Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.

Chapter Twenty-Three

October 16, 1996 — Present Time

He could hear the usual murmur and activity that was surrounding him in the Great Hall but the noises seemed subdued to him somehow. He could hear people talking, laughing, joking, teasing, and it felt as though something was blocking his ears and he couldn't hear them clear enough, strong enough, hard enough. He was too consumed by the thoughts running rapidly inside his mind, his eyes staring unseeingly as his mind conjured the image of the girl that invaded his dreams for the past few weeks.

A Dumbledore.

She was a Dumbledore.

Moving mechanically, he lifted his gaze from the empty plate to the elderly man sitting on his seat in front of them all, overseeing the children eating their breakfast.

He tried to find some signs, some kind of damn clue that resembled her to the most powerful wizard of the century.

He couldn't find their resemblance.

The girl of his dreams— Hermione— whoever she was— was related to his Headmaster somehow.

Was she a daughter? A niece? A grandchild? Or maybe a wife?

Harry didn't know why he felt so unnerved, so disturbed by this revelation. He'd already been knocked off his feet because of the thing with Tom Riddle— Voldemort— Tom— You-Know-Who— whoever the hell he was supposed to be. Now, he felt everything in his world was spiraling out of control. He hadn't even anticipated these when he stepped into King's Cross station this year.

The things he learned weren't only baffling but it were also glaringly and laughingly impossible.

Apparently, Tom was just a grieving man intend on murdering countless of people, even a small child, because he lost someone he loved. Now, Harry was having dreams of some sort that featured his Headmaster's dead relative.

Those weren't even the tip of the iceberg.

Who would believe this shit? Even he couldn't wrap his whole head around it.

"Hey, mate, are you going to eat?" Ron's question broke through the thin barrier of his thoughts.

Harry looked back at him and watched his redheaded friend eating without closing his damn mouth. He looked down at his empty plate, sighed, and pushed it back.

"I'm not really hungry," he mumbled, stealing another glance at the Headmaster who was none-the-wiser. Then he looked back at Ron and thought. "Hey, Ron?"

"Mmh?" The redhead managed to articulate through the mush of food in his mouth.

"Do you wonder if some of our professors had any children?"

Ron paused, baffled. "Uh, mate, that's not something that I really think about, you know? I mean, I don't want think about a mini-Snape somewhere. Can you imagine the horror?" Harry and Ron both shuddered before the redhead continued, "Anyway, no. I don't wonder about that. Why? Why are you asking me?"

Harry pursed his lips, wondering if he should tell Ron the truth, but then again, if he couldn't tell his best friend, who was he supposed to tell?

"I— I've been having this weird dreams," Harry said, his voice hushed. "It's— it's a girl—"

Ron scrunched his nose. "Merlin, I don't want to hear this—"

"It's not like that," Harry immediately countered. "It's— it's different, okay? Whenever I have these dreams, I feel— I feel so— so happy. Like happiness is something that I can hold in my hands and it's— it's real. Whenever she laughs or smiles or even looks at me, I feel complete, content. And whenever I wake up, I feel like I'm missing something even though I don't know what or who or why." He leaned forward and caught Ron in the eye. "The thing is, I never met her in my entire life. Not once. Not ever. I don't know her and I have never seen her before. But I've been dreaming about her for weeks and I can't seem to stop."

Ron's eyes had widened throughout his whole speech. He eyed the green eyed boy with a strange expression as though he was thinking 'oh-my-God-my-best-friend-has-gone-mad.'

"Maybe this girl isn't real?" Ron asked, finally swallowing the mush in his mouth. "Maybe it's something your head thought of because— err— of what happened last year and this year. Like some kind of break from the things that happened to you."

Harry shook his head, ignoring the twinge that squeezed his chest as he tried to ignore the oppressive space that Sirius used to occupy.

"She's real," he told him. "She's real, Ron."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because I saw her picture yesterday." Harry leveled him with an intense stare. "And that picture was taken in 1941."

Surprise couldn't cover the full extent of Ron's expression.

"Holy shit," Ron whispered, adapting the curse word after hearing it from one of their roommates, Dean, a couple of years back. "You aren't pulling my leg right now? What? So, you can speak to people from the past now?"

Harry shook his head. "No, no, it's not like that. It's—" He paused. He wondered if he should say more. He wondered if Ron thought that he was mental or was becoming one. Then he decided he didn't care. "I saw her picture, Ron, and it said that she died on 1941."

"What the fuck?" Ron blurted out another curse word courtesy of Seamus this time. "What? So, you talk to dead people from the past right now?"

"That's not the only thing I learned," warned Harry.

"I'm almost afraid to ask." Despite looking freaked out, Ron seemed unable to shake off his curiosity.

Harry lowered his voice even more. "The girl, Ron, her name is Hermione— Hermione Dumbledore."

Ron's next reaction wasn't something that Harry anticipated.

Ron blanched. He completely went white as though he'd been drained all of his blood. He looked around them hurriedly as though he was making certain that no one was listening in their conversation.

Then he hissed at Harry, "Don't say her name!"

Harry leaned back, astonished. "What? You— You know her?"

"Of course I bloody know her!" Ron hissed again and Harry didn't understand why her name produced such a reaction from his best mate. Ron darted his gaze around before he leaned forward to Harry. "Everyone in this country knows her, Harry. Merlin, everyone in the Wizarding World knows her. But we don't speak of her name— ever."

Harry was confused. "Why? What's going on?"

"Merlin! Sometimes I forget that you were raised by those muggles," he said, shaking his head.

Harry grew angry. "Tell me," he demanded strongly. "What's going on? Who is she?"

Harry's eyebrows furrowed. He was confused, shocked, and unable to comprehend that his dream girl wasn't a figment of his imagination but someone that was obviously well-known.

Ron licked his lips before answering, "She's... She's Dumbledore's daughter, Harry, and she died in this school, you know? And it isn't the same as the other ghosts here, Harry. She died to protect the school back then and some said," his voice turned into a whisper, "that her death made Dumbledore snap. That's why he's gone barmy, you know? Because she died." He shook his head. "I don't really know the full story but my Mum told us that the reason why Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain is because of her. Said something about her death being a sacrifice to protect the students or something like that. I don't really know the extent of it but the bottom line is, you don't speak her name."

"And why is that?" Harry asked.

Ron shrugged his shoulders. "Her name's like a curse, Harry. Even though she protected this school, something mysterious happens whenever someone speaks her name. It's like a curse, Harry. I heard that some people died suddenly after saying her name. It's almost as worse as You-Know-Who, you know? It's scary shit. That's why no one ever speaks of her name." Then he eyed him sternly. "And you shouldn't, too. Merlin, I don't even know why or how you dream about her."

Harry pursed his lips. He didn't know why too but he got a feeling that there's more to this somehow, that he's missing some kind of connection that he managed to overlook but it was there even though he didn't know exactly where.

He glanced at Dumbledore who was speaking with Professor McGonagall with a familiar twinkle in his eye.

He slowly, imperceptibly narrowed his eyes.