Future Imperfect

Hermione shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. Weren't these places supposed to have couches? Right, and old bespectacled men smoking cigars, she thought wryly. Even she wasn't immune to wizard preconceptions about Muggles, she supposed. She did her best to banish them from her mind, and tried to focus more intently on the task at hand. Why was she here?

To be honest, when Ron had first suggested the idea, she hadn't been too keen on it. Could she be more precise? Alright, fine, she had thought it was ludicrous. Ludicrous, and a complete overreaction. At first.

It had all started with the dreams. Rather, with her telling him about the dreams. He had suggested that she had been working too hard, that she hadn't really allowed herself to grieve properly, that she had buried herself in her work to avoid dealing with it.

(In fact, he had suggested that the new Muggle memory-modifying jinx she had been working on had been too powerful, too experimental. That it had backfired, somehow. But of course she didn't say any of this.)

Was there any truth to this? Well, she supposed that she did have a tendency to turn to books when emotions weren't suiting her. Why? Books, equations, (spells), came naturally to her. Speaking about her feelings didn't. She was the girl who had thrown things (conjured canaries) at the boy she loved when he went out with another girl because she couldn't tell him how she felt. Well, she had gotten her point across; she had married him, after all. Well, yes, she was well aware that perhaps it wasn't the most effective way. But she supposed that perhaps she hadn't entirely grown out of it, which was why she was somewhat uncomfortable with this particular situation.

Well, yes, he had convinced her, in the end. He had been so genuinely concerned for her.

("I am not addled!" She could have stamped her foot.

He had paused, then, softening. "Well, then..." he had started, "maybe you should see a...a psycholographer".)

She had been so surprised at his suggestion, at its sincerity and innocence. (She hadn't even bothered to correct him).

And the dreams, well, they were becoming slightly troublesome. It was bad enough waking up night after night in cold sweats from the images she had seen. But lately- they weren't leaving her after her morning tea. The images floated around her all day, popping up unexpectedly from time to time. She was having trouble keeping things straight.

Oh, silly things, really. The other day she could have sworn Harry had been the school (Triwizard) football champion.

"Tell me about Harry," came the gentle probe.

She supposed she had known it would come to this. Where to begin? He had been her best friend. The three of them, with Ron, had been inseparable at school...

They arrived, eventually, at the real crux. It had been an aneurism. An infarction of the carotid artery. A stupid, pointless death. Actually, Ron had had more trouble with it at first.

("It's not a Muggle disease, Ronald, it's a human disease")

And Ginny, well, of course it had been hard on her, but she had borne it well. She had drawn it about herself, her own imperturbable cloak.

And time had passed.

She and Ron had learned to laugh again; their marriage, and their friendship, had burgeoned with new life as the weight of grief gradually lifted.

And yet the dreams. They were mainly about Harry- he wasn't always present, but he was somehow central to all of it. There was a war on. They had lost many friends, were in danger of losing many more by the second. And Harry was the target.

The words came more easily than she had expected, and Hermione found herself shocked at her own forthcoming. Though she had come reluctantly, she was equally surprised to find the hour was up already. The fact that the session ended with homework made her feel almost eager to return.

"I'd like you to explore this fantasy," the auburn-haired woman instructed, near the end of the session. "See where it leads you."

"You mean the dreams? Excuse me, but isn't that what we're trying to get rid of?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. There are many different theories to explain the meaning of dreams. Some people believe that dreams are simply the brain's way of sorting out clutter- a mishmash, if you will, of conscious events, thoughts, and feelings. Many others, however, believe that dreams can give us important insight into the subconscious. Some believe that by exploring our dreams, we can learn a great deal about ourselves- including those aspects which we may not otherwise be open to."

"Like what?"

"Well, some psychologists have theorized that dreams may be a harmless way of fulfilling subconscious desires that are unattainable in waking life. In your case, however, these fantasies have intruded into your waking world."

"What does that mean?"

"It might mean that the substitute is no longer sufficient. In short - your subconscious wants you to know something."

Hermione was on the edge of her seat. A lot of it was bollocks, to be sure. She was sure she had heard Trelawney spew out something of the like in the few short weeks she had bothered with Divination. But she couldn't help but be fascinated! And this woman was a Muggle scientist, she did make it all sound very credible, and not a word was mentioned about prophecy, or

Born as the seventh month dies... And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live-

"Hermione, are you alright?"
Without realizing it, she had lapsed again. Her hands felt cold and clammy, but she felt the dizzying confusion clearing from her now racing mind. She would explore this. Though perhaps not in an entirely Muggle way.

"Yes, yes, fine, thank you, Dr. Morgan. I think all the self-exploration has left me a bit... tired. I'll do what you suggested, and I'll let you know how it goes."

She managed to walk calmly out of the reception area and down the stairs, and to hold the door for an elderly Muggle man, but once outside she all but broke into a run, barely avoiding splinching herself as she disapparated from the alleyway down the street.

* * *

Hermione apparated onto a quiet, snow-muffled street, at the foot of the path leading up to a modest cottage. A group of Muggle children played in the yard across the road, but, engrossed with their half-constructed snowman, they hadn't noticed her appearance. Once inside, she hung her overcoat on the hook, and, shivering, hurried upstairs to draw herself a bath. It was an old source of comfort, one she had inherited, she supposed, from her mother.

The bath itself had been a gift from Ron when they had first moved in to the house, and while it may not have been as efficient as Aguamenti, they both agreed it had considerably more charm. The half dozen smaller taps framing the center faucet, however, were of more recent addition- Ron seemed to have inherited his father's fascination with 'improving' Muggle technology. Hermione turned two of these smaller taps now, and waited as pale green and mauve bubbles surfaced, deeply inhaling the scents of lavender and jasmine they released.

She placed her carefully folded Muggle clothes on a chair beside the bath, and touched one tentative toe to the surface of the water. Perfect.

"Nox," she sighed, sliding herself slowly into the bubbly water.

She touched the tip of her wand to her forehead experimentally. The first flash was intense and unfocused- her mother's spice rack, organized alphabetically, and the smell of frying onions.

She drew a slow breath, and did her best to refocus her energies.

"Memoria Redigo," she tried, tentatively. A beastly three-headed dog swam momentarily in her mind's eye before dissolving into a nagging sense of deja-vu.

"Well, it's a start," she mused.

"Memoria Redigo!" This time her full mental weight was behind the words.

The dog was back, though he seemed to be asleep, now, and as he slept she lowered herself through a trapdoor, her heart in her throat, vaguely aware through her fear of a harp-spun lullaby.

The visions came readily and smoothly now, and after some practice Hermione found she could lie back and let them play out in her mind's eye, flickering across her mental canvas like shadows in candlelight.

She tried her best to steer the visions towards the mausoleum, the forest floor. What she got was Harry. His face swam in front of her as she had first seen it, rosy cheeked and well-fed, the day they met on the Hogwarts express.

But now his face was thinner - he held a hand to his scarred forehead, she was concerned.

She was a spectator as he soared high above the Quidditch pitch on his Firebolt, a 14th birthday present from his parents.

She rushed to him as he plummeted to the earth, the happiness and hope sucked from him by the horrible hooded creatures...

The three of them cheered as Cedric Diggory, the Hogwarts Champion, emerged triumphant, hoisting the Triwizard cup.

And now, tears streamed down her face as Harry clutched Cedric's lifeless body at the entrance of the maze.

They stood together in a strange, high-ceilinged chamber, filled to the rafters with dusty glass orbs - Ron called to them - this one had Harry's name on it-

Each scene came fast upon the heels of the last; their speed was increasing - a broken Muggle movie reel spinning out of control.

A birthday party - a huge and terrifying snake - treading on Viktor's toes at the Yule ball - a flowered teacup - a defaced potions book - Harry's funeral - no, not his, he was there, next to Ginny, but tears were falling thick and hot from her eyes because Dumbledore-

"Damn it!" Her eyes flung open as she bolted upright, sending ripples of soapy water sloshing onto the tile. Pigwidgeon, perched on the chair beside her, trilled indignantly. She remembered each scene vividly, and yet... how could they all be real? She knew Harry was dead. And she knew with as much certainty that he was supposed to be alive. Alive, and fighting for his life - for all their lives. She knew that she had had tea with Lily last week, just as she knew that they had never met, that Mrs. Potter had died at the hands of the most terrible wizard in recorded history.

"This is too confusing!" Hermione held a hand to her forehead, exasperated. "I can't sort it out! I need a way to... separate them, somehow. To figure out what's real- no- to figure out which real is the proper real."

The tiny bird cocked his head inquisitively.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not crazy, I know it! And I am not talking to myself- I'm talking to my owl."

Standing up briskly from her bath, Hermione muttered a drying spell, and pulled her robe around her.

"Let's see... two realities, different events..." She began pacing the length of the bathroom. "I need a way to... check my facts, somehow. The library will have books on the war... but the other one... how can I verify something that doesn't exist outside my own mind?"

"That's it! Pig, you're an angel." She all but sprinted off in the direction of her study, leaving the small bird twittering his confusion.