Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns it all. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.

Chapter Thirteen Paranoia

Freddy rubbed furiously at the ache in her neck as she turned yet another page of Camilla Corrigan's rather heavy volume on the Irish art of reading tea leaves. She was on the third chapter and had, with great difficulty, managed to condense Corrigan's scholarly prose into a page of scribbled notes at her elbow.

Now the author was presenting an argument against the boiling of tea beneath a full moon which was considered dangerous even for the most skilled practitioners. Why, Freddy hadn't gleaned as of yet, but it had something to do with going mad.

"As if I wasn't mad enough," she muttered, her voice lost beneath the steady hum of whispering students.

It was the hour before dinner on Thursday, the most popular time to hoof it to the library to study for end of the week exams and dreaded quizzes.

Freddy herself was hard put to find a free table amidst the crowds of pupils, and she only just managed to secure one after a pair of dove-eyed sixth years evacuated a quiet nook. It took her a while to become used to all the hubbub. Professors rarely ventured into the library to study during the week, rather dispatching a list of needed texts to Madam Pince and having the volumes delivered to their quarters by a house-elf. But Freddy was too embarrassed to ask the librarian for the books she wanted, each being solely devoted to some branch of divination or dreaming.

Unfortunately for her, the first week in November brought with it a flurry of nightmares, each one more vague and disturbing than its predecessor. Thoroughly frustrated, she had turned to divination at last, if only to secure a good night's sleep.

Asking Trelawney for more help would admit defeat, and McGonagall, who was genuinely concerned, could only offer her reason.

But there was no reason to the macabre pattern of her dreams, the nightly waltzes amongst the ghastly and ghoulish.

Freddy would have to help herself, if she was to be helped at all.

And that meant divination.

Even in the cheerful warmth of the busy library, she felt a chill claw at her chest. Freddy didn't want to admit it to herself, but she was a coward when it came to Seeing. As a child, her hunches had been taken for coincidence. She was always able to guess when a new calf would be born or when a rainstorm would flood her Mam's flower garden.

Only at Hogwarts had her guesses been dubbed precognition. Freddy doubted her own abilities, too carefree to imagine herself as a Seer. She never saw things clearly really…except for that night in Athens when she was staying at a hostel with a group of American tourists and had dreamed of her own dear Dad's death.

Pancreatic cancer, her Mam had said through the tile-framed fireplace in the hostel's kitchen the next morning. Dad hadn't told anyone he was sick. He was a blithe and hardy Scotsman after all and had lived out the end of his days on the farm.

After that, Freddy decided she didn't want to see into the future even if she could. And so she had shut her mind off and protected her thoughts with stubbornness. But now something different was poking through, something terrifying that left her tumbling through an abyss.

And the only way out was divination.

With a suppressed groan, Freddy snapped the book shut without bothering to mark her place and leaned her elbows upon the leather cover.

"To hell with this," she growled, looking over her shoulder once to make sure no students were listening in.

In any case, whatever Camilla Corrigan had to say, it had absolutely nothing to do with her. So far, Freddy had failed to find any clear example of dreams such as hers. Of course, there were accounts of prophetic visions dating back to the Oracle at Delphi, although those particular revelations had been heavy with symbolism and were with varying degrees of difficulty interpreted.

A yawn wrenched her jaws apart, and she was reminded sharply that she hadn't slept the night through in almost ten days. And at the rate she was progressing, it seemed unlikely that she would sleep well ever again.

A cough made her shudder, thrusting her back against the stiff chair with sudden violence. Freddy blushed, hastily stifling her hacking in her arms. At once, her face pressed on the cover of the book and the warm smell of leather seeped into her nostrils. She remembered sitting at home in her Dad's study, perched on his knees while he read the Daily Prophet or the local village paper. And after she had begged him and begged him, he would tell her stories about the man in the moon and the mist on the moors and the…

…and the building itself was made from imposing red brick, roughened by age and rain. Beneath the front entrance, the submerged first floor was altogether hidden behind a subterranean courtyard, strictly guarded by wrought iron bars. A squat, unattractive staircase led up to the entrance, and the wooden double doors were scarred with heathenish graffiti. Inside, the wide main hall wound past a desk, a piece of abused cherry confiscated from an old school and burdened with blank day passes….

…Freddy loved his smile, because he was so devilishly handsome. Brown eyes. Warm, smooth skin. A square, sculpted jaw.

She loved him because he was the only man who wasn't afraid to come near her now.

He welcomed her into the examining room and made her hop up onto the table. The nurse listened to her heart with a stethoscope.

"I'm sorry, dear," he said. "But you have a pleural effusion. We have a procedure for it, though, quite like pneumothorax. If you'll just lie on your side, I can drain some of the fluid."

And he took a needle out of the cabinet….

…When Freddy was seventeen and had graduated from Hogwarts, her father gave her money to go to America for the first time. She took a fellow Ravenclaw, Angela Goodson, and went to New York for ten days.

They spent most of their time in Brooklyn, exploring the genteel neighbourhood of GreenWood which centred on a lovely wizarding community with Victorian sensibilities.

Wicksham Way turned out to be a shopping centre that rivalled Diagon Alley. Freddy and Angela simply cooed over the dainty boutiques, the bakeries offering elegant teas and cupcakes, the bookstores, quill shops and a cobbler who only sold granny boots.

Freddy bought a corset at Wicksham, in Philomena Phensaw's Corsetry Shoppe.

Angela squealed over the blue brocade and sturdy boning, but Miss Phensaw offered her some sound advice.

"Don't lace it too tight to start with," she said as she tied Freddy's package with lavender ribbon. "It will squeeze your lungs until they…"

…She was in Madam Paulina's kitchen, and the voodoo queen was sitting at her fold-up table, one bargain bin slipper dangling off her foot.

"I'm sorry, cherie," she said. "If I had known, I would have told you. Please don't take it wrong, but I can tell by the look in your eyes…"

….Freddy was immensely proud of her article, "American Muggle Tuberculosis Sanatoriums as Magical Hot-Spots" until Professor Hendrickson wrote his commentary on it.

"Although Fotherby's work with Muggle hauntings and hospitals may be considered unique, her conclusions are entirely based on a simplistic, new-wave school of thinking attributed to energies and forces which must be viewed with great scepticism by the scholarly community…"

…In the dark she saw red eyes and a white face, and the voice that spoke was not his own, but another's.

He had betrayed her and left her and became ash that even the most tempestuous wind would not drive away.

And somewhere far away, the man in the moon was laughing at her, calling out, "Professor Fotherby! Professor, are you alright?"

Hermione put her hands on her hips and tried her very best to look annoyed. "Really, Ron, this is the last time I help you with your Charms homework. You shouldn't wait until the day before to start your paper."

"Oh, come off it, Hermione," Ron said, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he balanced on an awkward footstool near a bookshelf. "What'd you say the name of the book was again?"

Hermione sighed and stared up at him. "It's not a book, it's a commentary by Professor Lucia -- Flitwick's talked about her enough in class."

Ron pressed his long nose against a row of heavy books, looking too much like a hunting dog sniffing out a fox. "Professor Lou…Lucy?"

"Lucia!" Hermione began to tap her foot, the toe of her Oxford shoe smacking the cold stone floor with agitated precision. She had enough to worry about without coaching Ron through his first paper of the term, and if he got a poor mark, well, it served him right. At least Harry had been sensible enough to start his paper last weekend before Quidditch practice completely consumed his free time. Hermione, of course, had herself handed in five neatly printed scrolls a fortnight ago.

"Have you found it yet?" She felt her patience slip another notch.

Ron was carefully levitating a book down to her, but he misjudged by a fraction and the volume tumbled to the floor.

"Bugger," he groaned.

Hermione stooped to pick it up. "Ron, I told you, Professor Lucia. This is Lugosi."

"Well it's bloody dark up here, I can't see a thing!" He huffed as he hopped off the stool. "Why don't you try looking, anyway. The quicker we find it, the less time you'll have to spend helping me."

"If only that were true." Hermione levitated the book back to its proper place. "I might just get Madam Pince to look for you, if you're that blind."

Ron seemed to take this threat seriously, for he was back on the stool in a second, scrambling to the uppermost shelf. "Professor Lucille, you said?"

Hermione was about to knock him soundly about the knees when a soft whimper distracted her. She glanced over her shoulder and down the aisle, searching for what must be a silly, senseless first year. The library was crowded enough this evening, but all the students she spotted were laughing or running about looking just as harried as Ron did.

In fact, the only person that she couldn't clearly see was a girl seated at one of the corner tables. The student was obviously dozing, her head resting squarely between her arms, long dark hair draped over her face.

Hermione took a step closer to the nook and started.

It wasn't a student at all, it was Professor Fotherby…and she was whispering in her sleep.

Hermione suddenly felt dreadfully awkward, and she pressed herself against the groaning bookshelf.

By Fotherby's elbows there rested a few pages of parchment, her familiar, tight script scrawled over each.

Hermione watched as she jerked a bit, her head tilting slightly to reveal a pale, sweaty face.

She looked ill.

"Oi! Was it Professor Lucille or wasn't it?" Ron's voice echoed down the aisle.

Hermione rounded on him. "Would you be quiet, Ron?"

He clambered off the stool once more. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. It's Professor Lucia. Now keep looking."

He rolled his tongue along his teeth and grudgingly continued his search without a word.

Hermione turned back to Fotherby, uncertainty keeping her in the shadows. She hadn't given much thought to the absurd notion that had entered her mind Halloween night. It was foolish to think of such a thing, after all. But the thought had nudged its way into her subconscious, grim and insistent like a nightmare. It disturbed her at odd hours, a uneasy feeling that she couldn't quite put a name to.

Fotherby, for her part, acted as normal as ever. There was no whisper of suspicion about the castle save for the usual nonsense, and Hermione just knew that she smelled smoke where there was no fire.

But still, she hesitated.

The staff had never been able to ascertain just exactly who had let Black into the castle.

I'm being paranoid for no reason, she told herself firmly. And indeed, the student population was ill at ease these days, especially those who lodged in Gryffindor Tower.

But Hermione wouldn't let anyone see her shaken, certainly not over a stupid little fancy that had invaded her mind between edgy reality and sleep.

She approached Fotherby.

"Professor Fotherby! Professor, are you alright?"

The sleeping figure stirred slightly, and Hermione stood an awkward foot away from the table, unsure if she should tap her own the shoulder.

But then, Fotherby jerked awake, a muffled gasp shooting past her lips. She sat up straight and looked around wildly, her wide eyes landing on Hermione.

"Oh my, Hermione, it's you! Was I dozing?" Fotherby pressed a hand to her chest and seemed to wince.

Hermione chewed nervously on her lips. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have disturbed you. It was so rude of me-"

"Don't be silly," Fotherby panted, clawing her hair out of her face. "I just can't believe I fell asleep. How embarrassing!"

She looked down at the book beneath her arms. Hermione, drawn by curiosity, followed her gaze.

Fotherby laughed lowly. "Well, I guess that's not saying much for Camilla Corrigan then, is it?" She ran her fingers over the book's binding. "Tea leaves, bah! What a load of nonsense."

Despite her discomfort, Hermione felt a surge of appreciation for Fotherby. "You don't like divination either, Professor?"

But Fotherby's face suddenly hardened, and she looked all the more drawn. "No…but yes. It's a very complicated matter. You see, I've been told by a certain few that I have some…I don't know, what do they call it?…a talent. Don't know if I believe in it myself, but when you're desperate, well, you'll try just about anything."

Desperate? Hermione wasn't sure what to think of that. Fotherby didn't seem the desperate type…unless she was keeping something to herself, some trouble that was gnawing at her from the inside.

She gazed at the Professor frankly and was troubled by her pallid features and the unstable brightness of her eyes.

Fotherby's appearance reminded her of someone else, but she couldn't quite place the face. Was it…?

"I found it!" Ron came stumbling out of the aisle, a thin book clutched in his hand like a triumphant flag. "Professor Lucia's Commentary on Summoning Charms."

Hermione, surprisingly, felt glad for the excuse to the leave library.

"I have to go," she told Fotherby. "And I am sorry for waking you up."

"Psh! I told you not to worry," Fotherby replied. "I'm off to dinner myself. See you in class tomorrow."

Hermione ushered Ron out of the library and had almost made it to the Gryffindor common room when he at last spoke up.

"Was that one of your professors there?" he asked, leafing through the book furiously.

Hermione nodded absentmindedly. "Professor Fotherby. She teaches International Magic."

"Humph," Ron muttered as they stopped in front of the Fat Lady's portrait. "She looks all sickly…kinda like Quirrell did at the end."

Author's Note: Eh, this chapter wasn't my favorite chapter, but the dreams are very important. In fact, if you can understand the dreams, you'll be able to grasp the entire plot ^_^ Any guesses?

Chapter fourteen should be posted soon. I hope everyone has a great week!