Past Present

For Harry, the first three weeks of November passed in a whirl of homework and practice sessions of all kinds, the Quidditch practices with the Gryffindor team and lessons with Viktor when he was not away at his own matches or practices, as well as the occasional DADA session with him. He often fell into bed so exhausted that he did not dream. When he did dream, he rarely remembered what they were about, just a vague feeling of unease about them, and his prickling scar was easier to ignore the longer it persisted. It faded to a merely annoying constant tattoo in the background. Professor Snape continued his sporadic absences, and Harry wondered what he could possibly be up to that would take him away from campus so often, usually once a week.

"Don't question our good fortune, mate," Ron said when Harry remarked on it. "Anything that gets Snape out of class can't be all bad," he observed, when he and Harry returned from Quidditch practice. Since Ron had become the new Gryffindor keeper at tryouts, they were spending hours on the field, trying to please Angelina Johnson, who was turning out to be just as demanding as Oliver Wood, if not more so. "I'm just about all in, Harry, I'm going to bed. Viktor didn't say that Snape would be back for sure tomorrow, did he?" Ron asked.

"Didn't say he wouldn't be either. Can't say that I've missed him. Bet Neville would say the same. He's not nearly fainted during potions for weeks, even with Snape there. Snape is probably grinding his teeth over the fact that he can't bluff him off of using those lists. G'night Ron," Harry said, yawning and stretching.

"G'night, Harry," Ron called back, and they settled into bed. Harry soon found himself walking in the Forbidden Forest, the swirling fog creeping around his ankles, the soft wind on his face in the twilight. He could hear singing, and it seemed the most beautiful song he had ever heard, though he couldn't distinguish the words. He had to find that song, that voice, high and clear. He stepped through the trees, picking his way around the gnarled roots, trying to find the source of that sound, he had to get to it..."Harry! Harry!" came Ron's voice from behind him, and Harry felt a jolt of disappointment and anger at Ron for interrupting. His shoulders were being shaken, though no one was in the woods with him..."Harry! You're sleepwalking!" Ron hissed.

And then, Harry woke, standing in the middle of the common room, Ron grasping his shoulder. "Ron?" Harry said in a dazed manner.

"Harry, you must have been having a dream. You got up and wandered off. Lucky I was still awake with this headache, or I might have slept through it and you would have been in Hogsmeade by morning. You okay?" Ron peered at him more closely.

"Sure...sure. Just tired from today, I guess. Let's go back up to bed," Harry mumbled. He couldn't help but be disappointed at losing his dream. He couldn't remember the words, or the tune, but the quality of it, the beauty of it, he remembered that clearly. He had wanted to find the source of that song. Harry settled back into bed and drew the curtains, staring into the dark. He had never been sleepwalking before, what had made him start now? That voice, he thought, that voice could lead me anywhere, as he curled back up under the sheets and blankets, lay his head on the pillow and slept again.

In the girl's dorm, Hermione punched her pillow and rolled over again in an attempt to get comfortable. It was no use. The dull ache in her head made sleep impossible, and before, when she had dozed, her dreams had been restless. Might as well read a bit, she figured, grabbing the book on her bedside table and whispering "Lumos," lighting her wand to read. After a few pages, her eyelids grew heavy again, and she whispered, "Nox", lay her wand and book back on the table, and closed her eyes. Maybe a good night's sleep would get rid of the throbbing in her head. It seemed to have faded a bit.

Viktor stood and looked out his window, over the quiet grounds. Nothing stirring but a few owls on the hunt, going back and forth from the Owlery. His eyes fell on the journal page again, the new page of notes he had rewritten after scribbling so many false leads on the first.

earth, air, fire, water

Two escape in the old order, defeat him in new

Pureblood, halfblood, mudblood

escape from death, now death pursue.

The risen (Voldemort? Someone else? Something else?) cannot last when the past is present and the present past. (Time? Time turners? Something old?)

It still didn't make sense. No matter how many times he read through it. He sighed and shut the journal, laying it back on the table. He closed his eyes and rubbed a fingertip over his forehead, as though testing for the pain there that had gotten him out of bed in the first place. Funny, he couldn't even remember the last headache he had suffered where he couldn't readily identify the cause. Usually it takes getting pounded by a bludger, or a rotten head cold, or meeting a tree trunk up close and personal, he thought to himself. It was still there, but more subtle now, almost gone. Staring at that page is not going to do a thing for this headache but make it worse, some sleep would be better, he thought to himself, walking toward the bed and crawling back in.