Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. kthx.
Spoiler Summary: At the end of his sixth year Harry knew two things: He had to buy a wedding gift and he had to find and destroy the other horcuxes. Two months later Harry's running down clues as fast as he can find them, yet with little to show for his efforts. Now Hogwarts is starting its school term without him, but the plots and intrigues are in full swing. If Harry wants to save the world he's going to have to pick friend from foe, some from the most unexpected of places. While one bibliophile finds out that reading isn't always a passive activity.
Chapter One – A Puzzling Beginning.
There are not many things that Florence Leander enjoyed more than a good book. That is to say, she walked through the park on sunny days with her nose in a book. Setting the stationary bike at level twenty didn't diminish her level of reading comprehension. And why-ever should she spend her allowance on movie tickets when she could get the print version at the library? It was only practical to borrow a book for two weeks than pay to see explosions and partial nudity for an hour and a half.
Obviously, she wasn't leading a very exciting or interesting life herself, being that she could always be found in a chair, at a desk, or on the bus reading. But she was having adventures vicariously through the lives of people who never existed and dead ones she'd never meet.
She continued in this manner for years and years; hardly interrupted by meals, birthdays and life in general. Until one, stormy day the books ran out. There was nothing to read in her house she had not read at least three times before. There was nothing new in the damp basement where her father kept his old magazines so she and her siblings could cut them up for school projects. The newspapers on the piano bench in the parlor had all the crossword puzzles completed and weekday comics colored in. Florence knew the children's books in her baby sister's room by heart. She had no desire to revisit the trite and insipid plots of her older sister's romance novels. She even went so far as to sneak into her parents' room, which was forbidden territory, to see if there was anything new. There was not.
In desperation she read all the labels on the food products and pharmaceuticals in the house. She read the backs of the video cartridges and the instructions booklets to her brother's video games. She searched the attic and found some Christmas carols, but they just weren't the same on a muggy August day.
There was nothing for it; she would have to do something other than read. Such a revelation was startling and distressing. Completely uncertain of what she could do, Florence went up to her room and simply stared into her dresser mirror. Surely Inspiration would come to her. While waiting, she stared at her blond hair and thought of all the lovely descriptions writers could have dreamed up to describe it. It was long and luminous, and despite the humidity it cascaded over her shoulders and down to the middle of her back. She felt very pretty at the moment, but it was too uncomfortable to leave it like that today and so she put it back up in the messy bun she had before. Next she examined her eyes, which were a bright blue, like the Caribbean Sea on a sunny day – or so she had read. They were largish, but not overly so and would be of perfect proportion when she was older. Her nose was elegantly small and straight; her lips pink (she could not think of any description that wasn't from a romance novel and so left it at that).
Florence was tall for her eleven years and skinny without being lanky. She was also quickly becoming bored with this mental game and went to find a deck of cards.
Of course, they were not to be found. She searched high and low and eventually found herself digging through dust-covered deleterious in the back of the upstairs closet. She was almost read to give up when she moved aside a box of eight-tracks and found a jigsaw puzzle. The box was battered and had its corners chewed off by mice or other vermin. Despite its condition, Florence was still attracted to it because of the beautiful picture of a castle. The picture was faded to blues and grays, a ghost of its former glory.
Florence carefully picked it up and backed out of the closet. Kneeling on the hardwood she opened the box to find that the pieces were still pristine, if for a few dots of mouse droppings here and there. The pieces practically glowed with color.
For the first time she could remember, Florence was excited about something other than a book. A picture is worth a thousand words, and apparently 10,000 pieces.
Florence scampered downstairs to the dining room where she could take advantage of the large table. After clearing off the candle sticks she put the box in front of the seat her father always took at the head of the table like it was a serving dish. Instead of dumping all the pieces on the table, which would be terribly messy, she picked out all the edge pieces and carefully figured out how to put the border together.
The puzzle kept her occupied for hours. Her father commented that he had never seen that puzzle before, nor, in fact, had he ever seen her without a book. Florence felt a pang of loss for her cloth bound companions, but said nothing. He soon went away, but every time he passed through the dining room he would pause to watch and make a few suggestions. Through all the distraction Florence kept working until her mother called everyone in for dinner. Her sister, Elaine, had come home at some point and filled the kitchen with her chatter. Elaine talked as much as Florence read, as if one sister was making up for the utter lack in the other. Florence managed to squeeze a word in to ask where her brother, William, was and it thrilled her to discover he was staying over a friend's house and really, she should have said good-bye when he left.
When the Baby started sticking carrots in her diaper, Florence decided she was done with dinner. After placing her dishes in the sink she returned to the dining room to finish the puzzle. It was coming along well. Now she could see where the towers would rise and where the forest circled the castle. The waters of the lake reflected the blue sky and the hole in the middle of her project hinted at arches and carved wooden doorways. All too soon it was past her bedtime, but her father said she could stay up until after the comedy show was offer because he believed she would have it finished by then. Florence worked even harder and in her excitement time held no meaning. She could almost hear the waters of the lake lapping at the shore, the wind in the trees carrying the scents of summer to the dimly lit room, and shadows shifted as if time were passing in that world as well as her own.
Soon she was putting the last pieces in their place. These pieces were part of a great door at the top of a short flight of wide, marble steps to the castle. Finally there was only one piece left. Florence examined it, savoring the moment before completion. The piece was a honey brown color an 'H' in the middle of four prongs. Florence put the last piece in and something seemed to click. The room seemed a little brighter and more alive than possible in the middle of the night. She stood up on her chair, suddenly full of the energy of anticipation, to get a better look at her masterpiece. She let out a little gasp. The picture was so vibrant and utterly wonderful she felt she could fall right through it and be in a real place.
Suddenly, a strong gust of wind rolled through the house, tugging on the curtains and swinging the chandelier. Caught off guard, Florence lost her balance and reached out to the table to catch herself. She landed hard on the puzzle, but while she felt it and the table underneath, they didn't matter much because she was still falling. For a panicked moment she thought the table had collapsed, but then she was tumbling end over end on a soft ground covering of pine needles.
She quickly came to a stop and lay dazed below the tall pine trees. This was nothing like she ever could have expected - to happen in real life at any rate; this sort of thing happened to fictional people all the time.