DO YOU BELIEVE ~ Prologue
Author: Catherine E. Grant
Disclaimer: Any character I write about in this series is, unless specified, the property of J.K. Rowling.
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The woman rose from her bed and stole silently to the window. One pale, slender hand pushed away the heavy blinds. She saw her face reflected in the glass; red-eyed, chalky white, tangled black hair framing a haunted expression. Black rims encircled eyes that looked like they hadn't known sleep for a week.
She stood there trembling. With each slight movement the sheer silk slip clung to her sweaty form, accentuating the gauntness of the figure beneath it. She stared at the glass and the glass stared back. Beyond it, sleet drove viciously at the ground with all the force of a 747 jumbo jet with an autopilot course set for hell.
Why wouldn't the dreams stop? There had to be something wrong with her. Slowly she closed the curtains and sunk listlessly across her mattress. With each dream the feeling of not-belonging increased. But who would believe her if she said anything? She briefly entertained the thought of telling the psychiatrist, the sweet-faced little lady with the glassy eyes and ironbark constitution. Dismissed it. The words 'I'm here to help' never meant 'tell me how it feels to be a cat.'
In her latest dream she was a tabby cat, watching over a house to protect a baby. No, she silently corrected herself, the baby came afterwards. You had to make sure the house was safe for the baby. Before that she'd had images of long robes, queer-looking costumes, towers and spirals and staircases that went nowhere, and creatures that seemed to be dug from the depths of Arabian nights. There was an older man that she knew she could trust, but not once had she been able to see his face. Whenever something floated into her mind she would grasp eagerly at it only to have it dance tantalisingly out of her reach. It was all so frustrating!
The earliest thing she could remember was waking up in the middle of a busy London intersection, stretched in spread-eagle fashion across the asphalt. Blurry faces had taken her to a large noisy building with lots of people where she had slept, off and on, for what they told her was the better part of a week. They'd given her a name, Sally, when they realised she didn't remember who or where she was. Sally Wilson. Sally I don't feel right here but don't bloody know why Wilson.
She bit her lip. Blood rushed eagerly into her mouth and she swallowed reflexively. Mrs Ramplings would tell her that was a bad sign, but then to Mrs Ramplings everything was a bad sign. Fleshless knobbly fingers would steeple; 'go on,' and she would feel even more confused, and she'd become really depressed, and the woman would just nod and repeat "Ja, very interesting" at appropriate intervals. Nodded like a jack in the box.
Garn.
Was she then going crazy? Probably.
She slept restlessly that night. Throughout all her dreams, images of a smiling wizard in glasses taunted the woman formerly known as Minerva McGonagall.
