.

“We know what we’re doing,” Fred explained. “Besides, that’ll barely be enough to cover you and Ginny.”

George nodded. “Right. Oh, and Ron? Meet us in Madam Malkins after you’re done… around noon or so? We’ve got… a bit of a surprise.”

Ron looked nervous. “Should I be afraid?”

Fred patted his shoulder. “Is the attic ghoul noisy?”

Percy brushed by them all. “I’m late as it is, you four, so if you will excuse me…”

The rest ignored him, and Hermione shook her head and turned to the twins. “Just try not to break any laws. Shall we go, then?”

Fred and George snickered, then darted off down the street, Ron shivering as he watched them leave. “I don’t want to know what they’ve been up to. They don’t have any money or anything, but from the way they’re acting, you’d think that they’d already set up the joke shop and everything.”

Harry hid a smile, and Hermione brought out her list. “Well, we’ve got to get our books… dress robes we’ve already got…”

Ron swore under his breath. “I’m not wearing that lace thing.”

“And we need to replenish our potions ingredients… Well, first thing’s first, then. Flourish and Blotts?” She gestured to the bookstore.

Harry nodded, feeling it was best to appease her quickly. “Sure, Hermione. What time is it?”

She consulted the watch hanging on the necklace. “9:24… oh, really about quarter past nine. Remember, I set it ahead ten minutes…”

“Um… wait. Before we go, Hermione, I wanted to tell you something,” Harry looked up and down the alley. No one was near them, and he stepped closer to the edge of Gringotts. Ron sat down on the ground, hands behind his head.

Hermione nodded, clearly wondering what was going on now.

“Look, I’ve… remember how I said I was having dreams?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Well, here’s the thing. I don’t think it’s a dream. Is there anything you’ve read about where you can see things happening in other places in your sleep?”

Hermione thought about this. “Visions… but those are an advanced form of divination, and you can’t do that, I don’t think… is it different, with different people each time?”

“Same dream. The thing is, it almost always becomes more detailed, each time I have it.” Harry took a deep breath, then explained about the girl bowing to Voldemort, and what he could remember of their conversation.

Hermione frowned. “Well… if I haven’t heard of it, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t happen. Curse-scars like that have never happened like that, so you have to expect some side effects…” She must have noticed his expression, because she added hastily, “I won’t tell anyone, of course, unless you want me to. But… well, tell me if you see this girl.”

Ron nodded. “If she exists, and you’re not just losing it.”

“Ron, you’re not being very sensitive…” Hermione began.

Harry held up a hand to stop them. “Well, that’s over, let’s go to Flourish and Blotts.”

Hermione sighed, restraining herself from going on, then nodded, and all three made their way to the bookstore.

Ron held the door open for the other two. “Mum wants me to get Ginny’s books, too, so I’ll get those—could you pick up an extra copy of all the books for me, you two? And…” the tips of his ears went red. “Try getting the used stuff. I don’t have a lot.”

Hermione nodded in perfect understanding. “I’ll get the potions, astronomy, and the transfiguration books. Harry? You go for the rest of them. There aren’t that many extra.”

Harry nodded. “And we’ll meet eachother at the counter and buy them together? Right, then…” He brought his crumpled list out of his pocket. That left him Charms (Standard book of Spells, Grade 5), Defense Against the Dark arts (Death in all Shapes and Sizes, by Mortifer Olom), and Herbology (Dangerous plants and even more hard-to-pronounce magical herbs, by I. M. Fungii).

The Charms books were easy—set out in the front, and he moved onto the book about death quickly.

That was more difficult to find—the required book was almost in the back of the store, and Harry tripped over a girl’s staff as he passed into the ghost studies section, landing in an undignified heap on the ground. “Sorry,” he muttered, before glancing up at her and straightening his glasses.

She was thin and very pale, wearing very expensive looking robes of dark blue. Golden white hair cascaded down the sides of her face, and her blue eyes looked upon him with something similar to dislike. Her thin face showed no emotion at all, however—the child might have been wearing a mask. She moved the staff slightly.

“My apologies,” she said, her voice quiet.

Harry got to his feet. “Um… right, I’m fine. Look, have you seen a book called ‘Death in all Shapes and Sizes’? It’s for a class, and I can’t seem to…”

The girl’s face did not change in the slightest as she moved one slender hand towards the bookshelf across from her, drawing out said text. “You’d best rejoin your friends, Harry Potter.”

Harry’s thanks died in his mouth before he brushed a hand over the bangs covering his scar. “Um… right. Are you… going to Hogwarts? I… haven’t seen you.”

She nodded once, hand returning to her polished staff, and without another word, she turned her head to the books once more.

“Um… thank you,” he added, clutching the book without even noticing the pictures on the cover. Curiosity got the better of him. “What’s your name? Since you know mine and all…”

She continued to ignore him, and Harry gave up. He took two other books before leaving the pale child alone and finding the Herbology text as well. Hermione was already waiting by the counter as he put down the nine copies with a sigh of relief. “Any sign of Ron?”

Hermione shook her head. “Not yet.”

As if on cue, Ron appeared around a shelf, carrying a stack of books. “There… that’s the last of Ginny’s. Put these into piles, then?” He set the stack on the floor as Hermione began putting each duplicate in a pile, finishing with a stack for each of them. They were all purchased quickly.

“Where now?” Harry asked as soon as he got out of the shop, his bag slung over his arm.

Ron tried to shrug with the two bags of books weighing him down, which wasn’t terribly successful. “Which way is Hermione facing? We’ll go that way, soon as she gets inspiration.”

Harry laughed and glanced up, green eyes sparkling behind his glasses as he looked around the street. He stopped dead in his tracks quite suddenly, his entire body tensing. Without another word, he grabbed Ron’s collar and Hermione’s shoulder and jerked them into a small gravely alley between Flourish and Blots and the next shop so quickly his two friends were nearly given whiplash.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Harry--” she began, but her friend cut her off first.

“That’s her.” Harry didn’t seem to believe what he said himself. “The girl from my dreams. That’s her out there, walking around. Diawna.”