I haven't been sleeping much of late. I've trained myself not to need it so much. I tell myself that this is because I need to keep on the move. Need to keep going toward my destination, even though I 'm not sure exactly where it is or what I need to do when I get there. But I know that there's another reason that I don't want to sleep. A reason why sleep, when I do allow myself to rest, never comes as a comfort. It's because of the dreams. Every dream is about her. They differ by subject matter, but she is always there.

Sometimes the dreams are memories, drawn from the time when we were still at school together. Six years of memories, all fodder for my subconscious mind to feed to me when I am helpless to resist. In these dreams- be they memories of important events or trivial occurences, whether she features prominantly or only appears in the background- in these dreams, she seems to stand out from the rest with brighter colors and a clearer voice. And when it is a memory of the three of us together, as we frequently were, then the pain hits hardest. I wake from these dreams with a beating heart and a feeling of sorrow and guilt that weighs down my shoulders and makes the next day's journey that much more arduous.

Sometimes the dreams are events that never happened, never will happen. She and Ron and I are adults, the same age as I am now, with our own families and our own careers. We remain close, and our children tease us when we reminisce about our school days. We live happy, ordinary lives. These dreams leave me with a feeling near contentment; until I wake and realize just how impossible a scenario my mind has presented me. Those days take place in a spirit of dejection.

Sometimes the dreams are just the two of us. I am as I am now, a man of fourty-eight with the weight of life and knowledge upon him. She is as she was before her death- not in the weeks and hours before she died, in the panic and confusion brought on by constant fear- but as she was in September of that year, fresh and happy, with the odd mix of innocence and experience that makes a not-quite-child of that age so intruiging. We talk for long hours and I tell her everything. These dreams are the rarest, but when they occur they inspire in me a bout of introspection during the waking hours even more deep than my usual attitude.

It is from one of these dreams that I awoke this morning. For the first time, she talked to me other than to respond to my thoughts. She told me that I am being followed. That the one who was given her name is on my trail, and that I am to go with her when she finds me. But I must keep moving to the correct place, though I don't know where that is. I don't understand how I am supposed to know where to go or how I will recognize my follower. But she was confindent that I would. Who am I to argue with a dream?

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I walk for many days over many miles of streets, paths, trails, and grass. My journey has no recognizable pattern; my feet determine where I walk rather than my brain. I pass through cities, towns, small villages. Sometimes I talk to people. The people that recognize me- just by reputation, I haven't seen anyone I actually know in years- are more likely to leave me alone. But others, curious about a stranger in their midst, question me at length. I don't give detailed answers. I just tell them that I'm a traveller. After a meal and some rest, I continue on my way.

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I think I've found my destination. I don't know why I'm here, it's only a small wooden cabin at the top of a rolling hill. There is nothing here to interest anyone, the cabin is obviously deserted, but I feel that this is where I must stop. I gather some firewood to fight the approaching chill, and I settle in to the tiny building. I am standing in front of the fire, examining the shape of the flames and the patterns they cast on the walls, when I sense, rather than hear, someone approaching the door. A moment passes. Then I speak.

"Come."

The door opens. I hear footsteps cross the threshhold and stop just within the room. I can feel the presence of an unknown person behind me. But I know her name. I was told her name.

"Hermione."

Having said this, having this knowledge out in the open, I am able to turn around and look at my follower. She shows no surprise that I know her name. She speaks in turn.

"Harry Potter."

She is tall and thin, a young woman. Her most distinguishing feature identifies her to me at once. The long, flaming red hair of my best friend. She is clearly a relative, probably the daughter, of my surviving best friend from my school days. The one to whom I haven't been able to speak since graduation, the guilt was so strong. Why does she need my help?

But that can wait. She is looking worried. I step toward her.

"You look just like your Aunt Ginny."

I wonder what the future has in store for me. I wonder why the past, which has haunted me for so long, has finally caught up with me. Where will this young woman lead me? Am I ready?