Chapter 1: A Little Night Terror
Hermione Granger awoke with a start. She'd been having the most pleasant dream. Dressed in flowing, elegant robes, she'd stood at a lectern in front of her colleagues as she detailed her discovery of the thirteenth use of dragons' blood. The editor of Advanced Potion Making had just asked her a delightfully insightful question and she'd been formulating an answer that cross-referenced her two favorite recent publications in that very journal when she was wrenched from slumber by a hand clasping tightly over her mouth.
Groggy and confused, she struggled to make out her assailant's face in the dark. Hermione wrenched sideways to grasp her wand from where she had placed it on the nightstand. Her fingers just reached the tip, slipping against the polished wood and pushing it just out of reach. With a clatter, it rolled off and hit the floor. Panic welled up quick and fast and she bit down hard, catching the meaty flesh of a hand.
Someone yelped and retreated several steps back, freeing Hermione to make another lunge for her wand.
"Merlin, Mione. It's just me." The harsh whisper belonged, without a doubt, to Ronald Weasley. The only person brave enough to call her Mione to her face.
Hermione stilled, draped halfway off the bed, before snatching the hilt of her wand, losing her balance, and gracelessly falling onto the floor with an audible "oof." Glaring up into the dark, she could just make out the red of Ron's hair, illuminated by a weak moonbeam streaming in through Ginny's grubby window.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" Hermione whispered, turning over her shoulder to confirm that Ginny, the heaviest sleeper she'd ever met, hadn't woken up yet.
Ron stepped a little closer, eyes flickering down warily to stare at her wand, watching as it emitted a stream of faint golden sparks.
"I was trying to wake you up without waking up Ginny. Didn't think you'd go bloody mental."
"Oh yes. How unreasonable of me. I should have just known that the person waking me up in the middle of the night with a hand over my face was –"
"There's something wrong with Harry," interrupted Ron.
"What?"
"There's something wrong with Harry. I didn't know what to do."
Tirade well and truly derailed, Hermione tried to switch mental directions as quickly as her foggy brain would allow. Switching gears wasn't something her brain was good at; it always left her feeling discombobulated and out of sorts. And a bit cranky. When no retort came to mind, she settled for a tight nod. Hauling herself up off the floor, she tiptoed as quietly as she could over to the door. Not that anything seemed to be waking Ginny up right now. But better safe than sorry.
Opening the door with a creak, the two teens peered into the hall. When it was certain the coast was clear, they crept towards the stairs that led up to Ron's room, where Harry had settled in the night before. A stair groaned loudly underneath her foot, and Ron shot her a glance that clearly said she should have known to avoid it. As if she had memorized his entire home, cataloging every minute detail from the candlesticks to the floorboards. Hermione pulled a face, shooting Ron a glare and huffing until he turned back around and proceeded up the stairs.
They both stopped when they reached the door. Ron grasped the handle but didn't turn it. Their eyes met. Ron nodded, and seemed to steel himself, gathering his courage and opening the door.
Inside, Harry sat at Ron's desk desperately scribbling onto a spare piece of parchment. He didn't seem to notice them at first. Watching from the doorway, Hermione could see ink stains on Harry's hand where he'd obviously been careless with his quill. His left hand gripped his hair and his head rocked back and forth for a moment. All at once, he started scribbling again, so hard she could hear the scratch of the quill from the doorway.
Harry heaved a great sigh and dropped the quill onto the desk.
"Mate? Is everything ok?"
"Bertha Jorkins."
"What?"
Harry turned around, his face drawn and his eyes tired. The baggy grey t-shirt, at least three sizes too big, emphasized how thin he'd grown over the summer, lending his pale face a distressing gauntness.
"I had a dream. Only, I'm not sure it was a dream." He seemed to consider something for a moment before looking over at Ron. "Did I wake you?"
"Yeah. I didn't know what to do so I went and got Hermione." Ron poked his head into the hallway one last time before shutting the door.
Harry nodded but didn't continue.
"What was your dream about?" Hermione prompted, finally stepping further into the room and perching on the edge of Ron's bed. She pulled at her clothes, trying her best to keep her sleep shorts from riding too far up her legs. It was the dead of summer and prickly hot in the attic, even at this time of night, and Hermione desperately wished she was back downstairs in Ginny's room where she could lounge in her Muggle shorts without embarrassing herself. How the boys had managed it up here she couldn't begin to fathom.
"It was about Voldemort." Ron sucked in a breath, but Harry didn't even seem to notice. Perhaps it was such a common reaction now that he didn't even register it anymore. "He was talking to Wormtail. Only, I couldn't see him. Voldemort that is. And they were talking about a plan. And killing someone. Someone named Bertha Jorkins."
"Do you remember anything else?"
Harry turned back to the piece of parchment on the desk, eyes tired and worried as he shook his head. "Not really. It started to fade really fast. I tried to write down everything I could remember, but I don't think I got much."
"You sure it wasn't just a dream?" Ron asked. With a giant yawn, he walked over to Harry to peer down at the parchment. "I can see what you mean about nothing." Ron began to read off the page. "Wormtail, old house, snake, World Cup, kill? You know, maybe we should toss this before someone finds it and decides you're planning to murder Wormtail at the World Cup."
"What do you think it means? I've certainly never read the name Bertha Jorkins in any of my books." Hermione was intrigued. Harry's dreams—visions really, although she hesitated to call them anything of the kind because divination was a load of shite—weren't usually very specific. Just vague notions and pain in his scar. This was certainly something different. Something that needed investigating. Already she could feel her brain waking up, beginning to whir with possibilities. Her father did always say she'd missed her calling as Sherlock Holmes.
"I've never heard of her either."
"Is she even real? Maybe it really was just a dream," mumbled Ron, his words muffled and distorted by another giant yawn.
"Well, I guess that's how we'll know if it was just a dream."
"What do you mean?"
Sometimes, Hermione was convinced that everyone around her was a bit of an idiot. It was so logical. Such an easy conclusion, and yet here was Ron looking at her like she'd grown a second head.
"You mean, if Bertha Jorkins is a real person, then my dream must have been real?" Harry said, scratching the side of his face before wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand.
Hermione beamed over at him. Maybe Harry wasn't as stupid as she'd thought. She did have a habit of feeling particularly uncharitable when she was grumpy. Or uncomfortable. Or when she'd first caught the scent of a new problem to investigate. And tonight she was certainly grumpy and uncomfortable.
"Exactly! You've never heard of Bertha Jorkins. None of us have. But you dreamed about her. So, if we find out that she's real—even better if we find out that she's missing—than obviously your dream was real too."
"Jeez Hermione. You don't have to look so excited that this Bertha lady might be, you know, dead."
Sheepish. That's the word she would choose if she was going to verbalize this feeling. Ron was right of course. Not that she'd admit it. She shouldn't be excited at the idea of solving a real-life magical murder. Because that meant someone had been murdered, which no decent person deserved to be. But the reality of Bertha Jorkins and her potential murder was so…nebulous. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement. The thrill of the chase.
"Sorry," she mumbled, glancing down at her hands.
"It's ok. We know you didn't mean it like that" Harry supplied.
Ron scoffed, unconvinced.
"You are right though. We need to find out if Bertha is real. Think we could ask your dad, Ron?"
"Wouldn't hurt," shrugged Ron. He glanced outside and then over to a bright orange Chudley Cannons clock on the wall. "We should probably get back to sleep. Mum said we'd have to wake up super early to get to The Cup. I bet we've only got a few hours left. Will you be ok to go back to sleep, Harry?"
Harry looked unconvinced, but nodded.
After saying their goodnights, Hermione crept back down the stairs and slipped back into bed. Ginny gave a little snort and rolled over, fast asleep. Hermione couldn't help but feel jealous. She was never going to get back to sleep. Once her brain started in on a problem, it was awfully hard to make it stop. And this was quite the problem. How would they find Bertha? And if she was missing, and if she had been murdered (by Voldemort no less!) whatever were they supposed to do about it?
