The only thing I could sense was a damp chill that permeated me to my very bone marrow. A heavy blackness enveloped me like a velvet drape, pressing painfully against my eyes as I struggled to see.

Having no point of reference, I had an odd sensation of floating, despite feeling a cold hardness beneath my bare feet. I tentatively took a step forward, moving awkwardly through the dark. My arms invisible in front of me, a small measure to prevent me from smacking into a wall, I began to walk. It seemed that the corridor curved at that moment, because my outstretched hand met smooth, moist stone. I trailed my hand along the wall, following it until I could see a vague whitish shape up ahead.

As I drew closer, I realized that I was seeing a very small window. I picked up my speed so that I soon reached the soft, milky square of light. I peered through a pane of fogged glass, shivering slightly as the moonshine slid over my bare skin like cold silk.

Bare?

I cast a wary look down at myself and groaned. No wonder I was so cold. I was not outfitted in normal clothes, not even the fleece pajamas that I had worn to bed. I was wearing a gauzy white nightgown that fell lightly to my calves, and said nightgown had absolutely nothing remotely resembling sleeves.

Bloody terrific.

I walked on, feeling slightly bolstered by the addition of a faint bit of light and trying not to think about the freezing sensation crawling upwards from my feet with agonizing slowness. An icy draft skimmed suddenly across the grounds, blowing very unpleasantly upward and biting through my inadequate clothing with ease.

I grunted, glaring down at my feet and wrapping my arms tightly around myself as I continued forward. But no sooner had I drawn my piteous gaze up from the ground, than I felt my heart cease its sluggish beating.

There had been a flicker of movement ahead, just out of the dim reaches of the moonlight.

My heart began to beat again, this time taking my pulse up to a fever pitch. Trembling, I took a few timid steps towards the shadows.

And out of nowhere, two colorless eyes appeared, boring intensely into my own. I stepped backward, gaping, before an entire apparition made itself visible.

I'll admit it, I completely lost my head. I shrieked so loudly that I thought my throat would tear. Utterly terrified, I stumbled backwards and fell gracelessly to the cold ground, my scream cutting off abruptly as my bottom made very abrupt contact.

"Please, don't scream," the phantom implored me softly. I realized that this—whatever it was—had taken on the form of a handsome young man, who was currently peering down through round eyeglasses with visible concern.

He quirked a transparent eyebrow and tilted his head, as though my face was familiar to him and he were trying to come up with the name to which it belonged.

I was experiencing a similar feeling, sure that I had seen him before. I raked my eyes over the odd-looking Hogwarts uniform, the rumpled hair, the thrust of the chin; all strange to me, but yet very eerily familiar…

"I feel like I know you," he commented thoughtfully, still studying me with good-natured curiosity.

"Feeling's mutual," I replied with a slight smile. A little ripple of surprise went through me when I realized that my fear had completely disappeared.

The spirit shrugged, smiling for the first time. It was the smile that threw the switch for me. He looked exactly like…But no, he couldn't be…I was slightly dizzy from the total confusion that was currently running rampant inside my head.

"Who are you?" I managed to ask, irritated that the answer had been so tantalizingly close, but alas, I had not been able to come up with it on my own.

He grinned at me, the shape of his mouth so familiar as he did so, assailing me once again with a very intense feeling of déjà vu. He seemed to sense my frustration and he let out a soft laugh.

"I think you know who I am," he said gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

And very suddenly, I did. I flicked my eyes up to his forehead, which was smooth and entirely unblemished. Entirely devoid of a certain jagged scar.

"You mean…y-you're James Potter," I stammered, the shock bringing a rush of heat to my chilled limbs. How could he be?

He nodded, still smiling in the way that Harry always did, and held out a large, strong-looking hand. I blinked at him; surely he realized I couldn't shake his hand?

I figured it would appear very rude to not even attempt, so I held out my own hand to meet his, expecting my clammy flesh to slice neatly through the shining mist that made up his body. But, astonishingly, it didn't.

His fingers gripped mine firmly, and I stared in wonder at our clasped hands. His skin felt dry and frozen, but it was very solid nonetheless. I shuddered involuntary as the magnitude of this action hit me. I was shaking hands with Harry's dead father.

"He looks just like you!" I blurted suddenly, unable to contain the statement as I looked up at the face so like that of my best friend.

James didn't exactly respond in the way I had assumed he would. He let go of my hand rather quickly, and took a step backwards, his expression clouding.

"Who?" he questions, looking bewildered and more than a little suspicious. Oops.

"Harry. Your son," I elaborated, my cold cheeks suddenly burning in embarrassment. What an idiotic thing to say. James was clearly still at school…Harry was nowhere near existence in the reality he occupied.

James laughed very nervously, as though he were trying to placate an insane person without sending them into another fit. Bloody good, he thought I was insane. Excellent job, Granger.

"Well, I think you're rather mistaken. I'm only seventeen and as far as I know I've not gotten anyone pregnant," he said awkwardly, looking extremely uncomfortable and perpetuating the mannerisms of one dealing with a highly dangerous and volatile individual. Effing Merlin, he obviously thought I was going to try and strangle him or some such thing.

I was really awful at this dealing-with-ghosts thing, really. This was almost worst than dealing with Myrtle. Almost. At least he wasn't crying.

"W-well," I stuttered, figuring there was little harm in digging my own grave a few meters deeper. "Harry's seventeen now. He defeated V—" Suddenly my voice entirely gave out. I tried to continue speaking, but my breath rattled painfully in my throat and made no sounds remotely resembling speech.

Of course. I had been about to, in essence, tell seventeen-year-old James Potter how he died. Apparently, the forces that be had decided this was unwise.

James' brow wrinkled, and he narrowed his eyes at me. "He defeated who?" Then he seemed to come to himself, shaking his head very violently. "No. What am I saying? I don't have a son named Harry." He looked at me with the specific brand of distaste borne of a feeling of utter uncertainty. "Get it through your head, girl." He turned away from me then, giving me a solid view of the back of what could have easily been Harry's head.

I swallowed hard. "I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger. I'm one of Harry's best friends," I said loudly, for some reason not wanting him to leave.

James looked back over his shoulder, apprehension darkening his eyes. "Okay…Hermione. What are you doing here?" The lines of his back indicated a great deal of tension. It seemed I was doing very well at unnerving him.

"I—" Wait…what was I doing there? Was it a dream? "I don't know."

He smirked, indicating that a very sarcastic reply was coming my way. However, before he could even utter a single syllable, I felt as though someone grabbed me by the back of my nightgown and snapped me very roughly backwards.

I woke with a start, vaulting to an upright position and breathing with an intensity that felt readily capable of rupturing a lung. I glanced around me, my heart beating fit to burst. It took several moments for my pulse to slow down enough for me to think clearly, when I remembered where I was and what I had done before bed.

Who did I think I was kidding, eating an entire tray of sweets and thinking I would sleep well?