The Room of Lost Dreams

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She entered an enormously tall room whose walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, except for one gap where a handsome fireplace stood. A single wing chair sat by the fire next to a table with a reading lamp. Several books had been stacked on the table.

The shelves contained books of every size and colour sorted by publication date, if the brass signs on the shelves were correct. She was surprised to realise that she didn't recognise any of the titles, though there were occasionally authors whose names she knew from History of Magic, such as Professional Lute-Playing by Helga Hufflepuff. As she continued examining books' spines, Hermione began to get an inkling of the room's purpose, but it wasn't until she came across Dumblewald's Magical Confectionary by Albus Dumbledore that she began to understand what she was seeing.

The room was a repository for wishes and dreams. To test her theory, she pulled Holyhead Harpies' First Male Seeker by Sirius Black from the shelf and began to read.

Though they both rode Cleansweeps and played for the same team, there was no question in Gwenog's mind which of the young Gryffindors bore further consideration. While James Potter struck amusing poses before throwing the Quaffle through the scoring hoop, to the sighs and screams of the female students, she only had eyes for the dark-haired boy- no, she corrected herself- the dark-haired man flying far overhead. His flying didn't have the flash and dash of Potter's. He was economical and spare, not one turn wasted, like a bird of prey. She found it hard to believe that he was Gryffindor's reserve seeker, who was playing today while the regular Seeker was in detention. She concluded that he must be a modest, serious sort of player, not the kind to showboat and flirt, but rather to do what was needed in order to win. Gwenog could respect that.

Suddenly, there it was- a flash of gold by the Slytherin scoring hoops. The announcer had seen it too and shouted its position into his microphone. Two dark blurs descended upon it while the audience screamed their support. The Snitch was not to be caught so easily. It led the Seekers on a merry chase around the stands, through the goal posts, and finally up into the sky so high that they were barely visible.

James Potter ignored the spectacle and flexed his muscles after making a particularly fine score. He scowled when nobody cheered and looked up to see what they were watching. Gwenog was holding her breath.

Was it her imagination, or were the tiny dots overhead getting larger? Sure enough, the Snitch was leading the Seekers back down to earth in a large corkscrew. Gwenog knew from her time with the Holyhead Harpies that the Snitch never continued in one direction for very long. What often separated the good Seekers from the great ones was their ability to anticipate when the Snitch would veer off and what its new direction would be. Was this Gryffindor merely good?

As if in answer to her question, the Snitch broke out of its downward spiral and zoomed off towards the crowd. The Gryffindor came with it, but the Slytherin continued spiralling and realised too late that he was much closer to the ground than he anticipated. A sympathetic groan ran through the crowd. The Slytherin Seeker must have crashed, but Gwenog's eyes were on the Gryffindor. His fingers were reaching out towards the Snitch.

Gwenog gasped as she realised that both Snitch and Seeker were headed directly toward her. Would he be able to catch it before crashing into the stands? Time seemed to slow. The Seeker's fingers closed around the Snitch, and he pulled up hard on his broomstick, changing direction no more than two metres away from her. The turbulence from his prior trajectory swirled deliciously around her, and she found herself cheering wildly with the rest of the Gryffindors.

Time seemed to return to normal, and the announcer's words rang through the stadium. 'BLACK HAS THE SNITCH! BLACK HAS THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS, THREE HUNDRED TO SEVENTY! THE QUIDDITCH CUP IS GRYFFINDOR'S! WHAT AN AMAZING CATCH FROM THE RESERVE GRYFFINDOR SEEKER!'

The man in question had landed on the pitch and was being mobbed by his teammates and the other members of his house. The stands slowly emptied, and the crowd around Black began to dissipate. He modestly accepted their congratulations, but he did not join the procession back to the castle, presumably to celebrate the brilliant victory. Instead, he headed towards the showers.

Gwenog slid beneath the bleachers and surreptitiously followed him. Merlin, but fantastic catches made her hot. She and Black had much to discuss.

Hermione pulled herself from Sirius's narrative with a start. Her cheeks were flaming as she skimmed the rest of the book, which involved an extremely steamy encounter in the showers and creative use of a wash flannel. The next chapter seemed to be about a terribly rude hazing ritual for new members of the Holyhead Harpies, and the third was another post-victory shower scene, but this one involved the entire team. The story ended with a warm domestic scene of Sirius at Grimmauld Place with the Harpies. Gwenog and both Beaters were great with Sirius's progeny, a dozen other new additions to the Ancient and Noble House of Black cavorted around their mothers and father, and everyone was happy.

Hermione would have been uniformly revolted if she hadn't realised how sad it was that
Harry's godfather had desperate and ultimately futile fantasies about continuing the Black name. She also thanked her lucky stars that she hadn't started reading Dumblewald's Magical Confectionary. But she felt as though she understood why these particular dreams were shut away in a secret room. These dreams were dead, and would never be fulfilled.

Anxious to test her hypothesis, she continued perusing the shelves. She was relieved to find that not all of the books were sexual in nature or as detailed as Sirius's fantasy. For instance, Regulus Black hoped one day to find the cherished stamp collection he accidentally left in Diagon Alley when he was fourteen. Remus Lupin had once wanted to be Head Boy. Obviously, that wish never came true.

When she neared the end of her circuit, she noticed something odd about the final bookshelf- its books were moving. No, that wasn't quite right. They were disappearing and reappearing, blinking in and out of existence at a blinding rate, so quickly that she couldn't quite see their titles.

Of course. If the rest of room housed dead dreams, this shelf likely contained the dreams of the living, or at least dreams that were still alive. As long as there was a possibility that the dream could come true, it could not be confined to the room. And suddenly it all made sense. She had expressed a desire to make amends to the dead, and now she had a way to ensure at least some of their secret wishes came to pass.

The only problem was that the static stacks of books contained dreams that had died, and short of stealing a Time-Tuner, it was impossible for her to change that. She would need to search among the improbable but living dreams until she found one that would be of use. She turned again to the moving shelf, held out her hand, and seized the first book her fingers touched.

Having a Better Broomstick than William Beardsley by Cyril Pennifold. No, that wouldn't do. She put it back on the shelf, and it disappeared a moment later.

Getting Invited to Janice Morley's Birthday Party was the next volume, followed by Telling My Boss to Get Stuffed, GURG GRAWP GETS GOATS, and Running Off With Gwenog Jones to a Deserted Island Far Enough Away Not to Hear My Wife Nagging About the Washing Up. Hermione was beginning to wonder if there shouldn't be an entire section devoted to fantasies about Gwenog Jones.

Nine N.E.W.T.s was next, written by Romilda Vane. That was pure fantasy as far as Hermione was concerned, given that the girl spent more time thinking about boys than she did her homework. And finally, Teddy: Not Always Knocking Things Over Like Me by Nymphadora Tonks. Hermione made a mental note to talk to Tonks's mum about getting Teddy into dancing lessons as soon as he was old enough.

She put the book back on the shelf and grinned. She knew it was silly to feel cheered by resolving to bring about Tonks's dream of having a graceful son, but it felt like a weight was lifting from her shoulders.

She stood in front of the shifting shelf once again and began pulling out titles: Being More Famous than Celestina Warbeck, Losing My Virginity on the Knight Bus, Gringotts Accidentally Putting a Million Galleons in My Account, and Buggering Draco Malfoy in Detention While Being Spied on by Professor-, which went back on the shelf before she could finish reading the title, much less the author.

It was then that she wondered whether grabbing random fantasies was a good idea. She knew she'd be horrified if someone else had unlimited access to her fantasies and dreams. What if she came across something she'd rather not know?

As she gazed at the books that buzzed tantalizingly before her, a thought occurred to her. If the room could grant her access because of her wish to help the dead, surely it could help her locate specific dreams.

She closed her eyes and thought very hard about Fred Weasley, willing one of his dreams to come to her. When she opened them, she was slightly disappointed to find that the books were still flickering in and out of the shelf. She closed her eyes and focused harder on her wish to help victims of Voldemort's campaign. She turned in circles for good measure and extended her hand. Her fingers closed on a book

Everyone Loves My Pussy by Argus Filch.

Hermione scowled and threw it back on the shelf. It winked cheekily out of existence. It was then that the stack of books on the reading table caught her eye. Chiding herself for not having looked at them sooner, she sat in the chair, turned on the reading light, and began examining the titles.

Eureka.

Not Being a Werewolf by Remus Lupin. Well, curing Lycanthropy might take some time. Three Chasers, Two Beaters by Fred Weasley. Honestly, did Gryffindor boys have fantasies that didn't involve Quidditch? She continued through the stack, perusing more dreams by Fred and Remus until she found Make George a Fantastic New Ear and Improve Werewolf Standing through Lobbying and Otherwise Being a Pain in the Arse, both of which sounded like dreams she could accomplish with a bit of metallurgic research, a few letters and Replicating Charms. She set the books on the other side of the table and intended to get to the bottom of the stack, but she paused. It was a terrible temptation to simply read, especially if it meant finding out what kind of ear Fred thought George should have. The Weasleys were planning a memorial service in two days' time. She was confident that she could come up with something by then.

Hermione shifted in her seat. The chair wasn't nearly as comfortable as it looked. She stood and lifted the seat cushion, intending to fluff it, and was surprised to find an unmarked black leather notebook beneath the cushion. Unlike the other books in the room, it didn't proclaim its title or author.

She began flipping through the pages, and a cold feeling washed over her as she realised that it was completely blank. The book fell from her shaking fingers and fell open on the floor.

She frowned, irritated by her irrational fear. There were dozens of reasons for the book to be blank that didn't involve Horcruxes. It could be written in Invisible Ink. It might be enchanted to reveal its contents only to the owner. It could have even been provided by the room for the purpose of note taking, since she strongly suspected that the dreams only had physical form in the room.

She attempted to finish Remus's instructions for being an arse, but she realised that she was reading the same paragraph over and over. She would be able to absorb no further dreams, and the black book was still lying innocently on the floor, practically begging to be investigated. Though perhaps not tonight.

Satisfied that she had wishes sufficient to alleviate her conscience for a while, Hermione tucked the black book under her arm and left the room. The door disappeared as soon as it closed, leaving Hermione alone in the moonlit hallway.

One of the trolls in the tapestry waved merrily at her as she passed on her way back to the Hospital Wing. However, she soon found that going to sleep was the last thing on her mind. What she needed was a bath. Madam Pomfrey's Cleansing Charms only went so far, especially when one had been in hiding for months. She had towels and toiletries in her beaded bag, by her bed in the Hospital Wing. Hermione wasted no time in retrieving it. She prayed that they hadn't changed the Prefect's Bath password in the past year.

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