Author's Note:
This is revised and posted.

Rated: M

Author's Note: Title is subject to change.

Summery:
"This is a catalogue, a memoir, a detective piece, taking the perforated versions of a thousand narratives and building them up into a single story." – Harry Potter

Chapter Two
Pandora's Box

It is distinctive to note, that not once did my mother try defending herself. She could have, of course. Being gifted with an incredible academic stature, she could have easily made her plight public, garnered some soft pity, challenged the judgment of the tribunal that had sentenced her, but she did not. Instead, she stayed silent: a strange figure meandering through the hallways for her last two days, almost whimsically, with a far away look in her eyes. As her friends alternated between meaningless words and utter silence, wavering like flames in high wind, she did nothing but stare at them, and then, with a dismissive glance, smile her hollow smile, and leave. Nothing seemed to disgruntle her. Nothing disturbed the complete calm she displayed. And the whispers of senility began to stalk her steps again. "She's gone crazy, I tell you. Over the hill."

But what could she have done? She was merely a piece of wood, drifting helplessly on turbulent seas, trying to make sense of a distorted world.

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The room was bright and cold and lazy. A table was placed in from of Lily, a steel construct that felt icy to the skin. Above her, a slow fan wobbled, and in front, the dim light of the tube shined in her eyes. There was a strange stillness, a harsh turgidity that she couldn't attribute to the bare plastered walls. It seemed to exist in the utter absence of noise, and tired as she was, a sharp alertness kept her eyes wide open while her body groaned in protest. Lily was conscious on borrowed sleep.

Suddenly, the door opened a man entered. Lily eyed him intently as he tipped back a chair and settled down. "Miss Lily Evans," he said.

She stared at him. He was dark in general; black eyes, black hair partitioned in the middle, and a strange sort of curving of the lips that was neither a smile, nor a smirk but something that, in the dim lighting of the room, seemed much more sinister. "Miss Evans?" he repeated.

But she remained silent.

He sighed and twisted his face so that it seemed grotesque to her, "I am sorry for your loss."

Lily suddenly smiled: she was tired of empty words. "Keep your pity to yourself."

And silence. Her eyes glared into his, peering intently into his pupils. She was tensed. Her hands gripped her sides tightly, and her legs knocked together. And perhaps she was even shivering – fear or sleep or dread or cold or what? – And he noticed a tremor visibly pass through her. "Are you cold, Miss Evans," he asked with forced politeness. "Perhaps a blanket?"

"No, sir, I am not cold," she replied waspishly, " I'm simply tired, and being held against my will without proof, which of course you require before you can detain me," she paused, then continued sardonically, "Or perhaps rules are unnecessary these days? Or maybe, you can only enforce order on the innocent, since you don't seem to be doing too well with the guilty."

The cop bristled. A tinge of red colored his neck and his face contorted. With a visible stress in his voice, he tried to be sympathetic. "I can understand, Miss Evans, that you would be terribly confused right now. Finding you your parents are, well, gone and…" he sighed, "in the worst manner possible… it is not an easy thing to bear. And finding yourself with the cops, even though you've done nothing wrong, it must be terribly hard… Especially – why are you shaking your head?"

Lily shrugged insolently, "Speeches make me doze."

His eyes narrowed and he snapped, "With comments like that, you'd be dozing in the can."

Startled, Lily stared at him. His mouth had dwindled into a harsh line, and his eyes were closed. "I'm sorry… Miss Evans, that was out of line." But which comment was he referring to, she wondered. You'll be sleeping in the can. The words, shot almost involuntarily, angrily, but, she thought, with some whiff of truth. They were accusing her; of what, she did not know. Her mouth twisted. "Lovely."

Again he sighed. "My name is Mikeal Horshrop, Miss Evans. Now, there are some things we need to clear up about your absence. Shall we get to it, then?"

Lily felt puzzled. From when did cops start taking personal inventory of a teenager's activities? "Why?" she said. And answered herself: when they want to condemn.

He stared at her and raised his eyebrow. "Perhaps the 800 deaths in recent months mi- are the reason."

"Ah… I- Okay."

"You forgot!"

"No, I'm just very tired."

He didn't believe her; she could see it in his glance. But narrowed eyes, he continued anyway. "Very well, Miss Evans," he smarted a folder on the table. "Your records," he said as he opened the file, "are exemplary, with straight A's across the board but all describe you, without fail, as an antisocial child."

"I fail to see any importance."

"Of course, you do," he muttered. Turning towards the folder, he read out. "Here: 'Brilliant, and extremely original, but lacking greatly in basic social etiquette.' Perhaps you'd care to elaborate?"

"Of course. I was smarter than them, and accused them of incompetence. And that," smirking, she added, "is exactly what I think of this little junta. You'd be better asking direct question…sir."

"Firstly, that was idiotic and secondly," He scowled, "do not be imprudent, Miss Evans. It irritates me and lengths your stay." Watching his hands unclench in anger, Lily smiled her amused little smirk. "I assert, don't try to manipulate me. You won't succeed. You're too… incompetent."

In anger, he almost banged the table. "Perhaps, without wasting precious time, Evans, you would like to cooperate." With a dark look upon his face he leaned forward and whispered, "It would be bad for you if you don't."

Breathing heavily, she closed her eyes. That had taken a lot out of her. "No it wouldn't…very well," She shrugged. "I enjoy my company."

Another frown, "That is your answer."

"Would you like a bigger one? Perhaps a bit more dramatic – with some tragic accident?" she inquired dryly.

"No."

"Then yes, that is my answer."

He paused and looked up at her and spoke slowly, "While there is no doubt you are an extremely bright child, Miss Evans, even smart children can get into trouble, if they are not careful."

No, this is not about my attitude. Look at him, Lily thought, watching me like this. This is not irritation, this is something more. Something else entirely…

It was his turn to feel amused at her speechlessness. Almost patronizing, he asked, "No answer, Miss Evans? Perhaps your throat is worn out from your imprudence."

"It is worn out," she swiftly countered, "but due to you're…" She stopped. Watching the irritation spring up in little displays over his body: the tense hands, the strained jaw, and the narrowed, angry eyes – she realized suddenly that there was no sense in antagonizing him… and she felt too tired to continue. Fatigue hit her in relentless waves, and she took a deep breath, leaned back languidly, a sharp contrast to his tenseness, and continued, with a whiff of politeness in her voice. "You have no grounds to threaten me on. I have committed no crime."

His answer was short and gruff, and it told her everything she needed. "No, no… not at all. Sit down."

So, she thought, you are accusing me of some crime. But what?

Reluctantly, Lily sat. She caught his puzzled gaze before he glanced down and read out from the file. "Your sister, Petunia Evans, said you go to a school up north, Hogwarts?"

"She is wrong." His eyebrows crooked. "I study in HallWings. You will find me in the class of '70."

"HallWings, Hogwarts… interesting dissimilarity, isn't it?"

"If you say so." Lily leaned back and closed her eyes. The dark was soothing and comfortable and sleep.

Abruptly changing the subject, he asked sharply "Your parents, you were close to them?"

"We had an acceptable relation."

"Ah…Petunia got it wrong, then."

Curious, she asked, "Got what wrong?"

"She insisted that you were very close."

She paused. Then carelessly, she replied, "Yes, she perhaps had that notion."

"But how? You did live in the same household, after all."

"We Did. For three months a year," she added, "She hates me anyway. It's simple as that."

"But why?" he said, fumbling with the pages in the folder.

"Because I'm better than her."

The conversation was running off in tangents. There was a myriad of conflicting thoughts in her mind, but mostly, she was zeroing in on her original thought. He was trying to accuse her of murder. Somehow, in some twisted perverted way, she felt he was trying to get her to confess. The background check, trying to find inconsistencies… and the big gapping hole that was her Hogwarts attendance… it would have already captured their attention. She dammed Petunia for not even knowing how to hide her oddity. Mum must have reminded the Bitch a thousand times… It's not Hogwarts if anybody asks, its Hallwings. A quaint little boarding school in Scotland. Unconsciously, she said again, "I'm better."

"You're better," he repeated quietly and massaged his temples, a headache was growing. And the silence slowly stretched. Lily leaned back again, plunging back into her thoughts. The ceiling was gray and drab.

He placed the folder aside and turned his full attention towards her. With his forehead marred with thought he spoke in far deeper, graver and slower tone. "Let me get to the brass tacks Miss Evans, I'm tired of your evasions."

"Evasions! I've been direct with you…sir."

"Exactly," he said. And now, after pushing the impeding pain back, he was the one who was more composed. "You're sitting in an interrogation room and you're answering as if you were giving a goddammed test! Either you're so stupid that you can't realize that we've caught up… or," stretching the word, "you're putting on a pretty little show."

With wild eyes, Lily opened her mouth. "There –" but he cut her off, and with a brutal tone, shot off, "Your parents funeral – why weren't you there?"

Smiling mockingly, she realized she was in no position to… assert anything verbally. Willing herself against all impulses to burst out against such onslaught, she acquiesced with the cop and respectfully answered, "Because I did not know about it."

"Why?"

She couldn't answer.

"Your sister knows nothing about the 'school' you attend, apparently, for most of the year. Rather strange, isn't it?"

"We are not close. I know nothing of her life, either."

"Yes, you are not close."

Lily felt, suddenly, encumbered by the emptiness of the room. His eyes were wild, his mouth, a triumphant orifice shooting through her life, flicking off questions whose answers she could not provide, and would not be believed if she did. "I don't associate, much," she insisted, staring intensely, directly into his eyes.

"In fact, nobody on your block knows anything about you! Rather… strange isn't it?"

"I… I'm a private person."

"Yes, very secretive indeed!"

"I din't say that."

"Miss Evans, whatever you can say doesn't matter to me the slightest. Or to anyone here." He looked at her face and added, "You are smart, you know what is happening and don't think you can talk your way out of this."

She stood up - slowly, as if the act were one of extreme exertion. Opening her eyes, she looked at him straight and hard in the face. "Mr. what is you name again…?"

He swallowed. "Mikeal. Mikeal Horshrop."

"Mr. Mikeal, I do not know why you are accusing me of murder, but I-"

"You know exactly why I'm accusing you. Sit down, Evans. I don't go for theatrics in my station."

She sat down and closed her eyes. This… this was too much… the strain was enormous.

"Miss Petunia Evans gave a lot of interesting information… the hoplosh part is discarded as stress related but the men in black cloaks…" he leaned forward, "Tell me, Lily, what do you know about them?"

Her name sounded unusual coming from his stern voice. "Should I be prior to them?"

A smile flitted across his face briefly, "A black silken Cloak was found. Miraculously untouched by the blast. Do you… ah! You finally understand what I'm talking about!"

Her eyes had opened wide. Her trunk! Her goddammed Trunk! Oh, God! Fear twisted and turned her insides, and his scowl grew more prominent as he watched her squirming.

"That same cloak has been found at the scenes of many recent terrorist strikes… No one produces those cloaks. Hell, we don't even know how they're made." He leaned back and pressed his fingers to his head. With a scowl, he continued, "the same cloak we found in your trunk. Such an interesting coincidence, is it not?"

"I bought it from a …" she said, her voice wavering. "A market in London. An interesting souvenir."

And it seemed he'd smiled in disgust. "No more witty comments? Didn't I tell you they'd land you in the can."

"It was a market," she feebly asserted. She tried to pull herself together, but she couldn't. She was exhausted, hungry, and, and… she'd suddenly realized, as he hammered away, chipping off bit by bit, the swollen pieces of her corroded armor… she realized that she was alone in the world. " Elm street. It's…"

He slashed her voice off viciously, "And we are supposed to believe that, aren't we? Indeed."

"The truth is not subject to belief. It exists-"

With a violent wave of his hand, he slapped the table and sent the edge crashed with her ribs, and her sprawling back.

"Don't give me any bullshit, Evans," he growled. "I've been patient with you but…"

"I bought it at a store, you bastard," she screamed. And screamed. And screamed… first the deaths, the rape, the expulsion, humiliation and deaths again, and hate, and boarded houses and rain falling like tears… the petty words, swirling like poisonous mist… the years she had wasted with the vain hope of eventual greatness… and the last two nights she had spent, in a fit of uneasy wakefulness, cutting herself painfully off from one reality only to discover her only refuge had been broken, too… all the fits she suppressed came tumbling out in one loud, passionate wail and push…

It went on and on… YouBastards… and then, abruptly, stopped. Mikeal had gone careening back at her scream, his eyes shut, his face twisted into pain. Slowly, he composed himself.

And for a moment, their harsh uneven breathes filled the room.

He recovered first. After all, what was a bit of pain against the feebleness of exhaustion?

With a few steps almost echoing in the silence of the cage, he loomed over her. His face showed no pity, only the bare vestiges of pain and the overwhelming contortion of anger. "We know what you are, Miss Evans. A cult, a rebel group, something; anything. On fourth, fourteen people died. In January, twenty six did. Let's not go back, shall we." Automatically, he offered her a hand. "In all cases, black cloaks were found. Like Your black cloak." She refused and stood up, wincing as pain and fatigue surfaced. "We can convict you with anything, Miss Evans. Anything at all. No one will provide you with mercy. Understand that, and you'll know how to act."

We aren't there yet, but we are close. Yes, very very close! Soon, the glass will tip over and the water'll begin its downward decent! But nothing defies gravity and it can only fall at nine point nine eight meters per second. And it has such a long, long way to go…

Confess, they said in bare locked rooms. Confess. The night wore on outside…

Cut off ties. They can't help you. We can. Why protect them, kid. A tinge of brightness, like a boil ready to bust, appeared in the distant horizon…

You're tired, kid. We see that. So, tell us now and save yourself- The bleeding sun began its weary climb…

And Lily Screamed… "I'll Tell! I'll Tell!"

And she told.

It was an enticing tale, spun from truth and untruths so beautifully that, as it rolled over her tongue in desperate, hurried snatches, nobody disbelieved. There was a mammoth organization she spoke, with its arms spread like an octopus's over Britain. There were codes and meeting places. And money and, and… She merged the real, with the fantasy. Her frantic mind intertwined the Wizarding World with renegade notions, making a coagulated mix that seemed real and unreal enough to be true.

She diminished herself, made herself out to be insignificant.

She was difficult to believe and impossible to disbelieve.

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It's strange what all can happen in one night. But it's perpetual night for Lily, now, interminable darkness. Look at her, knees hunched back against her body, minimized and leaning against the bench. Her eyes cast downwards, her arms enfolding the legs and her face hidden by the hollows of her posture. Is she whimpering? Crying? In pain? Hurt? Perhaps, perhaps… merely sleeping… it doesn't do to be cynical all the time, but as I've said before, I'm only cynical when I can be, and cynical when I must!... So: what if time and sleep hadn't been sufficient to break her? Perhaps, she had stood the onslaught of words and hunger and drowsiness… and they had been forced to resort to harsher measures. A rock hard slap on the knee. Or a cut on the cheek, a punch on the… and maybe, maybe even more… time would come when James would remark to Sirius about the scars on her body, old fading scars along her spine and from Sirius I would snatch and reconstruct… it's all another part of the puzzle of the past… another piece of the moon.

And as Mikeal prepared to leave, he caught her eye one last time. "Kid," He said, but then his head throbbed painfully again -the night had been tiring- and his voice reduced to a mutter, "Pray we find something, kid."

So, while she consoled her injuries upon a bench, surrounded by men and by the slivers of sunlight entering through a foggy dawn, cops fanned out from the bobby house; there were phone calls and urgent meetings. Like an artery divides to provide sustenance to the body, those men divided the information, ordering searches in accordance to her confession.

And upon the bench it dawned, again: she was alone in the world.

But this time, Lily smiled.

In a pub in London, Martha sang. It was a beautiful voice and it flowed like velvet over skin. Higher and higher it went; climbing, scaling, unknown peaks. And people stared, fascinated, not only by the words but also the loud obnoxious body, tented by the wall with a gapping orifice out of which music was born. The words seemed repellent in their frame.

It traveled through every register, along with her flabby body swinging obnoxiously to the tune.

Then, the music stopped. And in just a moment, the odor of sex and booze and decadence had overfilled senses and people came abruptly down to earth, and realized exactly where they were. And they gazed in awe and clapped. And clapped…

Martha pocketed her wand and swallowed the applause. She tried to smile, and found she was unable to do so. He eyes roved around the room. The pub was small, dingy, and a bit dirty perhaps, but no one cared. It didn't matter. There were no families to be catered to, here. Here, there was only life to felt: life in its raw essentials, without the illusions of order to skew it into carpets and chandeliers and aloof farces. As she stopped, there was applause, and then a wand waved and music began to issue from the Wireless Network. And people began to dance again.

There were couples and screams and groans. There were drinks drowned and splashed. Gallons scattered and collected from tabletops. And laughter. Of a thousand and one shades.

Martha's eyes roved and she tried to smile. Eventually, she found his gaze. His hand cradled a glass. His hair was askew, falling all over his face and upon his mouth curved a hint of derision.

And outside, cops were parking.

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And outside, cops were leaving.

Here, we reach the chasm. Imagine: Mikeal and his partner, walking back, angry and empty handed. As expected. The locations Evans had blabbed, had turned been nothing more than old warehouses and getups for old folks. The confession they had so painfully extracted had been useless, utter fabrication. All around them, surrounded by the curious eyes of the city, the cops are dispersing. There were signals and whistles. And shouts, "Oyi, you there, what da hell do you think you're doing?"

Above them, the city is bright without fog.

Walking towards their car, they are arguing. Mikeal's partner, Adrian is on full blast, swaggering his words around like his walk - artificial and a pretense. Be kind, he says. Just a stupid girl. Can't take anger out… can't hold responsible - moralistic bullshit. Preached by the untouched to those in despair. They killed my family, Adrian, Mikeal snaps. My family is dead. Adrian just replies: so is hers.

So is hers?

So was hers!

They reach a pub and Adrian stops. Here, he gestures. 'Need a drink?' And though, Mikeal is in deep thought he pauses his steps for a moment, then moves on and Adrian, sighing, follows. So is hers. The words revolve in his mind. With everything crowding around his head, all the pressures he was facing, all the shit he was hearing daily, he had jumped at the remote chance of a connection, forgetting, although he'd played feeble lip service to it, that her parents were dead. She was alone, just like him. She was a kid, unlike him. And what he'd done to her… Poor Kid, he thinks and he feels like laughing. He was such a monster, and it sickened him. But, but the greats were always monsters.

And then suddenly, as he's staring at the wall thinking about Evans, a man walks out of the brickwork.

It's just a matter of time; the quirky hand of fate can grant and snatch precious seconds with careless disdain. We're all atoms, randomly colliding. Some of us lose our motion; some gain it. And some are fused and not only lose energy but a part of themselves. Nash came up and gave the world the idea of game theory. He devised a rational mathematical explanation for human behavior in a select field of observations. He reduced the scope of human sentience to a few arbitrary symbols on a paper. A combination of operators.

Shakespeare was wrong, he said. All the world's not a stage.

We're just poker balls on a perverted poll table ready to fly with the whim of the invisible fist.

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It was just a matter of time.

If Mikeal hadn't seen that furtive look, the pleading glance Lily had uttered to the world outside through a pathetic opening in the wall, a split second that he alone had captured and then tried to expel - with a threat: pray we find something – he would not have found her growing over him, like cancer, over the years. If he hadn't, by mistake of course, caught sight of that face, he would never have been in thought, staring at a wall, and he could never have seen a man emerge from the brickwork. If Martha, drunk on whiskey and music to high heavens inside the bar, hadn't tried to kiss a man slipping his drink next to her, nobody would have stormed out from the brickwork. It's just a matter of seconds, an illicit synchronization of the clocks with the harsh invisible fist of fate.

But it happened. The realm of possibility shattered into threads of fact. And Mikeal, startled at first but recovering quickly, rushed forward and grabbed the man by the throat. "Where did you come from?" He growled and Adrian caught up, bewildered with bitter tendrils of possibility uncoiling in his mind. He's been under so much strain every since…did he? No… he just needs a vacation…? The streets weren't as empty as before and people stared and the man cried out but the grip tightened. "Where'd you come from?" The man's hand crept downwards and somebody who'd probably overheard, shouted, indignation spilling like sour milk into his voice, "what did the poor bastard do, asshole." And the hand inched down and down but Adrian saw, as a sliver of sunlight struck a diamond ring on a fugitive finger and reflected into his eyes, and reacted. A violent snap and shove and the man was flattened against the wall. "Where. Did you come from?" The man was scared, he perspired and a voice growled into his ear and a barrel nudged his spine. "Where?" The voice asked.

And the man acquiesced.

All eyes on the street stared. The remaining cops were converging around the scene. The man walked slowly with a barrel pressed to his spine. Adrian whispered, "What the hell are you doing!" Mikeal didn't reply.

They stopped at the space between two shops, a thick line running up, red brickwork on one side, bluish plaster on the other. The man lifted a trembling hand. It found an invisible grip but an idea dawned, and his fingers slipped past. "See, nothing!" he shouted, intent on arousing the interest of everyone.

Mikeal kicked him on the back of his knee. He is in pain again, and he can't help being impatient.

The man goarned and and almost fell. "No? Nothing?..." Mikeal kicked him again. "Well?"

The incredulous gasp of the onlookers almost swallowed the cry of pain.

"Stand back guys, or I'd swear I shoot him. And you, open it. Ofcourse there is, I saw him come –yes, dammit, I know what I saw. Adrian! You're name? – no, doesn't matter. Open…no? No? You like the gun there? Something'll be coming out the other side if…gooddd…"

…They watch, stupefied, as the man begins to sink into the building. Almost instinctively, as one would try and save a drowning man, Adrian's hand shoots out and grabbed the man, halting his sinking…and Adrian gasped, wide eyed, as a door grew in the place where the man was half immersed in the wall, and pushing it's two neighbors jerkily away, as if it were in a particular rush, a building comes into view.

And Adrian stared.

The lighting is pale dark and sensual. The song, slow. Languorous. The bright, harsh, raw sunlight stops at the doorway, and creates a thin shimmering film beyond which the darkness danced untouched. Through this screen, Mikeal can see silhouettes twisting, coming together, striping apart, and twisting again… silhouette, no, people – but he can't get the strange illusion out of his head- dancing their dances. Shakily, he punches through the layer and some of his anxiety disperses. And inside, even the air currents feel different; cooler, somehow. Something tingles his skin.

Bracing himself, he rushes through the barrier. "Freeze." A few cops remain outside, both petrified and enthralled by the phenomenon, but most venture inside, un-holstering their guns, and spreading in the prescribed formation.

"Stop standing like idiots and go up, against the walls."

For a moment, there is silence as people process what had happened. Then like a rising murmur…

There are shouts and screams, and disdain, "Pathetic little toys," a man yells and calls his wand with a flick of the wrist and –BANG- and blood and a cry. "I'm serious, kids, against the walls," and a teenager with his proverbial legs cut off from beneath him, stares at his bloodied stump, touching, almost curiously, the black piece of metal engorged in his hand, before pain catches up to a brain trying to flee from reality, and then, a groan, a whimper, and choking sobs…

Guns point at anyone trying with anything in they fingers, and they, gaze flickering to the sobbing boy, open their eyes and palms wide, and wands drop, and clatter clatter clatter… the cops spreading, guns pointing, grouping the people and –Bang- and people flinch and press they hands against their ears… and empty eyes collapse with a thud onto the floor next to Martha, and Martha twists, looks into the dead man's mind, and shrieks and then shouts, incoherent in fear, "pleasepleaseplease." And as if a dam had been burst, suddenly there is hysteria, and the cops outside, observing the absence of danger, saunter in, shouting with loud, hollow commandeering voices, "Quiieeet!" And as one is dragging the Man-Who-Revealed through the barrier, the light sudden erupts, violently, into a blinding glare…

Nobody really knew what happened. The light lit and blinded everyone, but since the cops were facing the entrance, they remained relatively undamaged. So did a few wizards. Dazed, and seeing revolving echoes of the scene, somehow the wizards coordinated their wands into their hands and swung them in wild motions, muttering, muttering, curse after curse…

And a cop went tumbling into the ground, his gun, wrenched by some invisible force beyond his grasp.

At the moment, beyond any of their grasps.

And frightened completely, by the unnatural connotations, like a pair of beasts unable to cope, the cops lose control. Entirely.

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Bloodshed, bloodbath, blood.

Virtue doesn't matter anymore; morals are redundant. Both parties are facing an alien force. And both are scared, and both are armed. And guns smoke, and wands shoot… there are holes through which guts pour out and people, squashed, pressed until they burst against the ceilings. Some of the smarter ones shoot from outside, strafing and firing… and everything that moves is targeted… war in miniature: a very real, very dirty caricature, where every person reaction is magnified because it can be seen by everyone else, and every scream is heard, every splatter of blood is…

It won't last for long. People have been informed. Mediating forces are on their way.

It didn't last for long. But long enough.

Long enough, at least, to provide Lily her escape.

And Mikeal, smart, accurate, unmerciful, with a harsh pounding in his head reminiscent of his conversation with Lily suddenly erupts into screams and drops to the sidewalk.

And a few curious eyes stare, hysterical in their own manner, from a safe comfortable distance.

Author's Notes: Yes, you'd probably be wondering how the hell could a muggle notice and soon, I'd provide the explanation.

Next Chapter: PianoMan.

If you did understand the subtle interconnection between the two main scenes, (I hope, at least, that they were subtle, but not so much that only I could see 'em) wait for one more chapter to draw you're conclusions.

Please Read and Review.