A/N: I know I said that I was done writing, but this baby just came out of nowhere, and within just a few hours, I had this entire chapter finished, as well as a basic plot outline. Woot! So I trust you won't be too upset if I sort of change my mind and put up another story for your reading pleasure. ;)

All Harry Potter books and franchise are property of J.K. Rowling. She is the Queen, and thus it shall remain. *bows down* However, I am taking the liberty (also known as artistic license) of putting my own twist on things, hence the mentioning of AU in the summary. If you're a Potter Purist—i.e., you accept canon and nothing else—you might want to find some other story to read. I'd love you to read and review, but I'm not particularly fond of receiving flames. I think they're unnecessary and immature, so if you don't think you'd enjoy a strange and slightly controversial take on the HP universe, please, spare yourself the misery and stop reading right now.

If you think you will enjoy this, by all means, read and review! And this is the end of yet another scarily-long author's note. Enjoy!

July, 2007

~The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well.~

Bee smiled to herself, wiping away a few stray tears, as she closed Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the latest and last installment of her favorite series. It was a perfect ending, yet she wished it didn't have to end. But then, she reminded herself with a smile, it really didn't. She could reread each of the books as often as she liked. Heaven knows she did that already.

Glancing at her bookshelf, she spotted the worn, battered copy of The Sorcerer's Stone, and let her eyes wander over the other five books in the set. They were each in varying degrees of damage, having been read more times than she could count. How she loved to return to the pages again and again, to lose herself in the story. The characters came alive in her imagination, almost as real to her as the people with whom she associated on a daily basis. Some days, she wished she could abandon this world for that one.

But, of course, she couldn't.

Right on cue, her wake-up call came bursting into her bedroom in the form of a ten-year-old girl—Bee's little sister, Julie.

"Ugh, you're reading that stupid book again?" she sneered, tossing her long, blonde locks over her shoulder. "Seriously, Bee, you need to get a life!"

Bee hugged the book to her chest protectively. "This is the new one," she defended herself, and Harry, too. "And what would you know about having a life, Jules? You're only ten!"

"And you're seventeen, and I already have more of a life than you," Julie sniffed in a manner that greatly reminded Bee of Narcissa Malfoy (pre-Hallows, of course). "And don't call me Jules!"

Rolling her eyes, she snarled, "Did you want something, brat?"

"Mom says Grandma's coming over for dinner."

Bee groaned inwardly. She hadn't seen her maternal grandmother in almost three years. Grandma Norene lived in Hertfordshire, England, and it was hard for her to travel, so she only came to see them every few years. Bee supposed it was better that way, since each visit came as a less than pleasant surprise, no matter how much time had passed since the previous one. It wasn't that she didn't like her grandmother. There was just something about her that... didn't seem right. Bee had tried for the past seventeen years to figure out what it was, but never managed to find the answer. Finally, she just gave up, and accepted the fact that Norene Wilkins was just weird.

She was old—very old—and had a penchant for telling the same stories multiple times. And she smelled like bar soap and Noxzema. But worst of all, she loved to pinch Bee's cheek and call her by her real name. "Bee" was just a nickname for Blythe Elizabeth Elliot. What the hell had her parents been thinking? Then again, her mother's name was Verity, so she guessed ugly names were part of the genetic code (she aimed to change that). It really was fortunate that, in kindergarten, Bee realized that her initials spelled the word "bee," or she might have been exposed to an entire childhood of censure and mockery.

"What time is she coming?" Bee asked.

"If I were your personal messenger, I'd tell you, but I'm not, so you can go ask Mom yourself," Julie snipped, then turned on her heel and bounced out of the room.

"Brat," she muttered under her breath, cursing her sense of family obligation, which prevented her from calling her sister a much stronger word, even in private.

With a groan, out loud this time, she rolled off her bed and walked over to the largest bookshelf. Lovingly, she slid The Deathly Hallows into its place, then turned to her closet to find something appropriate to wear. Her parents were fine with her typical, casual ensemble of cutoffs and a sporty tank top, but Grandma was terribly old-fashioned, and believed that dinner was something to dress up for. Bee pulled out her favorite pair of jeans and paired them with a red, sleeveless blouse. She didn't bother with makeup—no one would notice anyway—but she did pull some of her short, chocolate-colored hair back away from her face, leaving a strand on each side of her face, which brought out the blue in her eyes.

At that moment, she heard the doorbell ring. Suppressing another groan, Bee took a deep breath, and plastered a smile on her face before heading down the stairs. She heard Grandma's voice above everyone else's, a slightly high-pitched warble that pierced her eardrum and caused the hairs on her neck to stand on end.

With another breath, Bee hopped off the last step, and rounded the corner into the living room. Grandma turned around instantly and grinned, showing off her yellowed teeth. She was dressed in one of her usual mismatched, patchwork dresses, with a mauve, knitted shawl draped over her shoulders, and a pair of crocs. She always did have a bizarre sense of style. Her white hair was pulled into a bun, and her face bore so many wrinkles, Bee was half-convinced her skin was fake and one good tug would pull it all off. Ew, she thought.

"Here's little Blythe," Grandma cooed in her prim, British accent, while holding out her arms.

Bee fought a scowl. "It's Bee," she corrected, but as always, it fell on deaf ears.

Grandma chuckled and stepped toward her, pulling me into a hug. Bee awkwardly patted her back, counting down from ten in her mind. When she was finally released, Norene lifted a hand and pinched her cheek, just like she'd been expecting. She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, and instead bit down on her tongue. Her only consolation was the fact that Julie was sitting on the couch, pouting and sporting a very red cheek, telltale signs of the Grandma-pinch.

"Still as lovely as ever," she warbled. "Tell me, how old are you now?"

"Seventeen," Bee replied.

The old woman's eyes grew wide. "Really? Seventeen?" She beamed. "An important age for a young woman! How are you liking it?"

Bee frowned. "It's okay, I guess."

It was Grandma's turn to frown. "Okay? Just okay?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing special has happened yet."

Grandma bristled slightly, but she quickly composed herself, and was once more grinning up at her granddaughter. "Well, we'll just have to change that, won't we?" she said with a wink.

"Er..."

"Dinner's ready!" Mom's voice announced from the kitchen. Happy to be freed from Grandma's odd comments and pinching fingers, Bee half-sprinted into the kitchen and began helping her mother set the table. She silently hoped that she wouldn't have to sit next to Grandma. As luck would have it, her grandmother situated herself beside Julie, who made no effort to conceal her grimace. That put Bee across from her, which was infinitely preferable.

Once everyone was seated, Mom smiled. "Well, dig in, everyone!"

They didn't need telling twice. Conversation was minimal, which was the norm for the Elliot family. Too much talking inevitably led to fights between the two girls. They ate in relative silence until they finished. Bee helped Mom clear the plates and put the leftovers in the fridge, then they moved into the living room again.

"So," Grandma broke the silence rather abruptly when they were all sitting, "how is school, Blythe?"

Bee cringed internally at her name, but forced herself to remain impassive. "It's all right," she said. "I'm doing really well in English and Fine Arts."

"How nice," Grandma smiled. "Which of the Arts is your preference?"

"Piano," Bee replied.

"You know, your grandfather used to love to play the piano," she said, her voice taking on a nostalgic, story-telling tone. "He would play for hours on end, coaxing whatever melodies he could from those ebony and ivory keys."

"I actually didn't know that," Bee frowned, surprised. She thought she'd heard all of Grandma's stories by now.

"Oh, yes... he was quite the skilled pianist. And then that dreadful disease kept him in bed until his death, I'm afraid. I think not being able to play sent him to an early grave. Well," she amended, "earlier than it might have been if he could have kept playing. It pained him to be without his music."

Bee felt something she hadn't felt in a very long time when in her grandmother's presence: sympathy. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

She waved her off with a smile, then changed the subject. "You mentioned English as well, dear. Are you a reader or a writer?"

"Oh, she's a reader," Julie sneered. "She spends hours and hours locked up in her room, reading book after book. Sometimes, she reads books more than once."

Before Bee could even come up with an acceptable retort, Grandma said, "And what, may I ask, is wrong with that? Books were meant to be read and reread. They don't do anyone any good sitting on a shelf."

"I like movies," the ten-year-old turned the conversation back to herself, a skill she had perfected. "Who needs to read a book when you can watch the story?"

"It's not the same," Bee rolled her eyes.

"I agree," Grandma nodded. "When you read, you don't just watch a story. You live it, you breathe it. The characters and scenes surround you, and you're transported into their world. And no matter how many times you've read the same book, they will always welcome you back with open arms."

Bee stared at the woman she'd inwardly insulted and judged for years, the same woman who had just stated her innermost thoughts in an almost poetic fashion. Who was she? Her grandmother, her own relative, and yet she seemed like a stranger. It was puzzling, to say the least, to think that someone she barely knew could express her feelings, without having conversed with her about them.

"Julie," Mom said, "it's getting late, you should get ready for bed."

Her sister groaned. "It's not fair! Bee doesn't have to go to bed!"

"Bee's older," she pointed out. "And she doesn't start school for another month. You start school tomorrow. Bed, now."

It was too tempting to resist; as Julie walked past, Bee tossed a discreet smirk that only Julie could see. She growled and stomped her way up the stairs, leaving Bee alone with Grandma.

"A spirited girl," she mused, gesturing toward the staircase, which Julie had nearly destroyed in her anger. "Quite a temper, but she'll soon grow out of that."

Bee snorted. "Not likely."

Grandma studied her carefully, but said nothing for a long time. Finally, she asked her, "Out of curiosity, dear, what sorts of books do you like to read?"

"Oh, everything," Bee smiled. "Mysteries, adventure, romance, science fiction, non-fiction, and fantasy. Especially fantasy," she added with a grin, "But the best ones are the books that combine three or more of the elements into one, like the Harry Potter series. It's got almost every good thing piled into one series, while still leaving room for the characters to grow."

"Sounds delightful," Grandma said. Bee didn't miss the twinkle in her eye as she spoke, or the knowing smile that graced her wrinkled face. She had a secret, some kind of inside joke that she was sharing with herself. And Bee wanted to know what.

"What about you, Grandma?" she asked. "What are your favorite books?"

"Well, I'm much like you, dear, I take a bit of everything. However, I can't say that I've read the Harry Potter books. Witchcraft, yes?"

Bee tensed; was she in for a lecture? "Yes," she replied. "They go to a school called Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Grandma smiled again. "You'd like to live there, wouldn't you?" She remained silent, stunned. "Don't be alarmed, dear, I certainly can't read minds. I heard it in your voice. You spoke of it reverently, with a touch of longing."

Despite herself, Bee felt a blush rise to her cheeks. "Yeah... I do wish I could go, sometimes. But I know it's just fantasy," she added hastily. "I'm not one of those people who buries themselves into their dream worlds and refused to believe in reality. I know the difference between the two."

The older woman's eyes narrowed, and that knowing smile came back. "I'm sure you do," she said after a pause. "But darling, there's no need to be ashamed of loving and longing for a magical world. We all have moments when we wish to abandon the real, in favor of the surreal."

"I know," she shrugged. "I just... didn't want you to think I was..."

"Crazy?" Grandma guessed, and her eyes twinkled again. "Well, I for one believe that sanity is a relative term, and therefore indefinable. However, based on the average accepted norms, I don't doubt you're as sane as they come."

Bee smiled in relief. "I'm glad."

Grandma watched her for a moment, then took a breath, as if she were about to say something else, but then she just smiled and shook her head. "All in good time," she whispered, more to herself, but at the same time, Bee had to wonder if she hadn't meant for her to hear it. But before she could say anything, Grandma stood. "I think I should be going now. I hope to see you soon, my dear."

As she turned to leave, Bee felt a flash of panic. She had never felt so connected to another human being, and she didn't want the feeling to go away. "Grandma, wait!" she blurted without thinking. "C-couldn't you stay?"

"I believe that's up to your mother to decide," she replied gently.

"What's up to me to decide?" Mom asked, appearing a moment later.

"Can Grandma stay the night?"

Mom's eyes widened in shock. "You... you want her to stay here?"

"I-I just think it would be more convenient for her," she hedged. "I mean, it's dark out, and it's getting late, and who knows what kind of freaks might be out tonight, so I think she'd rather stay here tonight."

"Oh, I'm fine either way, dear," Grandma provided unhelpfully.

"Well... I still think it's safer," Bee added lamely.

Mom's eyes narrowed, and Bee had the distinct impression that she could see right through her. Then Mom turned to look at Grandma, and her eyes became slits. "I suppose that would be all right," she said cautiously. "I'll fix up the guest room."

"Great!" Bee exclaimed. Then, with a smile, she bade good night to both her mother and grandmother, before hurrying up the stairs. Once in the privacy of her room, she did a happy dance, careful not to make too much noise. She wasn't sure what had made the difference, why she suddenly felt so connected with Grandma Norene, but she did know that she was anxious to find out.

After a quick shower, Bee changed into her pajamas and collapsed happily onto her bed, pulling the blankets over her. She let out a quiet giggle, then turned off the lamp on her bedside table, and forced herself to relax.

Just as Bee could feel the tiredness seeping in and pulling her under, she heard a noise that brought her back to consciousness. She frowned, trying to identify the sound, but couldn't come up with anything. Convinced she'd imagined it, she closed her eyes... only to hear it again. It was a sharp, quick tapping noise. Bee remained silent, waiting for it to come a third time. When it did, it was accompanied by a soft, somewhat musical sound, and a sort of... fluttering, quick and rhythmic. It almost sounded like... an owl...

In a split second, Bee leapt from her bed and tossed open the window. She gasped excitedly as her suspicions were confirmed. Hovering just outside was a beautiful barn owl, with something tied to its talon. Bee stepped away from the window, and gestured for it to come inside. The owl swooped in and landed on her bed, holding out the talon to which its message was attached. Her fingers shook as she removed the tiny scroll of paper. Five words were written in an elegant hand, which caused her heart to race and her head to spin:

It's real. Keep the owl.

A/N: Like it? Love it? Not sure what to make of it? Please let me know in a review!