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Subject:Midsummer Night’s Amnesia
Time:06:43 pm
Current Mood:confusedconfused
At some point, the meeting of wizards had relocated out to the lake, then to the edge of the forest, then... well, as curious as it is, they had both fallen asleep propped up against a large rock. It had been pleasantly sunny and not too hot, and matters at hand hadn’t seemed as pressing as all that, really, and so... several hours later, the two blinked awake, apparently as surprised to see each other as they were to discover that they hadn’t the slightest idea where they were.

Pleasant enough place, though.

Harry and Miniver regarded one another with child-like curiosity, both gradually waking up.

“I say,” Harry hazarded finally, eyeing Miniver’s long hair, “are you a girl?”

Miniver hesitated, reaching up to twirl his hair around his fingers. “No,” he decided finally. “I should hope not. Funny, though, I can’t quite seem to remember who I am...”

“Damn.” Harry, likewise, couldn’t seem to remember who he was, but he found himself disappointed to not be waking up next to a girl. Even a really unattractive one.

Miniver tugged his hair forward to inspect its color and texture. He compared it to Harry’s. “What color are my eyes?” he asked.

Harry, finding the question a bit irrelevant, answered distractedly, “blue.” He was busy searching his pockets.

“So are yours,” Miniver pointed out. “And my hair’s the same color.”

“Oh!” Harry’s attention returned to Miniver. “Hey, I bet we’re brothers then. I don’t remember disliking you before we fell asleep.”

“I don’t remember before we fell asleep at all,” Miniver replied, “but yes, I figure you’re my brother. How come you’ve got that accent?”

“I haven’t got an accent,” Harry objected. “You have.”

“Nooo,” Miniver shook his head. “I think I’m older. I must have learned to talk first. You’ve got the accent. Cut it out. I bet you do that all the time.”

Harry frowned, but attempted to adjust the shape of his words to match Miniver’s. “Oh, all right.” It came off a bit Southern, but it was good enough for Miniver’s ears. “Better. Don’t let mom catch you doing that.”

“Oh, do we have a mother?” Harry perked up a little.

“Probably,” Miniver shrugged. “You don’t look like an orphan or anything.”

“You do.” Harry pointed at Miniver’s tattered, frayed, wrong-sized hippie clothing.

Miniver looked down at himself. “She must be away, then. She’d never let me get away with looking like this.”

“How come I let you get away with it?” Harry asked dubiously.

“Because I’m older.” Clearly, this is a valid reason. “And I keep you in line when you do stupid things like talk with a funny accent.”

Harry was willing to concede that point. He was still making an effort to speak the way Miniver did. “Brothers, then. I think we must have dozed off somewhere strange. I can’t seem to remember your name. Or mine. Oh! Wait...” He pulled out some things from his pockets. Among them was an old, battered, creased and beaten note, not dated, but still in his pocket, in the way that things tend to live in one’s pockets for months or even years if one doesn’t take notice to remove them. “Hey, what’s this?”

Miniver took it and studied it. “Looks like you forgot to deliver it. But your name’s Vulpes Blanc. Kind of a nice name.”

“Oh dear,” Harry fretted, totally missing the possible incorrectness of Miniver’s assumption that he had written it. “I hope it wasn’t important.”

“No,” Miniver decided, “probably not. You probably told me whatever it was before you’d sent the note.”

Harry looked relieved. “Oh, good. Are you Harry, then?”

“Well, obviously.” Miniver rolled his eyes. “Harry Blanc.” It sounds right. Especially the last name.

“Who are Bar and Owl?”

Miniver answered, “Our sisters,” and tucked the note into one of his own pockets, then set about emptying the others while Harry replaced his own stuff into his. All but the wand, which he noticed Miniver had one of also.

“Are we wizards?” Harry breathed in amazement.

Miniver picked up his wand, and the Harry’s. “Apparently.” He added, smugly, “Mine’s longer.”

Harry rolled his eyes and snatched his wand back, tucking it into its pocket. “What’s all that, then?” He pointed to Miniver’s scraps of paper and collection of knick-knacks.

Miniver looked over the papers. Most were small scraps torn from something larger, with buts of unfinished verse on them.

“Spells,” Miniver decided, and carefully stowed them away again. “I must be trying to work out new ones. I bet that’s what you wanted to tell me—something about a new spell I was working on.”

Harry seemed impressed. “I hope it helped.”

“It did,” Miniver proclaimed, smiling at his younger brother.

Harry smiled back. “I always wanted an older brother. Where are we, d’you suppose?”

Miniver looked around, spotting the bar almost instantly. It was a little hard to miss. “We must have gone out drinking and had to much, and fallen asleep.”

Harry rolled his eyes again. “I thought you were supposed to keep me in line!”

“Only when you talk weird.” Miniver shoved himself to his feet. “I’m thirsty,” he decided.

Harry thought about it. “Me too.”

Miniver reached down to help him up. “Good thing we’re at a pub, isn’t it?”

“Really good thing,” Harry agreed. He took a few shiny galleons, and a number of knuts from a pocket he couldn’t reach while sitting down. Miniver searched his own bellbottom pockets, taking out a few British coins from the last time Robbie had paid him, and the gold dragon coin from Ravin. “We’re paid wizards,” Harry grinned.

Miniver nodded agreement. “This looks like more than enough for a few drinks. Maybe someone in there will recognize us.”

This sounded like a fine bet to Harry. Thus, both approving of the present circumstances, the two wizards headed into Milliways...
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Subject:A Meeting in the Infirmary
Time:02:06 am
Malfoy's maliciousness DISCOVERED.Collapse )
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Time:02:14 am
Current Mood:irateirate
Dear Mun:

No. Just... no.

...help me...

~Harry
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Subject:OOC
Time:10:26 pm
[This puppet has been reassigned. Lookie, new mun! :D]
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Subject:OOM: Heavy HBP Spoilers abound!
Time:01:53 am
There was one second, hardly more than a heartbeat, in which Harry knew there was something terribly wrongCollapse )

[[The first bit of text is from HBP American edition.]]
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Subject:All goes deadly quiet...
Time:05:18 pm
Current Mood:anxiousanxious
- Continuation from the OOM post found here. -

Harry glared at both Ron and Hermione, hating being cooped up in here when he knew he should be out with the rest of them, fighting, helping calm things down. Finally, all that could be heard all around them was an eerie silence and Harry softened his expression.

"Can't we just bloody see what's going on yet?" he asked. Right now he wished more than anything that they knew about the prophecy, then just maybe they'd be letting him do as he needed to be doing.
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Time:05:13 pm
Current Mood:exhaustedexhausted
Harry stormed up to his room after a most horrid dinner. He hadn’t meant to break the glass, but it seemed as though anything and everything could set him off lately. He sat down on his bed, tired and weary from his lack of sleep due to nightmares--nightmares that replayed Sirius’s death over and over again. He didn’t intend to sleep, but nevertheless exhaustion overtook him easily.

He lay back in his bed but instead of hitting a creaky mattress, he landed on pebble-strewn, grassy ground. He sat up again, alarmed, wet grass beneath his palms. It was dark, and foggy--too foggy for him to see anything of substance around him. He looked down at himself and was alarmed to see that he was wearing robes. He lifted his hand to his chest, feeling them to see if they were real, and they were.

"Where am I?" he murmured to himself, and then he noticed something gleaming on the ground next to him--a golden trophy, lying in the grass...

No...no this can't be...

A hand was thrust in his face. He looked up at its owner's face and froze. It was impossible.

This is all wrong. It can't be...this can't be happening...

"C-Cedric?"

In shock, Harry reached up his trembling hand and Cedric Diggory grabbed it and pulled Harry to his feet, and then looked around a the overgrown graveyard around them, the outline of a small church beyond a yew to their right. A house, old and large, sat on a hill to their left. But Harry didn't notice any of this; he was too busy staring at the dead boy next to him.

"Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?" Cedric asked Harry.

"Cedric, Moody did it!" Harry said frantically, taking his wand out of his waistband and clenching it in his hand. "Moody's really an imposter, a Death Eater, named Barty Crouch Jr. He entered me in the contest--to get me killed, and to get Voldemort his body back!"

But if Cedric heard any of what Harry said, it didn't seem to register. He went on, as if he was in a videotape, regardless of Harry's panicked words.

"Wands out, d'you reckon?" Cedric asked nervously, pulling out his wand.

"Cedric, you have to run! Wormtail's going to kill you! You have to run!" Harry said, trying to drag him back the other way, towards the Triwizard Cup. "We have to go back! You can't stay here!"

But no matter how hard Harry pulled on his arm, Cedric wouldn't budge. And then someone was coming towards them in the fog, closer and closer. Cedric stood there, peering into it, trying to see who it was. Harry didn't bother. He knew.

"Listen to me!" Harry implored, near hysterics now. "Please, Cedric! Run!"

The cloaked figure came closer, and then stopped at the marble headstone, as it had before.

Harry's scar exploded with pain, as it also had before, and he fell to his knees, his wand slipping from his fingers. But he fought through the pain, this time, still clutching at Cedric's arm, trying to get him to run. "RUN!" he screamed through the pain, yanking at his hand.

"Kill the spare!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

"CEDRIC!" Harry held his arm up to shield his eyes, as a blast of green light blazed through his eyelids, and he heard Cedric's body thumping to the ground beside him. Frenetically, Harry cast about for his wand and clenched it in his hand as he opened his eyes, blinking away tears and ghostly green afterimages. He retched in the grass from the pain in his head.

"He was useless to you. I don't see why he's worthy of mourning," the Dark Lord hissed in a cold voice, and Harry looked up to see him towering over him, all in black, looking down at him with his slitted snake eyes, burning red like embers of coal. "But then, I've never seen the sense in mourning anyone. To do that, you must weaken yourself by holding foolish notions of friendship and love first."

"Avada Keda--" Harry started, but Voldemort cut him off with, "Expelliarmus!" sending Harry's wand flying out of his hand and into his own. Harry scrambled away from him on his hands and knees, panting in fear, his scar throbbing fit to burst, and bumped right into Cedric's body.

His robes with thrown over his head, and there was something about them...that seemed wrong. Off. This was different this time. Something was even more wrong than it had been before...

"Won't you look at his face, Harry Potter?" Voldemort taunted. "Won't you look at the face of the boy you killed?"

"I didn't kill him! He died because of you! Because of you and Wormtail!" Harry screamed. "You didn't have to kill him! You could have just let him go! YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO KILL HIM!"

"Look at his face, boy," Voldemort commanded, and his hand moved of its own will--or rather the Dark Lord's will--and reached, trembling, towards Cedric's robes, and it seemed as if his eyes were riveted on the dead boy. Harry tried to keep his hand from moving, but couldn't fight it, and then he realized something that made his pounding heart stop in his chest. The robes were too worn. Far too worn. Cedric was rich, his dad had been a successful worker in the Ministry of Magic; he'd had new robes all the time. These were frayed and faded and inches too short, revealing dirty, beat-up sneakers on overly large feet.

"No," Harry panted, resisting even harder, trying to hold his hand still. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to see...

But he pulled the robes away anyway.

And then he let out a cry of agony that sounded like it had been ripped from his chest with hooks when he saw the dead boy's hair, which was bright red.

NO! NONONONO!

"RON! RON! NOOOO!" Harry cried, and he gathered his best friend's limp body up in his arms. Ron's eyes blue eyes were glazed and staring up at the sky, as blank and empty as two wells in the ground. His mouth was open in a soundless scream--one that he would never get the chance to finish.

"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU!" he screamed at the Dark Lord, tears blurring his vision. "I'LL KILL YOU!"

"Not before I take them all from you, boy," Voldemort hissed, immensely pleased, "Not before every last person you care about is dead."

Green lights shot out of the end of his wand and started floating around the graveyard, lighting up more bodies, more slumped shapes that he had thought were just rills on the ground. One had bushy brown hair...

"HERMIONE!" There were others, so many others, many of them with bright red hair--Mr. And Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, the twins, Lupin...

"...There is a way to spare them, however," Voldemort said languidly. "If you choose to give yourself up to me willingly..."

Harry shook his head, glaring, seething with rage, and let go of Ron, and climbed to his feet. He lunged towards Voldemort, ready to kill him with his bare hands, but the ground crumbled away beneath him and Voldemort's laughter was echoing in his ears as he was falling, falling into the abyss, the bodies of those he loved tumbling down with him as he screamed and screamed and screamed...

****

Harry jerked awake from the nightmare, trembling and covered in a sheen of cold perspiration, his tangled sheets wound around him, nearly making him a prisoner of his own bed.

His scar throbbed painfully, letting him know that Voldemort had communicated with him yet again.

Before he could awaken properly, a very familiar owl flew haphazardly into his room zooming in through the opened window.

"Pig...?" Harry called out groggily, his voice thick from sleep.

As if in answer, the owl flew toward him, a letter from one of the Weasleys dangling from his extended leg.

Harry nearly ripped the letter off of Pig. The owl stayed, as though the sender had instructed him to wait for a response. He opened the letter, reading it quickly:

Harry—

How are you? Hope those muggles aren’t bothering you too much. Not much has been going on here but a lot of cleaning. A lot of horrible, horrible cleaning. I’m getting sick of it.

I’ll see about calling you on the tellyphone (did I spell it right this time?) in a few days, alright? There’s something I want to ask you about. With girls. Since you’ve had at least a little bit more experience than me with them (how sad is it that we’re both nearly old enough to drink and between us, we’ve only had about three dates, counting the Yule Ball?)

Anyway, I’ll call. Hope you’re alright. And I’ll be sending you your birthday present soon.

--Ron


Harry’s heart rate calmed greatly. All just a dream...he’s fine...they’re fine... he thought with relief. He walked to his trunk, rummaging about for a quill, ink, and parchment.

He began writing, although with Pig now fluttering about the room, it was rather distracting.

Ron--

I’m fine. The Dursleys have been almost decent since everyone cornered them at King’s Cross.

It’s called a telephone, and call during the day when they’re out. I’ll be here--I’ve got nowhere else to go. But don’t expect me to give good advice about girls. I’ll try though.

I hope Dumbledore lets me come stay with you soon. I can’t take it here much longer.

Be careful. I just had a nightmare and I can’t say much through this letter but just--be careful. Watch your back.

Harry


Harry sent the letter with the hyper owl and watched him fly out into the setting, evening sun. His head cleared slightly and he decided to head out for a jog. Slowly, he opened the door to his room and listened, expecting to hear at least one of the televisions playing downstairs. Hearing nothing, he looked at his watch, bewilder. It wasn’t all that late, after all, and they should have been awake.

He walked downstairs, and exited through the front door in order to proceed with his normal routine of jogging after a dream. No one had stopped him yet, so he figured the Order just had people keeping an eye on him as he ran. Sometimes he fancied he heard footsteps thudding through the empty street with him, overlapping his own. It was both unnerving and a relief.

Jogging always helped him think and allowed him to calm down after such events.

Hwoever, upon opening the door of Number 4 Privet Drive, instead of Privet Drive, he was transplanted into a world he'd never dreamnt of, or at least had thought was only a dream...

[[OOC: The dream sequence of this post was taken with permission from a fic by_our_king_ which is located here. Ron’s letter is from _our_king_ as well, of course taken only with permission.]]
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[icon] Harry James Potter
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