None So Blind

romulus lupin

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 19/03/2006
Last Updated: 19/03/2006
Status: paused

“There are none so blind as those who refuse to see…” The question never asked, however, is *who* can really make the claim that others are blind—and what it is that people refuse to see that makes them "blind." A humonguous anvil, perhaps?

Chapters

1. Twilight

2. Dawn's Early Light

1. Twilight

None So Blind

Title: None So Blind
Author name: Romulus Lupin
Author email: galigad@yahoo.com
Category: Angst
Keywords: Harry Hermione JK Rowling
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers:SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP, HBP
Summary: “There are none so blind as those who refuse to see…”
The question never asked, however, is who can really say who is blind—and what it is that people refuse to see.
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: My deepest appreciation for the friends I have made through the fandom, especially those who continue to write the stories that we all love—Bingblot, AnneU, pottergirl786, Vicarious Leigh, cheering charm, Paracelsus, Maple Mountain (and his daughter Carolyn) and so many others that I cannot name.

I would also like to thank LoupDeNoir, whose review of “Seeking Hermione’s Bean” gave me the impetus to start writing this tale. Thank you, once again.

Chapter 1. Twilight

She opened her eyes to darkness… and for the briefest of moments, felt her heart in her throat, blocking the scream of fear that was aching to let loose—only for the moment to pass as logic kicked in, and the memories started to unfold in her stormy, roiling mind…

She’d fallen asleep, she told herself. For the second… fifth… tenth… whatever time in the past few days, she’d fallen prey to the tempting, enticing, alluring piece of furniture installed in her office… and here she was once again: lying down, staring at the darkness, unable and definitely unwilling to rise from her comfortable, reclining position—

So much for New Year’s resolutions, she thought to herself—and laughed mirthlessly as she remembered her list… especially the one about ‘ruthlessly’ setting aside time to write. Yeah right, she thought. How can one be ruthless in the face of David’s beaming smile as he held his little arms out for a hug… or when Mackenzie stared at her as she suckled, looking for all the world as if she were imprinting her mother’s face on her memory… or when Jessica sat down beside her seeking nothing more than a hug and a cuddle, much as she did when she was younger…

The snicker turned to a sigh.

The problem was, she thought, there were only so many hours to the day and, with a household afflicted by colds and a small baby still adjusting to life outside the womb, her schedule was too often thrown out of whack. The good old days when she could spend the day sitting in a café, writing, were long gone… her days were now filled with an endless list of things to do or matters to decide on, questions to ask and answers to give, phone calls to take and other things to consider…

And there was the thing she was lying on… the battered, crimson-red couch that Neil had seen in some shop or other… that thing that he’d impulsively bought and had delivered to her office as a surprise… that thing that constantly called her, enticed her, tempted her to take a brief kip… telling her to rest her eyes from the strain of staring at a blank piece of paper or relax her hand from the hours of furious scribbling…

She shook her head of the tumbling thoughts and found herself smiling. She could almost hear Emma admonishing Dan: “No, Harry. Even in the wizarding world, hearing voices isn't a good sign.” And while she may not be hearing voices right now…

She shrugged to herself and closed her eyes. It wasn’t that she had work right now—or even that she had a deadline to meet. She’d learned her lesson from Goblet of Fire—pushing herself almost to the point of exhaustion and near-breakdown, writing pages and pages only to realize that she was losing her way… ultimately even reversing the order of the echoes that came out of Voldemort’s wand—with Lily coming out last, when it should have been James…

She’d taken her time with Phoenix, not wanting to go through the headaches of the previous four books and she was more than happy with the result, although…

Mentally, she shook her head and threw off the conflicting thoughts that came to mind whenever the sixth book came to mind. She’d prepared herself for negative reactions … more than once, she’d said that she knew many people wouldn’t like where she took the tale, but it was her story to tell. What she wasn’t prepared for, however, were the literal screams of pain that reverberated in the days immediately following the launch—

She wouldn’t be human if she said she wasn’t hurt… but that was something that she was determined to keep to herself. It’s my story, she repeated to herself… Harry’s mine—I can do with him whatever I want! And it’s not as if I betrayed them! There were more than enough clues… huge, anvil-sized clues…

A mental sigh. Although, she must admit… Another sigh—looking back, she could have handled things a little better. She’d tried… Lord knows, she tried—but the sheer enthusiasm of her two friends, coupled with her own excitement at finally revealing the secret that she’d kept to herself for so long, had drawn her into the impromptu celebration of her two young fans and—

‘Enough!’ she roared at herself, the echoes of the silent scream bouncing around and around in her mind. ‘What’s done is done… could have, should have, would have… it’s over and done with…’

She paused… and focused.

Deep breath… hold it in… slow exhale.

Deep breath… hold it in… slow exhale.

Inhale… hold it… exhale.

Inhale… hold it… hold it… h-o-l-d i-t… draw all the negativities together… exhale—let the negative emotions flow with your breath—

Inhale… hold it… exhale.

Inhale… hold… it… exhale…

A few more and her body’s natural rhythm took over… in truth, exhaustion—mental, physical, and emotional—finally caught up and Morpheus took her in his gentle arms.

She never even heard the running footsteps or the sound of the door slamming open—the room flooded with light as the light-switch was flicked on… the excited giggles of a young boy and the sudden shushing sounds made by a teenaged girl…

“Shhh… Mummy’s sleeping, David.”

“Mummy… sleeping?”

There was no mistaking the disappointment in the young boy’s voice or the gentleness in his older sister’s explanation: “She must be really tired, David… you do know that Mum would much rather play with you, don’t you?”

Jessica smiled at the vigorous nodding of her sibling; silently, she lifted the afghan that had fallen on the floor and draped it over her mother and, with a gentle kiss on the latter’s cheek, led the young boy out the door, whispering, “She needs her rest. Come on, we’ll look in on her later.”

The young girl paused at the door to the study and with a soft smile whispered, “Pleasant dreams, mum” as she flicked the light switch off, leaving the room in darkness.

*

Voices.

Voices murmuring.

She felt her head shifting towards the direction the voices were coming from but it felt strange—as if the voices she heard were echoing, resonating around her. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were heavy… she finally opened them a crack, only to be confronted with a world devoid of all colour: drab, lifeless—the space around her defined only by shades of darks and greys.

And yet… and yet… there was no sense of fear or panic within her. It felt… comfortable, for lack of a better word. Or perhaps… familiar was the operative world.

She’d been here before, a voice proclaimed in her mind: this twilight world between slumber and wakefulness, the place where dreams and reality often met for a contest of wills… where the choice was between returning to the comforting world of sleep or opening one’s eyes to face the daily chaos of life.

And, more importantly… it was the place where disjointed fragments of memories, emotions, and half-formed words came together in a force so overwhelming that the only way to release it was through fingers gripping a pen, scribbling hasty words in an untidy scrawl… the energy bleeding out to paper: indelible marks to be transposed later into rows of letters, words and paragraphs… page after page which would eventually be read, reviewed, cut or re-written, as a story took shape and the final form became known.

She gave a happy sigh… she hadn’t been here in a while. It was here where she first met a young boy with unruly black hair and taped-together glasses behind which were the greenest eyes she had ever seen. The boy had stared at her in frank curiosity and from the maelstrom of half-formed ideas and random thoughts, she’d blurted out, “You’re a wizard, aren’t you?”

The boy had smiled back—and it was there, in that twilight zone between sleep and reality, on a moving train headed for her destination, that she began a journey to where she now was… back to the place where it all began, here in this empty landscape of darks and greys.

She stiffened as the murmuring voices gained clarity… they sounded as if they were a few meters away from her, and she felt herself relaxing as the now-clearly audible words washed over her, words that were somehow familiar, tickling a long-buried memory:

“Oh, do look around you, Milady. Consider. Camelot is unique … And we have far and away the most equitable climate in all England… by decree.”

She knew that voice! She knew those words… and she knew that a silly smile was plastered on her face as a female voice responded in perfect sync with the well-remembered words now coalescing in her mind: “Oh, come now.”

Her mind suddenly jumped to something she’d readi years ago: Dickens… A Christmas Carol… and she wondered whether her face reflected that of Mrs. Fezziwig even as her heart beat to a melody she hadn’t heard or thought of in the longest time:

It’s true! It’s true!

The crown has made it clear:

The climate must be perfect all year.

A law was made a distant moon ago here,

July and August cannot be too hot;

And there’s a legal limit to the snow here

In Camelot.

She felt herself relaxing as the energetic voice washed over her, her mind carrying her on a flood of memories to the bungalow in Bristol… chasing around and around with Di… stopping to listen as her Dad played the vinyl record—and often joining in himself, reprising the role of Arthur with full verve and flamboyance…

The winter is forbidden till December,

And exits March the second on the dot.

By order summer lingers through September

In Camelot.

Camelot! Camelot!

I know it sounds a bit bizarre;

But in Camelot, Camelot

That’s how conditions are.

She felt a snicker struggling to break free—“If they only knew,” she thought, as her mind focused on the fictional world she had created from seemingly nothing. There had been speculation—even from learned academics—that Hogwarts and Harry were loosely based on the Arthurian legend. In fact, there were those who claimed that Hogwarts was built on the ancient ruins of Camelot… while others speculated that the lake, with its giant squid, mer-people and other nasties was the lake where Niamh lived and gave Excalibur to Arthur…

But she knew that the majority simply accepted the fact that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was an ancient castle and that, if they even thought about it, they assumed that it was because of her heritage: she was British, after all and castles, wizards and knights were part of being British.

The rain may never fall till after sundown.

By eight the morning fog must disappear.

In short, there’s simply not

A more congenial spot

For happ’ly-ever-aftering than here

In Camelot.

The truth, however, was far simpler: she had grown up with the Arthurian legends but it had been introduced to her by way of a vinyl recording of the movie soundtrack that her parents had constantly played since she was two years old. Her youthful imagination had been fired by the lyrics painting pictures in her head… she was in her teens when she finally saw the visuals that accompanied those words, when Camelot finally came on the telly…

She would forever after associate Richard Harris with the powerful, yet vulnerable, Arthur… she would never think of the name Guinevere without hearing his pained, impassioned voice asking, “What’s wrong, Ginny? Where are you these days? What are you thinking?”

And felt herself snicker at the thought of the hundreds—or was it thousands?—of fan fictions featuring ‘Virginia’ Weasley, and her announcement that Ginny’s real name was Ginevra. She mentally tipped her hat to Steve and the others on the Lexicon who had quickly identified the provenance of the name: Welsh for Guinevere…

‘I wonder where Neil found it,’ she thought as she listened to the song coming from somewhere around her, marvelling again at how technology had improved. She could have sworn that she was lying down on the grass, listening to Richard’s voice as he sang to a rapt audience, not even realizing that the song was being sung a capella …

And smiled as a warm feeling enveloped her—it could only be Neil, she thought. She somehow doubted that Jessica would know or appreciate the music of her childhood; on the other hand, her daughter had been both enamoured and awed by Richard—and a wave of mingled sorrow and mirth coursed through her at the memory of Richard explaining that he wanted to turn down the role—until his granddaughter threatened to disown him if he refused to take on the part of Dumbledore.

She bit her lip in silent agreement at Chris’ words: “We can always find a Dumbledore, but there’s only one Richard Harris.”

She pushed her sorrow away as she realized that the song had ended—and she grinned, Mrs. Fezziwig’s disposition in full force, as she eagerly awaited the next songs from the soundtrack: Lancelot du Lac’s lusty, ego-centric ‘C’est Moi’… Guinevere’s sultry “The Lusty Month of May”…

Her mind was filled once again with memories: of her father and mother dancing… their shared laughter as they listened to the exchange between Guinevere and the Knights as they plotted to bring Lancelot down a peg or three, Arthur’s angry, impassioned voice as he raved at Merlin’s omission in his education—

Only for her thoughts to crash to a halt as her mind registered the voice singing a song that was so far removed from Camelot as to be totally incongruous:

Jean, Jean, roses are red
All the leaves have gone green
And the clouds are so low
You can touch them, and so
Come out to the meadow, Jean

‘What the—?’ She knew the song, no question about it—it had never been a particular favourite of hers, drenched as it was in smarmy, romantic imagery and rendered in a voice that would have honeybees delirious at its saccharine overload… although Richard’s rendition of the song was tugging fiercely at her heart…

A wave of fear gripped her when a young voice piped up with a cough and a question: “Umm, Professor? Isn’t that song rather… err, sappy?”

The singer stopped in mid-lyric and she felt a short, pregnant pause—it was as if the world around her was waiting for a response—and the voice that she would have sworn was Richard Harris’ answered thoughtfully: “Indeed it is. But for some reason I cannot help but think that Minerva would be impressed by it.”

“Minerva?” The puzzled tone of the other person’s voice was in perfect harmony with her own thoughts—and she felt turbulent thoughts screech to a halt as the young woman’s voice continued: “Oh!… you mean Professor McGonagall!”

The words caused a jumble of images and sensations to burst from her brain as if a dam had broken under the strain: of a younger but still stern-faced and steely-eyed Minerva McGonagall addressing a classroom of young women—no men in evidence… of doors opening and girls running out into the fields surrounding the school even as the song started playing in the background… and her incredulous voice commenting to Sean, “So that’s why the song’s title is ‘Jean’,” as they watched the credits roll across the television screen…

‘What the hell is going on here?’

She was totally unaware that she had jumped to her feet… totally unconscious of the fact that she had verbalized her thoughts—loudly, somewhat stridently, and to no one in particular…

Which meant that she had only the most momentary of moments to look around… the merest flash of time for her brain to snap a picture of her surroundings and process it:

A forested glade, dark and yet not gloomy as the pinkish light of dawn breaking streamed down through breaks in the canopy high above—and she realized that she had been lying down on soft earth and green grass…

Of a tall man with his back to her, silvery hair to his waist beneath a tall, pointed hat, wearing brilliant robes shimmering with moons and planets dancing on the cloth…

Of a slim girl with long, fiery-red hair beside the old man—the hair a fiery halo as the girl twirled around to face her… a look of surprise changing to one of steely determination—a white-knuckled hand with a stick pointing at her…

A blink of the eyes and a red beam shooting straight for her…

And in the split-second before darkness enveloped her, a single surprised thought screamed its way through her mind: ‘Lindsay Lohan?’

2. Dawn's Early Light

None So Blind

Title: None So Blind
Author name: Romulus Lupin
Author email: galigad@yahoo.com
Category: Angst
Keywords: Harry Hermione JK Rowling
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers:SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP, HBP
Summary: “There are none so blind as those who refuse to see…”
The question never asked, however, is who can really say who is blind—and what it is that people refuse to see.
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 2. Dawn’s Early Light

She felt a prickling somewhere but she couldn’t move… clinically, her mind told her that she was simply too tired, too exhausted—she’d been tired when she woke up here, wherever ‘here’ was—only to be Stunned when she woke up minutes (or was it hours?) before…

She wanted nothing more at the moment than to return to the blank emptiness of sleep… but another small shock passed through her—and she realized that there was a faint circle of light shining from somewhere above her, breaking through the darkness around her…

Unwilling but compelled to do so, she felt her mind (and soul?) making their way towards the light.

Words began to form… she realized that she was hearing voices once again. With something other than that faint light to focus on, she tried to concentrate—and was rewarded as mind and hearing started to synchronize… and the words began to make sense…

A young girl’s babbling: “… didn’t mean to… Stupefy… nothing more, I swear!”

An older, male voice, authoritative but compassionate: “Poppy… ask her… Strengthening Solution…”

The words were followed by the sound of footsteps running away… followed a moment later by a harsh, almost-bitten off “Enervate!” and she steeled herself for an electric shock, her mind fixated on the television shows which showed dying patients being revived, bodies almost leaping off their beds—

Nothing.

Not even a tingle as had happened only moments before.

Her fuzzy mind tried to hold on to that thought, wondering why that should be so but the moment was lost as she felt her conscious self being pulled, faster and faster, towards the circle of light above her…

She knew the moment she ‘stepped through’ from wherever it was into wherever this was—and instinctively threw an arm up to cover her eyes from the light, even as her logical mind told her that the light wasn’t harsh or bright or intense… in fact, the light that she saw in the split second before she closed her eyes tightly and covered them with her arm was soft… rosy… almost dawn-like in its appearance.

She felt her mouth moving, an instinctive swallowing to remove the lump in her throat… and, as so often happens, said the first words that came to mind: “You could have sent a Patronus, you know.”

“Indeed.” She refused to drop her arm or open her eyes to look, fearful that a visual confirmation of what her ears were telling her would throw her back into the darkness… briefly she wondered whether that would be such a bad thing right now, considering who it was she was talking to. “But as you can see, Milady, I am unable to.”

The words were spoken with such a strange mix of regret and acceptance that her next move was instinctive: she sat up and blinked, trying to focus still-bleary eyes on the person in front of her… and releasing a gasp of mingled fear and surprise at the sight of a fully made-up Richard Harris in his last movie role—translucent, silvery from the tip of his high wizard’s hat to the hem of his robes, the eyes behind silvery half-moon glasses looking at her in concern.

“Richard?” She blurted out the name even as she tried to hold it back, as her stormy mind tried to make sense of it all. She watched as the apparition’s forehead crinkled in a frown, its head cocking to one side as if trying to retrieve a memory of something and then shaking its head slightly.

“You must be mistaken, Milady,” he said finally. “Allow me to introduce myself—”

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” she responded, her brain finally catching up and providing a logical explanation to the spectre in front of her, the words running through her mind: “Wizards can leave an imprint of themselves upon the earth, to walk palely where their living selves once trod.”

She noticed a flash of surprise in the ghostly features in front of her—and felt her face flushing in embarrassment at her presumptuous tone. It was the height of impoliteness, interrupting the old man before he could introduce himself properly—but she was still dizzy and in shock, trying to adjust to her surroundings and the person—spectre—in front of her…

“Well met, Milady.” The humorous tone in the ghost’s voice made her look up and she saw an appreciative twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes and she smiled in relief as he continued, “Or should I say, ‘Dame’ Rowling?”

“Please call me Jo,” she replied, shaking her head at the continued confusion over her Order of the British Empire—and caught the sly wink from the ghost. With a smile of her own, she extended her hand—only to drop it in confusion as the old man didn’t move. “Oh,” she whispered softly as her brain gave her a small kick: ghosts do not shake hands—not really, anyway. The thought caused her to blink and a strangled “What—” escaped her throat before she covered her mouth, successfully keeping herself from blurting the rest of her statement: ‘What’s he doing here then? He should be in his portrait in the Headmaster’s office—’

“You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?” She blinked in surprise at the soft yet steely and determined voice of the former Headmaster of Hogwarts who had moved to the edge of the clearing, eyes fixed on something in the distance.

“It’s not the same as Sir Nicholas; I am not afraid of moving on,” he said softly as she struggled to her feet. “I am not afraid of death; I have said it often enough here and in other places… but I am not yet ready to move on to that next, great adventure.”

She opened her mouth to say something but stopped as she saw what he was looking at, wondering what a large, shining white anvil was doing by the side of the lake—and shook her head in recognition. It was the marble tomb that held whatever was left of the Headmaster’s mortal remains after its immolation by the cleansing flame of magic…

She bit her lip as she realized that there was someone standing beside the marble tomb. There was no need to ask who it was—Dumbledore’s melancholy eyes said it all… and she felt a momentary pang of pain at the thought of what the young man would have to go through—Hades, she thought to herself, what he had gone through before!

She took a shaky step forward and stopped, chilled to her very bones… unthinking, she had tried to walk through Dumbledore, and remembered each and every sensation she had described about such encounters. She felt the ghost stepping away from her and closed her eyes tight, allowing the warmth from a still-rising sun to seep into her, and she raised her face to the sun as she took in a deep, cleansing breath.

The pain and regret she felt seeped away with her exhalation; with another slow and deep breath, she felt ready to go down to the tomb… not to pay respects to the mortal remains and memories of a beloved teacher, but to give what comfort she could to the young man standing there—

Only to stop and gape… wondering for the briefest of moments if she was really in Hogwarts or had wandered on the set of the movie as she watched a brown-haired girl approach the young man. It was a scene that even she could only smile at when Jessica pointed it out to her: Dan on the set of the Quidditch World Cup stadium, a pensive look on his face… Em walking up behind him and resting her head on his shoulder even as she placed her hands into the pockets of his robe—the preoccupied look disappearing as a smile broke out on his face…

“Is something wrong, Milady?”

She realized that she was shaking her head from side to side. The scene below her should be sweet, lovable… charming even, given what she’d heard about those two in the real world, but this wasn’t the real world! This was Hogwarts, she thought, my Hogwarts—

“Professor!”

The strangled shout broke into the boiling cauldron of her mind and she turned towards the sound of running feet—and felt her breath catch at the sight of the redheaded student she thought was Lindsay Lohan accompanied by a grey-haired, stern-faced witch with a white apron over her clothes, both dishevelled from their mad rush from the castle—leaning against a tree, trying to catch their breath.

“Professor—”

“Headmaster—”

The words from the new arrivals were stopped by the raised hand of Dumbledore’s ghost. “Rest a moment, you two. Poppy, thank you for coming—” a twinkle in his eyes—“I know you don’t make house calls.”

A sputter of indignation from the school nurse was ignored as he turned to the flame-haired witch who was on her knees, still trying to catch her breath. “Rest a moment, Miss Weasley—”

“Weasley?” The shocked whisper escaped her lips before she could stop herself and she felt herself the centre of attention as heads turned in her direction. She felt her face flushing as she tried to stammer a response while kicking herself mentally for her slip—‘Of course! Who else could it be…”

She realized that she was sitting on the grass, Madam Pomfrey hovering around, waving her wand and murmuring incantations as a warm glow flowed over her and she felt herself relaxing… unthinking, she opened her mouth when Poppy said “Open Up!” and felt something trickle down her throat and she reflexively swallowed—only to leap to her feet as the liquid burned its way into her and she could only wonder if her blood was boiling… she clamped her hands to her mouth to keep from throwing up even as she wondered why her head was surrounded by a cloud of steam…

She turned wide eyes to the now-smiling nurse who had conjured up a small fan which she handed to her. “Feeling better, dearie?”

She opened her mouth to snarl a retort but stopped as she realized that she did feel better: her earlier chill was gone… the feeling of listlessness had all but disappeared—and she smiled at the suddenly-flustered nurse who’d caught her earlier expression. So what if she did walk around with steam coming out of her ears? It was normal, she reminded herself, her grin growing wide as she contemplated the fan in her hand—and caught herself, wondering why it seemed so easy for her to accept that she was in Hogwarts.

Dream or magic, she didn’t care… this was familiar, recognizable—one may even say that this was her ‘other’ home, populated by people she was more than familiar with…

She turned to smile at the still-uneasy nurse, hand held out in greeting. “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey and, you’re correct, of course—I do feel so much better.”

Surprisingly, the nurse didn’t shake her hand—instead, she did a small curtsey as she bowed her head. “You’re most welcome, Miss—ehem?”

“My apologies,” Dumbledore’s ghost spoke up as he floated closer. “Poppy Pomfrey, Joanne Kathleen Rowling.”

Jo stifled a giggle at the pole-axed expression on Madam Pomfrey’s face—and grinned to herself at the idea of feeding the matron with some of her own potions—but she quickly approached the flustered nurse who looked as though she was about to genuflect in front of her, mumbling “My Lady… er, Dame Rowling… I mean—”

“Please, Madam Pomfrey,” Jo said, placing a firm grip on the older woman’s arm. “Just Jo, please… I’m an Officer in the OBE; I haven’t been knighted or anything.”

“Oh.” The nurse met her eyes for a brief moment, smiled and nodded before falling back into her medi-witch mode. “Well, uhm… it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ma’am—Jo,” she corrected herself. “You have some lingering effects from colds, as well as general exhaustion. I would suggest a few days of rest…” She stopped as she saw Jo glance to one side; following the latter’s gaze, she turned to Dumbledore with a slight incline of her head.

“Of course,” the shimmering form said. “Come over here, Miss Weasley… Joanne Rowling, Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley.”

The flame-haired teen approached slowly, a strange expression on her face… it took Jo a moment to realize that it was a look of awe: pure, unadulterated awe and she wondered if the young girl would fall down on her knees and grovel in front of her. The moment passed and she could only gape as she watched tears leak out of the girl’s wide, expressive eyes, her mouth flapping open and closed silently, the muscles in her throat working as she tried to form words…

“Thank you.”

It was a sibilant whisper that, for a moment, Jo thought had been carried on the wind—a notion quickly disabused as the words were spoken again in a stronger voice—and she found herself almost thrown backwards as the young witch literally lunged for her and grabbed her in a fierce, rib-breaking hug that everyone assumed was a Weasley trademark but something that, in truth, only Mrs. Weasley and Hermione had ever done, babbling continuously and half-incoherently from her shoulder: “Thank you… thank you, oh thank you, Miss Rowling.”

She felt the air being crushed out of her lungs by the redhead’s fierce embrace and she turned pleading eyes to an amused Dumbledore and a gaping Madam Pomfrey; the latter quickly shook herself of her stupor and said, in a stern voice, “Miss Weasley! Control yourself!”—and when that didn’t work, near-screamed, “You’re choking her!”

The constriction around Jo’s chest suddenly eased, and she drew in a lungful of the cool forest air as an embarrassed redhead stepped away from her, the trademark Weasley blush turning her face close to the shade of her hair—and Joann Rowling stared in amazement at the teenaged girl in front of her.

Her first impression hadn’t changed—the girl looked remarkably like a younger version of Lindsay Lohan, except that this girl’s eyes were brown, unlike the American actress’ blues… and she found herself wondering where Bonnie Wright, the young girl who had played Ginny Weasley in four—make that five—of the movies, was.

The girl in front of her was a stranger… no matter that Dumbledore had addressed the girl as Miss Weasley, her mind refused to accept it. This was not the Ginny Weasley she knew—although, she had to admit to herself, she didn’t really have a clear of idea of what anyone other than Harry really looked like beyond the rather vague descriptions in her books--

Or maybe not. She had to admit that Chris Columbus’ idea of casting the films with an all-British cast went over well with her, which was one reason she’d entrusted the movie rights to him and his crew. She had to admit that the casting was inspired—Richard Harris as Dumbledore, Dame Maggie Smith as Professor McGonagall, her own suggestion of Robbie Coltrane as Hagrid… Alan Rickman as Severus Snape was an admitted surprise as she never thought of the Sheriff of Nottingham as a Potions Master—

Her only real input had been Harry—and she grinned to herself at the casting horror that everyone had gone through in their search for “Harry.” She herself had become involved—and had happily gone along with Chris’ selection of Dan Radcliffe to play Harry…

She shook herself as she realized that the girl—“Ginny!” she told herself—was speaking to her, and blinked when she recognized the apologetic tone in the girl’s voice. She shook her head and tried to smile although, she admitted to herself, she had to wonder if her ‘smile’ had reached to her eyes…

“Well then, since we have all been properly introduced…”

Jo Rowling smiled gratefully at Madam Pomfrey’s tactful interruption and looked around her, realizing that she wasn’t in a clearing but a copse of trees overlooking the lake—and saw, with a pang of disappointment, that Harry was no longer by Dumbledore’s tomb. She wondered where he had gone but decided not to ask, the memory of seeing Harry and Hermione together still fresh in her mind—

“Miss Rowling?”

She shook her head slightly and turned to look at a concerned Madam Pomfrey. She realized that the nurse had been speaking to her and she gave a small, apologetic grin as she replied, “I’m sorry… my mind must have been off somewhere. You were saying?”

The frowning nurse looked at her carefully, almost as if she wanted to whip out her wand and stick a thermometer in her mouth, but quickly relented. “I was asking if you would care to join us for breakfast, ma’am.”

“Breakfast? But I thought—”

She quickly shut her mouth at the concerned looks that were cast her way. She was sure it was twilight when she’d fallen asleep on that dratted couch—so why were they talking about breakfast? The thought was quickly disposed of, however, as she remembered the dawn light that had greeted her—had she been asleep all night? Or was this a part of her dreamscape… but why should it be…

She felt their eyes upon her and quickly shook her head. “I’m sorry—I think I’m still a bit out of sorts.” She quickly raised a hand at Madam Pomfrey’s expression: “I’m all right… need to adjust and all that, you know.”

She shaded her eyes and looked around her—seeing the multi-spired towers of Hogwarts to one side and the wooden structure of the Quidditch pitch on the other as she continued, “I think I fancy a walk before breakfast… that is if you wouldn’t mind, Albus?”

“Of course not,” the courtly ghost responded with a slight bow.

“I’d be happy to take you around, ma’am,” “Ginny” spoke up. She continued before Jo could protest, “Please… call it apologies for having Stunned you earlier and for… err, I mean… uhm…”

“It’s all right… Ginny,” she said, hoping that the young girl didn’t notice that she stumbled over her name. She didn’t want to impose on the girl… at the same time, she needed some time to herself to process her thoughts and experiences—but the look on the girl’s face made it clear that it wasn’t to be an easy option. She was casting about for a way to politely decline when a shout made them look up—“Oi, Ginny! You’re late for practice!”

They looked up and Jo felt a radiant smile break out on her face as a familiar face came into view, swooping down to hover a few feet over the ground—Rupert Grint in all his pride and glory, wearing Gryffindor practice robes and clutching a familiar broomstick in one hand. Behind and above him flew the other players—Jo could just make out Dean Thomas astride his own broom but the others—Demelza Robbins, wasn’t it?, as well as the new beaters…

She frowned—there was someone missing—but before she could voice her thought, “Ginny” beat her to it: “Ron, where’s Harry?”

An exasperated look passed through the other boy’s face briefly, quickly replaced by a rather surly expression. “He’s not joining us… said he had something to do.”

“Ron!” Jo had to bite her lip at the petulant tone of voice—it sounded remarkably like Di in her younger days when she had to deny her sibling something she couldn’t give. A cough from above her distracted her attention and she grinned as she heard Dean’s voice: “Uhm… we’ll go ahead, meet you guys at the pitch!”

She resisted the urge to shout “Cowards!” after them—she knew all too well the mess that could result from a sibling war and couldn’t really blame them, and turned to see the two in question facing off—Ron had dropped to the ground, his broomstick in one white-knuckled hand, Ginny’s broomstick lying ignored on the ground, the feisty witch literally in her brother’s face as she poked him in the chest—and felt her mouth drop open as Ginny’s heated words made their way to her brain.

“She’s with him, isn’t she? Isn’t she?”

The thunderous look on her brother’s face was all too clear to Jo—it was the expression she imagined him having in every confrontation with Draco or the Slytherins… at every insult and slur made by Snape or Lucius Malfoy… the altercation in the Gryffindor Common Room after the Yule Ball…

It was the face of boiling anger held under tight leash—and it didn’t require a rocket scientist to figure out what they were talking about and why Ron’s face had taken on such a dangerous cast…

Ginny’s rant wasn’t over, however: “If you only have the balls, Ronald—”

Jo’s gasp of surprise was drowned out by a harsh “Miss Weasley!” and she blinked in surprise at hearing the words from a red-faced Madam Pomfrey. “You are embarrassing our guest—that will be twenty points from Gryffindor!”

The glare that the young witch directed at the school nurse should have petrified the latter but the nurse’s stern visage never wavered—matching glare for glare until the flame-haired witch dropped her eyes and mumbled something under her breath—to which the nurse responded in a manner that would have done Minerva McGonagall proud: “What was that, Miss Weasley.”

The Lindsay Lohan look-alike looked up, a contrite look on her face as she whispered, in a clear voice, “I’m sorry, Madam Pomfrey… Miss Rowling…”

It was obvious that the young witch was about to say something more but was stopped by the shocked exclamation of her brother: “Miss Rowling?”

Jo turned to him with a smile, glad of the opportunity to break the tension between the siblings—and felt herself rooted in her place, wishing that she could take a step back from the icy, angry glare that was directed her way. It was a look that she had never even contemplated seeing on Ron’s face—Voldemort’s, definitely… Lucius Malfoy’s, oh yes… Snape, when thinking of James and Sirius… but Ron?

Before she could gather her scattered thoughts, the moment was broken as the young wizard turned away, mounted his broom and kicked off, his angry but controlled voice floating back to them, “Five minutes, Ginny or you’re off the team!”

Jo released the air that she wasn’t aware she’d been holding in—wondering, in the next second if she would need a dose of Skele-Gro to re-grow the bones she thought had been removed from her legs as she staggered a step—only to straighten up as a shiver ran down her spine as a soft voice spoke, “Are you all right, Jo?”

She turned around to see Dumbledore’s concerned face close by and she nodded, turning quickly as she heard Poppy’s strident voice, “Well, I never! I will be making a full report to the Headmistress about this, Miss Weasley and you better tell your disrespectful brother that he better have a good excuse worked out! I have never seen such discourteous, boorish behaviour from students outside of Slytherin—”

“Poppy!”

The steely but quiet use of her name served to deflate the full head of steam that had built up in the nurse’s demeanour and she lowered her head in apology. Before she could verbalize the words, Jo Rowling stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s all right, Madam Pomfrey… teenagers!” The nurse and the one-time teacher exchanged an understanding look and grinned, although behind her smiling façade, Jo’s mind was roiling at what had transpired. There was something strange going on, she thought, but her thoughts were diverted as she glanced at the young witch standing to one side, the anger and tension rolling off her in palpable waves as she struggled for control.

She hesitated, unsure of what to do or whether to approach the angry teen—but Dumbledore took the matter out of her hands.

“Ginvera—”

The witch’s head snapped around and locked with the ghost’s eyes for a long moment before she nodded silently and, without another word, picked up her broomstick and mounted it. She stood there for another moment, worrying her lower lip before turning to Jo, a stricken look on her face.

“Miss Rowling…”

“I’ll see you later, Ginny.” Jo smiled, which was returned (albeit querulously) by the young witch, and Jo continued. “You did promise me a tour of the Hogwarts grounds.”

A genuine smile broke out on her face and, with a whispered “Thank you,” she kicked off and followed her brother.

The two mortals and one ghost left on the ground looked at each other and shrugged. Poppy Pomfrey repeated her suggestion of breakfast—a suggestion that Jo just as politely refused, although she urged the older woman to proceed ahead to the castle.

The nurse was about to protest but fell silent at a gesture from her former superior; with a sigh and a small bow, she started walking back to the castle.

The moment she was out of sight, Jo turned to the ghost beside her.

“Albus… what the hell is going on?”

. The move startled Madam Pomfrey and Ginny, who had both been gaping at the departing wizard and they were immediately at her side, apologetic words falling from their lips…

With an effort, she pulled away from their attempted ministrations