To Enter a Fairytale

By: BlooDrunk

A/N: There may be a few AU points here and there, in more ways than one. I mean, yes, it's AU from the fifth book, but I'm talking about different stuff. The few chapters that are up during this time are going through some editing, as I have found inconsistencies both within the story and in the timeline (there are no iPhone's in this time period *self facepalm*). If anyone is interested in being my beta, I'd appreciate it :)

Chapter 1: Just a Dream

How many people would wish this for themselves, this dream turned nightmare? This blessing turned curse? How many souls would be in bliss, if they were put into my shoes? Countless, I'm sure. Then why do I hate it, when I used to think myself to be among those numbers?

Harry Potter was a child's fantasy, nothing more than a work of fiction. How I found myself within its pages, I still have trouble comprehending. I was only twelve years old, and my life was what I like to think 'normal' is supposed to be. I was to enter my local Junior High, back in America. That was years ago… I believe around four. The amount may not seem much to average eyes, but keep in mind four years is a third of a twelve year olds life, and just under a fourth of mine.

I remember very little luxury memories from that life. I can't recall what the school name was or where I lived. Not even my friend's names or faces. All of my family's own identities have become blurry and unrecognizable, and as time passed I was left alone in the darkness of my own growing insanity. The only clarity I have left, that I cling to for dear life, is the face of my mother, the only family I can remember. I remember that I lived with her, but when I try to recall any further specifics, I get struck with a migraine. The only other reality from that life I have is that of the events before it changed, and I'm not even sure that can be considered reality at all.

In any case, four years is enough time to build up a story; a long, dull story. I've bid my time here, wallowing in the background, not calling attention to myself and leaving well enough alone the things that my nose should stay out of. Alas, I mustn't stray too far from the topic at hand: the day I came to be in this existence. I wouldn't be a very good story teller if I left out the tiny detail of how I, a human child, fell into the written words described so fluently by the genius that is - or was - J. K. Rowling.

Like I said, I was twelve. From the kids I see in my neighborhood now, I suppose I was care free and oblivious to the horrors ahead, the torture of which humanity calls 'life'. When I feel up to the migraine that comes with trying to reclaim lost memories, the year was some time after the year 2000. I don't have difficulty remembering it was summer vacation, however. The memories of how I felt about the jump from Elementary to Junior High will forever be embedded into my mind, even if I don't have any images to go with the emotions. Giddiness, anxiousness, overall excitement to be moving forward. I'm not really sure why I felt anxiety; the children I see playing on the street look like they want nothing more than to move on with school, but the stomach aches that used to accompany the thought of change somehow still gives the occasional nightmare. Weak, I know, but I'd rather face those than the nightmares that cause me to wake up in a cold sweat.

Despite the stomach aches, I believe I did relatively well in school. I'd have a stronger sense of disappointment if I had bad grades, so I wouldn't be surprised if I was the 'B' average kind of kid. But one thing was absolutely clear about my academics. I was an avid reader.

This comes with the memories that are as vivid as the landscape I see now; a massive forest overlooked by the cliff of a mountain, still glowing from the sunrise. Those memories came just before everything changed on a far greater scale than just going to a new school. Reading was my passion. I used to read until my eyelids felt like they were attached to hundred pound weights. I had a whole floor to ceiling bookshelf in my room that I dedicated to stories I had read or had yet to read. There was even a smaller bookshelf in my closet that I reserved only for my favorites.

Granted, I am unable to recall specific passages from the books, but I remember the vast majority of the titles and the main ideas. The clearest memory I have is of me reading, most certainly because it was the last thing I did before I was brought here. These are the memories I can play like a movie behind closed eyelids, the ones that might as well have occurred in this life.

It was a sunny day and I had to squint my eyes at the pages as the rays from the sun glared at me though the tree's branches. The bark at my back was still moist from the morning sprinklers, and a dog was yapping away on the other side of the white picket fence surrounding my backyard. The blanket beneath me was lumpy from the uneven surface of grass, dirt patches, and the occasional stone pile, root, or stick. My black and white cat stayed curled up to my side, paying no heed to the dog that no doubt had its attention on him. I like to think my cat's name was Oreo. That probably wasn't his real name, but I needed something to call him in this recurring 'dream' of mine. The particular book I was reading just so happened to be about a boy, now a teenage wizard with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. I had been rereading the series in celebration of the final movie being released that week. The final book of the series was laid open in my lap, temporarily forgotten as the cat insisted I give him my full attention. I remember the heat being just enough to warm me to the core. It was the rare, perfect day. The kind of day where there wasn't any humidity and just enough clouds to shield you from an endless beat down of radiated heat.

Even though my eyes were drooping with sleep, a result of nature's sunny blanket and leaf rustling, dog barking, bird singing lullaby, I was determined to finish the book in my hands. As soon as I read the last sentence, I allowed myself to loll my head back against the tree trunk. I took in all the sounds around me, the feeling the heat of the sun gave when it got past the tree's leaves, though my eyes were then sheltered with shade. I inhaled deeply at the familiar scent wafting over from my mother's garden. Everything about my surroundings seemed to whisper in my ear, telling me to relax and dream. It took me by the wrist and led me to wondrous places, and everywhere we went we were accompanied by a calm peace; the kind of peace that only comes from a content sleep. I dreamt of golden fields that went on for miles, and that I could run in them with the wind blowing through my hair as the wheat stalks kissed the bottoms of my outstretched arms. The ground crunched under my bare feet, and there in my personal fantasy, I felt free.

But time was lost to me, as it often is to everyone, and it felt like all too soon I jarred myself awake. It was dark. The dog was no longer barking. The birds had silenced, and there wasn't a breeze to rustle the leaves. There weren't leaves to rustle. The tree was gone. My cat was missing, and the garden had disappeared. Someone had removed the fence I'd helped put up, and looked to have uprooted all other life with it. The grass was dead and an unhealthy shade of brown. As far as the eye could see, there was… nothing. Everything looked dead.

In a panic, I had stood up and turned around in a circle, looking for some sign of life, a shred of familiarity, but only seeing the same basic thing every which way I turned; death.

My home, the neighborhood I had grown up in, looked bombed and burned, which I found unsettling because usually bombs put out more damage. There was a chunk gone from the street here, and hole in the side of the house there, and when a building burns down it's more than just charred over. It's destroyed. The scene before me was too clean. The feeling of fear and disorientation melted away as realization took its place. I was still dreaming. With the knowledge that what I was looking at wasn't reality, I took comfort in the fact that I would soon wake up and I would see that my home was completely intact, and as comforting as it had always been. But, not knowing how long it would take until I would wake up, I started to roam around, examining the ruin created by my imagination.

The first thing I explored was my house. Pure curiosity had drawn me to see what my dream world had made of my home. I entered through the back door, and climbed the burnt carpet steps of the staircase to the second floor of my suburban home. I sought the door to the immediate left after ascending the last stair, the door that would lead to my bedroom. Cautiously I opened the door, preparing for the worst, but was greeted with a mostly intact room, even if it needed to be dusted and a few things replaced. Not to mention, everything had a thick layer of a mixture of ash and soot.

My eyes scanned the room, taking in the disheveled familiarity. The bed on the far wall stood to the right of my bookcase and to the left of the grimy window, which overlooked the ruined backyard. The curtains, once dark violet, had faded to a dull grey wherever it didn't have burn damage. On the other side of the window, and against the right wall, was my dresser, its dark cherry wood coated in residue. The attached mirror was cracked, and as I looked at the spider web of pieces I found hundreds of blank stares looking back. I turned to the other side of the room, the left wall. In it were two doors, one led to the walk in closet and the other to the bathroom shared between me and the guest room. The walls were littered with posters, but they were all ripped and scorched beyond recognition. The few pictures I had weren't better off. The faces were marred by burns and the glass over them was shattered. The oval rug in the middle of the room, the one that used to match the curtain's violet hue, had shrunk considerably by fire and was in rags.

I stared at the room without emotion. It was a dream, after all. No need to get upset when I would wake up and find my bed exactly the way I left it, and not the charred, scattered mess it was in that dream. I trailed my eyes across the room one last time before turning to leave, when a speck of color caught my attention. My eyes found the object of interest, and I walked over to it, but as I got closer, my emotionless expression turned to one of puzzlement. On my bed was a stack of books, which had not been there previously. I plucked the top one off the pile in wonder, examining it and flipping it over in my hands. 'Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone', it read. It looked just like my American copy, though without the wear and tear of age. I glanced down, back towards the rest of the stack. 'Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets'. I swept the book aside, allowing it to plop on the bed, and read the next title. 'Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban'. Again. 'Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire'. Again, this time all surprise gone. 'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix'. 'Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.' I tossed the books aside to reveal the last book, 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows."

My eyes stared at the small collection in confusion. How did they get here? No, why were they here? What sort of sense is this supposed to make? Why do I find these diamonds in the rough that are the remains of my burnt, charred room? All these were questions I found flying through my mind, trying to find answers that I could not possibly answer for myself.

Eventually, curiosity once again got the better of me. I quickly walked to the closet and pulled the rusty door open, wasting no time pushing passed the tattered clothing in order to get to the small bookcase in the back. It was in the far right corner, as it always was, and it was filled with books. No gaps were to be found, even should I have wanted or needed the room for more books. The books that were there, however, were in the same condition as the rest of my room, as well as the rest of the foreseeable world around me. I couldn't read the titles, but my collection of one particular series could be singled out on the top shelf of the four-shelf bookcase. I pulled the first out and opened it, and as expected the pages were burnt and unreadable. I didn't bother to put it back, I just set it on the small piece of ruined furniture.

It didn't make sense to me, at all. But then, I reminded myself, dreams rarely do.

My curiosity had been satisfied, but the question still remained why my subconscious felt the need to place seven books on my bed. Stacked. In order. Brand new.

Just a dream.

My explanation was the only explanation. A dream, something sometimes indecipherable even by the creator.

Gah. Don't worry yourself with pointless thoughts. Just a dream.

My musings carried on as fast as my feet did, and when I came back out of my thoughts I found they had led me back outside, and I was once again faced with death and destruction. I remember then thinking, 'I don't like this dream.' It's funny, some things never change.

Now, my dear reader, humans tend to have a certain reflex when they hear a noise or feel a sudden touch to their being. It's a natural response we've kept throughout the ages as a necessity for survival. But, you see, somewhere along the line, my genetics decided I didn't need that reflex. Never mind the thugs around the world who may try to cause harm to my bloodline, it's apparently in my genes to have the best of luck and always be in the right place at the right time, never having any danger come my way.

What. A. Joke.

A subtle crack and a simple touch to the back of my neck, and I had just stood there. I acted as if a strand of hair had slipped out of my non-existent bun to brush my neck's exposed skin. And just so I'm clear, if that had happened I would have ignored it and kept my gaze on the remnants of my house.

"And here I thought you had been thorough," it said. "And yet, here before me stands a survivor. Can you tell me why? Why does this one still live?"

"We checked, my Lord. There were no other living beings in this area. She was not here."

"If that is in fact true then you are becoming incompetent. That will cost you dearly, Lucius."

"Forgive me, my Lord." This second voice was ignored, and the first sounded louder, now facing me.

"You, girl, turn," it commanded.

My feet turned me of their own accord, and they stopped only when I faced him. A bald, pale skinned 'man', whose appearance could also be described as snake-like with his nostril slits, red eyes and reptile-like pupils. He was adorned with pitch black robes which hid away his skeleton of a body. His unnaturally long, boney fingers were at ease around his wand, of which he then had pointing at me; at my heart.

Since I wasn't even a teenager yet, he towered over me as I stood there. Alone. Vulnerable. Voldemort had his wand aimed at me, and I was absolutely alone and defenseless.

Calm yourself. Just A dream.

"Aw, look. It's only a kitten. Can I keep it?" Female, I noted. Somewhere behind the Dark Lord.

"You have a job to finish, Bellatrix." He stepped away, disapparated, and was replaced by a woman. A sinister, smirking, deranged looking woman.

Lestrange.

From there, it gets difficult. Time wasted away as Bellatrix Lestrange tortured my twelve-year-old-dream-self using the cruciatus curse. Though, as it were, I didn't feel any physical pain. That's not to say I didn't collapse to the rotting soil and writhe as if I were in agony, but at the very least I didn't feel the white-hot knives that are supposed to go with the curse.

Bellatrix took her time. Looking back now, I'm not sure who was more insane. Her, for being the crazy bitch that she was - ahem… is - or me, for actually dreaming myself through the would-be torture. The fact remained, however, that she was the one with the wand and the blood-lust, and seeing the same scene for more than five minutes… well, I imagine it's like reading some minor celebrity died. The article is only interesting for a few minutes, tops. After that it's old news, and time to move on to something else, shallow as it sounds. The curse started diminishing; I noticed it when I wasn't being compelled to struggle to maintain breathing. And finally, I could be still.

"Enough, Bella. Get it over with and meet back at the manor." The addressed woman pouted at the Deatheater's words.

"Oh, fine. Just give me a few more minutes." The man nodded, though his jaw was tight, and all the other figures disappeared. Save for Bellatrix, of course.

"Well, Kitten, playtime's been cut short," another curse, "But we'll make it count," she finished with a smirk.

Curse after curse, even though it didn't affect me physically, time still seemed to drag on, like those last few seconds before class lets out. Except in this scenario, I wasn't bored. I was horrified. What happens when you die in your dreams? Is it even possible? Is that when you wake up?

It stopped all of a sudden, and I was able to heave myself up enough in order to find a reason for the pause. She was holding her arm, and her dark mark was moving.

"I do believe I have to go, Kitten," she said.

This is it…

"Avada Kadavra!"

I'm going to stop here for a moment to go back a few steps. The answer is, no. You can't die in dreams. It isn't possible. You either wake up before it happens, or you move onto a different dream or time placement where you are very much alive. The reason is that, even as you sleep, your brain is still quite active. This is obviously proven in dreams themselves. But, when you are dead, your brain is not active. So, how would it die in a dream in which it has to be active to fuel? It can't. Plain and simple. And that's why I only saw the green stream of light headed towards me before my surroundings changed and I woke up for the second time that night in a place very different, though not so far away from, my backyard.

I'd be lying if I told you that I knew I was still dreaming. In fact, I fully expected to wake up under my tree, under a starlit sky with a certain black and white cat pawing at me to let him inside. But what kind of story would it be if that actually happened? Well, I'd probably be better off, in one way or another. I suppose it all depends on who you ask.

In any case, I awoke this time on an ash covered floor, and as I wrenched my eyes open they found a scorched ceiling. I was, once again, in my room. And even more frustrating, I was still sleeping.

I raced to the window overlooking the yard I had just 'left'. Sure enough, Bellatrix was there, dumbstruck, her wand still pointed at a dent in the grass and the place that I had been 'tortured' only moments before. After looking around and doing a few double takes, she again grasped her arm and huffed angrily before turning and disappearing. Even though I had seen her go with my own eyes, I continued to survey the area, fearful that the witch would reappear.

"She's not coming back," a voice said from behind me. It was soft, and sounded as if coming from an old man.

"How do you know?" I'd asked in my high-pitched, childish voice. I heard a chuckle. It wasn't evil, if anything it sounded grandfatherly… well, I suppose I don't really have much to compare it to, but that's the only way I can describe it. Grandfatherly.

"I know," he answered me. After watching the back yard for awhile, reassuring myself Lestrange wouldn't return, I whisked around to find the man sitting on the edge of my bed. One of the books was in his hand. Had he been there when I woke up? I didn't notice him.

He had a long, silver beard and hair, along with half moon-spectacles propped on his nose. Behind said spectacles were a pair of blue, twinkling eyes that had removed their attention from the book and had focused on me. Yes. Definitely grandfatherly. You know, aside from the long robes that hid his feet, decorated with crescent moons. At least his clothing wasn't as threatening as my last visitors.

"Why so surprised?" he asked. I blinked and walked over to him, taking a seat on the other side of my bed. He returned to the text in his hands.

"Extraordinary, isn't it?" He flipped a page.

"What is?"

He looked at me, considering me for a moment, before turning back to the book.

"The writings of any literature, young one. Many will never learn the true power of written word," he said, flipping to another page.

"What do you mean?" I asked. Dumbledore chuckled once again. I wasn't sure what the joke he was laughing at was, but I figured it had something to do with me being ignorant of some sort of big picture. I didn't like that.

"The human mind is a powerful one, Miss Dorin. Every thought of fantasy or scenario ever produced is more complex than you realize. For instance," he held up the book in his hand, "This was the result of a single thought, which evolved into an intricate, profound story-line. A scenario, a 'dream' of a single human being." He continued his reading before flipping to yet another page. I could feel my face screw up at his words.

"…It's a book…" I said slowly. He smiled.

"Right you are." I waited for him to continue but he remained silent, reading.

"What's so important about a book?" I asked, disregarding my love for reading. At my question, his eyes finally lifted and I saw them twinkle.

"There's the question I was waiting for." He stood up, closing the book with one hand. He did this silently, and I continued to look at him expectantly when he offered me his arm. I was hesitant at first, but I took it just the same and we apparated into a street a moment later.

My first look around consisted of gawking at all the shops with names like 'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes', 'Ollivanders Wand Shop', and at the end stood the structure that could only be 'Gringotts Wizarding Bank'. My second glance noticed that no one seemed to notice us, and Diagon Alley was absolutely bustling with people.

I looked to the wizard beside me once again for answers, but he simply gestured me forward, and so, we walked down Diagon Alley.

"Books provide much more than just entertainment, child. They also exercise your imagination. And, by using creativity, result in this," he gestured to everything around us.

"… My dream?" I asked uncertainly. He nodded in affirmation. I still wasn't following his so-called wisdom.

"It's just a dream," I said, this time more firm, though my confusion wriggled its way into my voice as well. He nodded again.

"For now."

I stopped walking. He did as well, and looked at me, waiting.

"What do you mean?" I'd asked cautiously. He smiled, but it did me no comfort as my question went unanswered.

"In due time, child." I huffed and reluctantly followed him again.

"You see, dreams are complicated things. You can be asleep for no more than an hour, and yet the dream you experience could go through a lifetime. They can vary in emotion and detail, and can range from plot-less," he held out his hand and the same book he was reading before appeared, "To having a story so deep and engaging that it wins over the hearts of millions." He held the novel out for me and I took it into my two small hands.

'Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone,' it read. I returned my gaze to Dumbledore.

"It's a cycle?"

"Precisely."

"But… what does this have to do with anything?" You dream, write a book, then dream some more? Yeah, that's an interesting moral to a story.

He was the one to stop this time, and again, he offered his arm. I took it, except then I did so without hesitance.

We appeared on a field. It was surrounded by stands of shouting and cheering people, and Quidditch players were soaring overhead. Again, no one noticed us.

"Have you ever wondered how your world came to be? How Earth was positioned just so it was enough to harbor life?" Once again, I stared at him blankly, wondering what he was going on about.

"I'm twelve," I stated matter of factly.

"Indeed you are. That does not mean you can't know or have ideas on the subject? The question stands." I thought for a moment on the topic, not wanting to disappoint the grand wizard further, but after a moment or two I had to shake my head.

"Unless you count the Big Bang Theory or religion, no. I've never thought about it." A bludger swooped down and flew between us and looped back up, only to be hit by a beater as I voiced my answer. Dumbledore nodded once.

"Think about this," He started softly. "It all began, with a dream."

"A dream?" I asked him skeptically.

"A dream," he confirmed lightly. I was still unconvinced.

I turned my head to the sky and watched a team in blue score a goal. "I find that hard to believe," I said, turning back to him. He said nothing, so I took to examining the grass as we walked down the field as I asked my next question.

"Who's dream?" He shrugged, which I found very uncharacteristic.

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know that's what this is?"

Dumbledore smiled while he continued to walk forward, but he didn't look at me.

"I know, because that book you hold in your hand is all the proof I need."

I said nothing as we reached the end of the Quidditch field. He held out his arm for me to take, and we immediately apparated, but to where I didn't know. It looked like an ordinary subdivision, filled with middle class homes.

"Your world is about to be no more, child. This dream is drawing to an end. And when the curtains close, the actors and actresses will cease to exist along with the stage," he told me suddenly, all lightness from his voice gone.

"How do you know?" I challenged. I had asked that question a lot, that night.

"The natural disasters and wipeouts of entire cities are signs your dreamer is about to wake up. Their sleep is being disrupted, and as a result, this world is destroying parts of itself to make the dream less complex, and easier for the dreamer to manage."

I remember thinking that what he was telling me was a lot to lay on a twelve year old, and I was finding it harder and harder to will myself to believe that the dream was lying, and making up stories.

"This could be a bunch of nonsense. Why should I believe you? Why should I believe any of this? I'm sleeping in my backyard, and the world is just the same as it ever was… more or less."

My challenge to the wizard set a spark in him, and he changed right before my eyes. His facial expression hardened, all warmth melting away, and he became stern, almost threatening. His voice seemed to deepen, and you could literally see the twinkle leave his eyes, only to be replaced with ice.

"Whether you choose to believe me or not is not my business, Miss Dorin. My job is to make sure those who deserve a second chance and are open minded enough to believe it, get that second chance, and aren't lost when the dreamer wakes." I look back at the irony in this statement now and laugh. If only he knew…

I stared at him. Shocked. Puzzled. Angered.

"Your job?" He nodded curtly. He did not hold out his arm. He grabbed my elbow and apparated us into a house. My guess is that it was a house inside the subdivision we had just been walking through. We appeared to be in a living room. Two large, brown, leather three-seaters covered the majority of two walls, each of which had windows either overlooking the front or side yard. I sat on one couch, the one that faced away from the front of the house. He quickly crossed the front door foyer on my right and took his seat on the other couch to my left. He said nothing more as he took a butterscotch candy out of the decorative bowl which sat on the coffee table in front of us. My eyes, however, never left the man.

"Who are you?" I finally asked.

"That's irrelevant."

"The hell it is!" I stood up, outraged. He eyed me, quite amused.

"All you need to know is I'm stopping you from disappearing into nothing, with no one left to remember you. My brothers and sisters are doing likewise with many others, but don't worry. They won't land in the same universe to which I've brought you." He looked rather pleased with himself. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fathom why. So many questions swam in my head as I looked at the Dumbledore imposter, and I briefly wondered, at what point had I given up the resolution that it was just a dream? And that what he was telling me was the truth? Was it?

"What if I want them to? I don't what to be in a world where I don't know anyone, and no one knows the real me."

"Tough. Besides, you won't be alone, not for long." He shifted and leaned forward as if to tell me a secret. I wasn't sure if I wanted to know the secret he was telling.

"This is how it works. We tweak the minds of a couple of people and place you in their care. They'll think they've adopted you. You won't have any papers, or certificates, other than your birth certificate which for some reason, you humans have decided are required to confirm you exist." He said the last part more to himself than to me. I found it hard to not take offence to the way he said 'you humans'. "Where you go from there is entirely up to you. It's your life, after you get settled in, of course."

"Why don't I have any papers?" I asked, though I had little knowledge of what I spoke of, as I had never needed to know of my 'papers'. I'd come to the revelation that what this 'being', for the lack of a better word, was telling me the truth. I didn't know why then, but now I figure that's just one of their traits. Even if what they say is completely insane and outrageous, eventually you will believe it. That, of course, is just a theory. But, whether it was true or not, I decided it was better to be safe than sorry, and find out all I could. 'Ignorance is bliss' would get me nowhere if he was, in fact, telling the truth.

"It tends to alter the timeline too much, and that is not our place to do so. It's curious; the smallest things can change the entire outcome of a story. And you wouldn't want us to do that, now would you?" he asked with a knowing wink. It took my overwhelmed mind a minute to get what he meant, but when it dawned on me my eyes flashed wide.

"I'll be in 'Harry Potter'?" Just saying the phrase made me think it reason enough to put me in a mental hospital.

"Indeed."

"Why?"

The man raised a brow at my question, as if it were the silliest thing in the world. "Do you have a different preference?"

"Home would be nice."

"That's not an option."

"Then make it an option! You can't just take me away from everything I know and put me into a world of chaos! It's not fair, and it's not right! You say you're 'saving' me, but look at it from my point of view. All you've done, what you're doing, and what you say you are going to do, is show up out of nowhere, unannounced and uncalled for. You came into one of my dreams, which wasn't too cheerful to begin with, and tell me I have to leave everything behind? Even if it is for a 'new start', I don't want one! I'm doing perfectly fine now, I don't want to leave, especially if I have to leave everything, everyone I know and love, behind!" I breathed in deeply, close to hyperventilation, and clenched my fists so hard I felt I could break the skin, though I didn't.

He sighed, very deeply, and stared straight, his eyes lost in space. When he was finished with his thinking, he came back to reality and shook his head.

"There's always a handful of your kind. Young or not, there's always that select few that decide they don't want the gift we are giving them, even if what we are offering is the gift of life…" Even though he referred to me, it was obvious he was more muttering to himself. He looked at me finally, and said his next words slowly.

"The only alternative is a fate worse than death, young one. No one will come out of this world existing. They won't be dead; they will simply just be gone. They vanish, with no memories to leave behind and no one else to keep their own memory alive. The ground you have walked on, the places you have just seen in pictures will leave no trace of existence whatsoever. So you see child, the option I provide you is the only option. It is not negotiable. Just be thankful for what we are giving you, and try to live normally. Eventually, you'll be reunited with familiar people just as everyone else is in death." He paused at this sentence, and went on adding, "Either by natural causes or whatever the case may be, other than self induced. Self induced death will just lead you somewhere… well, I needn't give you more things to think about. One tragedy in this dream of yours is enough."

I had looked at him with my still innocent eyes. Was he referring to heaven and hell?

"Are… are you an angel?" I asked him. I facepalm myself now for asking this. It was a stupid question. My gut had twisted at the idea that a supposed 'heavenly being' was bringing to me the news that I would never see my home again, even if it was trading my home for a magical one. I didn't like the idea that an angel would be doing something so terrible, and with all my being I hoped that he wasn't, for if he was, I didn't even want to know what kind of news demons brought.

Thankfully he laughed and shook his head. "Don't be absurd, child. If you think some higher being will provide for your every need, you are mistaken. You will be 'treated' the same way as everyone else in any world you may go, and if you don't see now, you will soon find many of them are only what they have made for themselves with their own free will. Free will is the only thing you have been provided, so use it wisely." I still fail to see how the conversation, or whatever you would call it, evolved into a religious lecture. A simple 'yes' or 'no' would have sufficed.

As if tired from his lengthy speech, he stood and stretched which, once again, looked very out of character for the form he still held.

"Well, if you have any more questions, as I'm sure you do, I'll answer them if they are relevant enough. If not, it's time we go."

I nodded solemnly, disappointed at my failed attempts at changing his mind. "I have a few." He gestured that I continue.

I hesitated, not sure if he would think the question stupid, but I needed to know… "What will happen once the story's played through? Will that world end, like this one, and I'd have to… er… move again?"

He did not laugh, like I expected, be he shook his head. "That only happens to simple dreams. It's different with other things like books, and all those contraptions you humans have invented, especially when they are well known. Enough universe chains are created that it becomes a True World, immortalized in its own right from the sum of all the ideas from multiple dimensions put into it… but that is a long story, and we need to keep this short. Next?"

I nodded in semi-understanding. I supposed he had others to get to after he was through with me, which would explain his need to hurry. "What happens if I change the story too much?"

"Like I said, it's your life and where I'm taking you, it's as close to a True World as it gets. So no matter what you do, it will be as if it may as well have happened in the original book. This means no world destruction or existence ceasing." It sounded crazy coming from him too, the idea of someone entering a book.

My next question was something that had been grating me ever sense I figured the man before me wasn't Dumbledore, or at the very least my dream portrayal of him. "How come you make yourself look like Dumbledore?"

The question made him grin uncharacteristically. "We're trying to keep this need to know, Miss Dorin." I gave him a look, my intention being to get the point across that I didn't give a shit, I wanted to know.

With a sigh, he looked at the coffee table and confessed the reasoning for his false appearance. "I figured since you'd just dreamed yourself through torture, this form would provide the most solace." He thought for a moment, and then added as an afterthought, "Unfortunately, since you dreamed it, a mirror-you actually went through it. It gives a whole new meaning to nightmares…" I could have done without that tidbit. I was afraid to sleep for the longest time, out of fear that my nightmares would torture someone else in my dream worlds.

I went on with my questioning, edging towards other matters concerning my new 'home'. Since these were more easily answered, the next moments were fast paced and less complicated.

"How old will Harry be?"

"Eleven."

"How old will I be?"

"Same age as you are now."

I asked a few more questions of those type, before the more lengthy answers started coming back into play.

"Where will I live? In this house?"

The question made him chuckle, but he shook his head. "I just like it here. You'll live in a house in America, relatively near the location of your old home," he answered. "And before you ask, you will be a first year going to the Salem Witches' Institute in New England.

"Is that all?" He continued. I was about to ask another question, my mouth was already open and prepared to voice it, but he was faster and purposely interrupted me.

"Good, let's go." He didn't even touch me that time, we just appeared in a room decorated with a few things a teenage girl might have had. Other than that, the room was and exact replica of mine. The faces in the pictures were replaced with people I could only guess were to be my new parents, but I felt no sadness at that thought. I had gone numb to the idea. The posters I'd had were gone as well, replaced with others. I guessed it was because the posters I owned had content that didn't exist yet. My eyes trailed over the pictures of my new family. They looked friendly enough, and I was smiling next to them in one.

"So… I'll be a witch?" I asked him. I denied it then, but I was avoiding a question I really needed to ask, but didn't want to know the answer to.

"Do you not want to be?" I didn't answer him. Of course I did, what would be the point of going into this world if I was just going to be plain and magic-less?

"Are they Muggles?"

"Yes, and you also have a little sister. You aren't related by blood, obviously, but just a little thing I thought you'd want to know." I wanted to ask him about my bloodline for some reason, but I supposed it wouldn't really matter whether or not I was pureblood or Muggleborn, seeing as no one would be able to tell, anyways.

"If it means that much to you, you can be what you want to be, pureblood or otherwise, because that isn't our doing. If you choose to be that way, it's you who's changing the storyline, not us," he said from behind me. I turned around to look at him strangely, and he gave a small smile.

"I apologize; I slip up from time to time. I don't mean to eavesdrop on anyone's thoughts, I get enough conflicts from my own," he said quietly with a bit of humor. I think the last part was supposed to be funny and to comfort me somehow, but it just came off a little creepy, the thought of him being able to unintentionally invade my privacy.

I swallowed. It was a 'now or never' moment, and reluctantly I barely whispered, "Will I be given new memories, ones from this world?"

"It's insightful that you should ask, but first I must ask you before I answer, are you ready?"

I looked at him confused. I would never be ready, but I especially wasn't when he had yet to answer my question. But then, he did say he would answer me after I answered him. I gave a small, hardly noticeable nod, and at my hesitance and fear filled eyes he attempted an equally small, reassuring smile.

"I should warn you, this life-saving transfer is not without price," he said, his voice getting dark. My heart fell. How much would I be expected to pay? I had already traded literally everything else that I had.

"When one leaves a world to enter another, they begin to lose the memories they had in the previous. It helps so you don't get confused and accidentally bring things up that don't exist. It's also better for your mental state, but in all reality, it happens because the memories you had before never happened here, and thus cannot exist here.

"And to answer your earlier question, no. Unfortunately, since you never had experiences here, you cannot have memories of those experiences because neither exists. We can't give you fake memories because it would change you, which in turn would change the storyline, and as was already established, that is something we can't do. It leaves a bit of an emptiness, but you'll eventually gain new memories of your own, so don't worry too much on the subject."

He told me not to worry, but no amount of consolation would be able to stop the need I felt to cry when he informed me of this. I didn't want to lose my memories. What about my mother? It felt so wrong to even think about forgetting her. My lip trembled and my eyes finally started to sting from all the weights that had been placed on my shoulders that night. And it got worse with that, because the sting in my eyes told me I was no longer dreaming.

He placed a hand on my shoulder and gave a small squeeze.

"You'll be fine, you'll see."

With one last smile, he turned away and stepped forward. My vision was blocked by a blinding light in the middle of the room, and I covered my eyes from the pain it gave from just glimpsing it. When I pulled my arms away from my face, the light had faded, and the man was gone.

I remember the great feeling of loss. He had become my only bridge from my old life, and then he too had gone. I wished I could forget him, along with all my other memories, at least then it would have been less painful.

I'd stood there in the middle of the room, on the violet rug for what seemed like hours, but was really a few short seconds. In those few seconds, I replayed everything that had just happened through my head, much like I am now. Every word that was passed between the two of us sank in the second time that I heard them, and my third time through the replay, I realized I couldn't remember whose faces were supposed to belong on my old bedroom's picture frames. Who's faces had been burned? What did my posters look like?

It was with this realization that every weight that had been given to me multiplied, and the burden of it all made me fall to my knees in the middle of the room. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember whose faces were supposed to belong in those frames. I had not yet lost names and what my friends and families' faces looked like, like I have now, but the fact that I was already losing my memories from the life I loved pushed me to the floor. And on the floor I stayed, on that rug I curled myself up into the tightest ball I could, as if I thought if I made myself small enough, I could be sucked back into the world I could never return to. But I didn't, I stayed on that rug, and the smiling faces of my new 'family' and my unfamiliar self no longer seemed friendly. They all laughed at me, sneering at me and my weakness as I cried myself to sleep, the moon's light making me the miserable spotlight of my room, my new life. I was the star of this new stage, and the faces surrounding me watched the scene before them with mocking smiles.

He'd said I'd be okay, he'd said that I'd see. I have seen. I've forgotten. I've gone numb. I couldn't feel anything for my new family, because to me they were just strangers. The only person I could find myself getting close to was my sister, and even then I pulled away from her too. Every time I got close to any of them, something tore me away. My 'parents' may have tried to show me love, but it was obvious they couldn't give me what they gave their real daughter. I longed for the feeling I could remember I got from the bond my real mom and I used to share, even if I couldn't remember who or what caused that feeling.

My name is Catrina Dorin. I came here when I was twelve, though my fake birth certificate claims I was born on August 31th of 1980. I haven't a cherished memory or blood relative to my name, and I'm here to tell any reader that cares to listen that being a part of the 'Harry Potter' series isn't as 'exciting' or as happy as it sounds, though it is every bit as insane.

I'm also here to tell you that, the man I have come to call Ostiarius, lies.

Ostiarius – from Latin translation: the porter/the doorkeeper.

Review if you liked it or not, give me critiques. Keep me in line, people. If something is unexplained and doesn't match up, tell me so I can edit it.