Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.

Chapter Eighteen

October 15, 1996 — Present Time

They were in the Astronomy tower and she was throwing her head back and laughing at something that he didn't know what about. The air was cold and the sky was glittering with stars and he felt breathless by the sound of her laughter and how it seemed like it was pushing back the dark horrors of his life and replacing them with light instead. Even though it was cold, she was warm beside him with her Gryffindor robes and red scarf; he didn't want the moment to end. Then her eyes opened and stared right through him, a joyful honey color that was as divine as the smile playing across her lips.

Then she said, "Happy birthday."

And Harry woke up. Again.

He stared at his ceiling as he panted heavily, the remnants of his dream was being chased away the more sleep began to ebb off of him. But he could still see the happiness in her honey brown eyes, could still remember how her laughter felt like balm soothing his scarred soul, and he felt something foreign inside of him humming with elation.

"You okay, mate?" He heard Ron asking on the bed beside him, followed by a yawn.

Harry cleared his throat and wiped a hand down his face as he tried to force the image of the unknown girl of his dreams to the farthest corner of his mind. "Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, I'm okay."

He had been dreaming her for weeks now. He didn't know her, not from memory and not physically. He hadn't met her and yet he felt as though he had known her all of his life. Whoever she was, she was a welcome reprieve from the nightmares that came haunting him at night.

Throughout the day, thoughts of her kept drifting out and in of his mind. He felt agitated by the end of the day, feeling as though his skin was not his own. By dinner time, the feeling didn't leave and he had no choice but to walk around the castle, hoping that it would help somehow. The girl — who was the girl? Why was he dreaming about her?

The cold breeze chilled him and he realized that he had wandered too far and had stumbled upon an unused and abandoned corridor. The torches lit up in flames the further and deeper he went. He noticed the portraits on the walls and his eyebrows furrowed when he realized that none of them moved as though they were muggle paintings.

There were names below the portraits and it wasn't until he read the first three and caught Myrtle Warren's name when he realized why the hallway was abandoned; the portraits were students who had died within Hogwarts premises.

A shudder raced through the line of Harry's spine and it felt as though something died and crawled beneath his skin. He was suddenly glad that the portraits didn't move because he didn't think he could handle watching them move as though they were alive. He wanted to get away as fast as he could.

But when he took a sharp turn, that's when he saw her.

It was a portrait of a girl — the girl of his dreams. As though being lured by the voice of a Siren, he took a step closer to her, his heart beating out of his chest. She looked exactly the same in his dreams; the same nose, the same freckles, the same hair, the same eyes, and the same smile. The resemblance was uncanny.

Even in painting, she still looked so happy.

The closer he got, the more he felt as though his soul was slowly being sucked out by a Dementor. If he hadn't known heartbreak before, he would've known so right now. He didn't know her and he hadn't met her and it appeared as though he would never be able to because she was dead. He felt longing sadness all of the sudden and he felt as though someone stole something from him that he would miss dearly. The few dreams he had with her in it were the few times he ever felt truly happy and safe, and he felt that he was robbed at the chances of finding that that kind of happiness in real life.

His eyes drifted to her name plate and what he read had chilled his blood.

'Hermione Jean Ariana Dumbledore (b. 1925; d. 1941)'