Harry had to grip the side of the sink to stabilise himself as soon as he realised what he was seeing. It was just plain wrong after all, but yet the cold enamel under his hands confirmed what he already knew. This wasn't a dream.

He stayed there, frozen to the spot as if some Snow Queen had cast her spell upon him, staring into the face of his dead father. He could feel his heart pound in his chest as real as if someone was repeatedly hitting him in the sternum. His stomach did repeated revolutions and

his mouth felt dry; he wasn't 100 certain that he wouldn't pass out at any minute.

He had hastily concluded that this little drama could have been one of a few things; the most likely of which being that it was the cruellest joke in the world, or maybe proof that Rita Skeeter was on the right track a couple of years back. Whatever it was, so engrossed in it – the surrealism and the shock -that he did not notice the presence of the redhead until she wrapped her arm around his back.

"Thought you might need these," she said, slipping a pair of glasses onto Harry's face. Then the general feeling of queasiness intensified until he could almost taste the bile in his mouth. Looking into the mirror, for the first time clear as crystal instead of the fuzzy outline of before, he saw himself not next to his best friend's sister but his mother.

He spun around at such a speed that the red head was pushed back. He couldn't think of the woman as Lily and definitely not as mum. That just wasn't right, and yet there he stood with his mouth slightly open as if he wanted to say something but continually changed his mind before any sound could come out.

Should he hex her for being so cruel? 8, 9 years ago this wouldn't matter, but now he knew what his mum and dad had looked like. Now it was just plain sick.

Should he run and hug her? After all he didn't know how long this delusion might last and it could be his first and last chance to say how much he missed her.

But he couldn't think straight; every fibre of his body was telling him totally contrasting things. Scared in case it was a trap, petrified in case it was time travel, wishing it was real but also wanting to wake up at any moment.

So he just continued staring.

The red head was staring to look scared herself by this point, but Harry barely realised so confused by his own emotions.

"James, what the hell is going on?" she said in a tone that couldn't quite decide whether or not it was angry or scared. It rested between the two uncertainly, resulting in the voice cracking as if upset.

The paleness of the woman's skin (surely it wasn't that white before?) and the look in her eyes made Harry realise something. He had to think of a game plan from here on in. He needed one that wouldn't commit him one way or the other, one that wouldn't put anyone in danger and covered all possibilities.

He said the one word that usually made the world all right; "Dumbledore."

Hey there!

Thanks for the nagging. As much as small chapters bug me I decided to stick with them for this story in order for me to have less of an excuse to keep putting it off. Hope that's OK with you lot.

I have just finished a very hard year of uni, but now I should update more often.

Please keep reading and reviewing and I'll love you forever.