A/N- The plot begins to thicken! (or "develop", actually... ah, whatever) Enjoy!

(Chapters 7 and 8 are being posted together)

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Chapter VIII – House of Threads and a Bargain

For a second time, Harry found himself lying in a field of flowers, and for a moment, he was confused. Then there was a sudden flash, a recognition, and he recalled clearly the last time he had been in such a situation. He hadn't thought of the dream he'd had on the night Draco had shown up, mostly because of Draco himself, but he recalled that the flowers then had been daisies. Now, though, the entire field seemed to be awash with blood, filled with blood-red poppies as far as the eye could see. It was a dazzling sight, but he felt himself beginning to get sick at the reference his brain had automatically provided. Harry Potter was quite tired of seeing blood.

After taking a moment to calm his nerves, he recalled the girl he had seen here previously. He was sure it was the same place, as the farmhouse in the distance was still there, just the same as it had been. Only the flowers had changed. He glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her again. The last time, well, she hadn't been precisely helpful, but she hadn't killed him, and that, he considered, was close enough to being his friend to count in a place like this.

His quick survey was enough to tell him that there were no other humans, or human-shaped beings, in the area. Making a bit of a snap judgment, Harry decided to head toward the farmhouse. If there was anyone else here, he figured, they would probably be there. He set off quickly, but even so, he arrived at the structure much more quickly than he had expected to. It felt as though his every step had been equal to five, like being on a moving sidewalk, though he could see no such apparatus. He looked around again, wondering if perhaps there were mirrors or some other such trick that were convincing him that the space was much larger than it was in reality. No, he convinced himself, it wasn't a trick. The fields really did stretch on and on. It hurt his head to think about it, so he turned away to look at the farmhouse instead.

His initial thought was that the building was made of wood, but up close, he could see that he was wrong. It was made of some strange substance that appeared to be... moving. He leaned in closer, peering at it. It continued to shift before his eyes. Hesitantly, he extended a finger and poked it experimentally, performing a little half-jump back in fear that it might somehow move to attack him. The wall remained a wall. Harry moved back toward it, this time laying an experimental palm against the surface. It continued to writhe beneath the flesh, seemingly unaffected by its presence. A light went on in his brain.

'It's made of ... string... or maybe thread, or cord or twine.' He thought in amazement. And indeed it was. Thin, thin strands of some sort of fiber that were woven and tangled and twisted into a solid wall. Even the windows, Harry realized, were merely gaps in the strands, which carefully moved around the openings, keeping their rectangular form perfectly intact.

Harry withdrew his hand in astonishment. He had seen many strange and fantastical things since he had received his Hogwarts letter, from moving staircases and ceilings that matched the sky to three-headed dogs and even the thestrals, but this was somehow unlike any of it. And, despite the fact that he could tell he was in a dream, it felt as real and strong as the stone walls of Hogwarts castle.

Lost in his wonderment, Harry approached the door to the house, which stood halfway open on its woven hinges. Harry touched it lightly, marveling as it swung easily inward, the strands pulling and adjusting as it did so. He moved to step over the threshold, only to cry out as he was pulled back roughly by one shoulder. He stumbled a bit until he found his footing, the hand removed back to its owner.

Harry faced that owner as soon as he had his balance back, halfway into a crouch and prepared to defend himself. He straightened a moment later. It was a woman, many years older than the girl he had met before. She gave him a sharp look, but one which quickly softened as a sense of recognition appeared on her face.

"It is much too soon for you to enter there, Mr. Potter." She chastised him softly. Her voice was rich and warm, and Harry suddenly felt that if he had a grandmother, she might be much like this. He half expected her to materialize a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. The feeling was tempered slightly, though, by the hints of that strange resonance in her voice and by her appearance. Though her age was somehow apparent, her face held but a few wrinkles, and her hair, though sprinkled through with strands of grey, was a luxurious black, the grey serving only to emphasize the depth of the darker color. It was the eyes, though, that caught Harry's attention. They were the same sun-on-sea color as the girl he remembered from before.

After a pause, Harry found his voice, though his questions came out half-formed as he thought them.

"Who? What happened to the girl?" He was suddenly struck with worry for the enigmatic being who had spoken with him before.

"Do not worry, Mr. Potter. She is here as well, though in hiding at the moment." There was merriment in her voice. Harry's gaze instinctively turned to the door he had almost stepped through a moment before. The woman laughed.

"No, no, she's not in there. I assure you, she is quite fine. You needn't pay it any more mind. We must get to the reason for your visit, before we run out of time." She paused, as if contemplating, or listening to a faint noise far in the distance.

"You have done well, Mr. Potter, as we expected you to. But the strands of your fate and others' continue to twist and curl, much like our walls here. As it stands, more than your own life is already in your hands, and I don't doubt that more burdens will be placed on you in the future. You are one of the destined ones, Mr. Potter, and their lives are never easy. They are always remembered, but few understand the hardships they face on their way to their final glory." She paused again briefly.

"There are great changes happening, Mr. Potter, very great changes. Waves of change, which are affecting the entire design. It was laid out from the beginning, and such changes bring with them wondrous things, or else utter disaster. As it stands, we have no way of knowing which it might come to be. It is not normally that we approach mortals with problems such as these. We have a long history of non-interference. Even now, should we become personally involved, it would unleash such things as you have never dreamed of, in brightest fantasy or darkest nightmare. We have no wish to become involved, Mr. Potter. But we find it unavoidable unless we find the help we require. And that, Mr. Potter, is where you come in."

She regarded him kindly, and he felt as though she might have wished to embrace him. It would not have been the type of embrace one seeks. Rather, it would have been the kind given to young boys sent off to wars. It was not a hopeful sensation, knowing that she held those kinds of feelings about his fate, and Harry suddenly found himself scared.

"You are one of the destined ones; born to change the world, Mr. Potter. Your line shines brightly against all others. And this is why we require your help. You, of all, are the only one with a hope of gaining the skill necessary. But, Mr. Potter, we do not ask this of you without something to offer in return." She waited to continue until she was sure she had his full attention.

"We offer you our time, and our influence. For we hold influence over realms outside this one. There is something you have lost, Mr. Potter, which we may well be able to return to you. It will not be easy, but, if you truly are able to help us, we will find it in our power. This is the bargain we offer you, Mr. Potter. We have the power to lift the veil, and we offer it to you, in return for your help."

Harry had barely the time to comprehend what was said before the flowers and woman together swirled in his vision and faded to black.

Harry Potter woke up smiling that morning, but he couldn't remember what he had dreamed that had been so good.