She opened her eyes and found herself in a broad, elongated room. She could not make out the various silhouettes populating the room, given that her sight refused to focus. Her eyes ventured out further and bumped into a blinding light source that forced her to lool away briskly. Realizing that her fleeting incursion had not been enlightening —if anything, it had been a fiasco—, she retreated, averting her gaze. Eureka! She was thrilled to discover that she was sitting down, her hands operating of their own accord, scribbling away on what looked like a brittle, slightly cracked parchment. Jean giggled softly. What a strange dream scenario her brain had designed.
Her sight span had not worked itself out, but now she could distinguish objects and...people? Yes, that seemed to be the case. She could not vouch for the rest of the room, but there were clearly little figures in her vicinity. However, most of them were not writing as hurriedly and intently as she was. Though, she could not control her actions and, in all actuality, was more entertained by getting her bearings. There was no way she was awake, she pondered. The location must have been constructed by her brain, which is why she stopped looking for any familiar objects. Instead, she took notice of what her classmate —she assumed she must be attending some sort of class or conference— was doing, only to find him writing idly every once in a while and eventually resuming his likewise idly doodles. He sported a tousled, red-haired matt and was wearing a robe. She realized he wielded an old-fashioned writing quill, which he had just dipped in an inkpot.
The young boy sitting besides her was the embodiment of drowsiness. He tried to stay awake vigorously but the class' seeming tediousness was undoubtedly overwhelming for him. She snickered to herself, finding him mostly endearing.
In spite of how amusing she found her counterpart's behavior, she despertaly craved she could take in her surroundings and felt all the more exasperated, giving rise to the following observation:
"He looks unnervingly puerile".
The thought unsettled her. This could only be adream. But... why was she dreaming of an unknown, old-looking class replete with pubescents?
Jean frowned, puzzled to her core. For the time being, she returned to her inspection. In the meantime, her sight had grown more vivid and her notes had become legible. She squinted at the parchment, noticing that her handwriting looked neater —it reminded her of penmanship— but still resembled that of a young teenager. She brushed off the thought and eventually managed to decipher some words. They read:
Wingardium Leviosa is a charm used to make objects fly or levitate. It was one of the first ever-discovered and mastered charms by our ancestors. Besides its simplicity, you will find it of utmost importance in your future pursuits, for it will not just serve its intented purpose, but it will also help you attain a better understandting of spellwork.
First years should only use it to lift objects. Refrain from embarking upon unsupervised ventures differing its staple usage. Odd utilizations shall be instructed seldomly by your professors. Now, curiously enough, in the past, Wingardium Leviosa was employed by some wizards in order to achieve temporary flight when broomsticks were not used like they are nowadays. In fact, Quidditch had not yet been invented when Wingardium Leviosa was first performed.
Jean gathered quickly that her strange rejuvenated self was capturing the lecture to a T, dead set on seizing all the details she could, which did not stray from the way she used to take notes in highschool. Nonetheless, she did not dwell on that realization. The speech her professor —who in fact she was unable to hear distinctively, or anyone else for that matter—, was ridden with far-fetched statements only attribulable to a loony. Her mind floundered and she got chills as a disturbing feeling washed over her. A reiterative litany seeped in:
Wingardium Leviosa. Wingardium Leviosa. Take your feathers now. Wingardium Leviosa. Wingardium Leviosa. Take your feathers now.
The sound would not relent. She wanted to cover her ears but her body remained unfazed. She started to freak out. First she came across a haunted book and now her mind crafted insane scenarios she could not even have partake in. And-
Hold on right there! The book! She had forgotten about it altogether. She did not remember whether the anonymous authour had mentioned any of what whas occurring in her dream, but her surroudings were fitting of the spacious classrooms she described. The chanting she had registered took on a quieter note. Her disorderly, tumultuous thoughts stopped to a halt and, all of a sudden, the room she was in became cristal clear to her eyes and information rushed in like a merciless whirlwind.
She looked sideways. The classmate she had scrutinized earlier matched no other but Ronald Weasley and two seats from him lied Harry Potter, who was flicking and swishing her wand at the void. A huge grin graced Jean's featured. At least, she thought she had grinned, but judging from the way Ron glowered at her, the gesture must not have manifested itself. She huffed mentally. Having identified her whereabouts, she felt calm and collected, but she still hated the fact that her eyes were the only part to abide by her will. And so, she crossed her ams —or would have done so if she could have— and scanned Ron's face. She did not remember reading about this specific anecdote in the book, but then again, the Gryffindor girl had made it clear she would not delay her story bogging down in mundane, superfluous details.
She clearly had missed a lot while lost in her musings. Cognizant of her circumstances she took a backseat mentally and looked on.
"You are going to take someone's eye out", her mouth said with a mind of its own, punctuating every single word, "Besides, you are saying it wrong. It is Leviosa not Leviosar."
Ron gave her a skeptical yet tiresome look. She seemed to be done with her. Jean remembered that the author and Ron had not gotten along with Ron at the beginning. She herself had found the boy to be petulant and exceedingly childish at times, but that did not rule out the fact that the scolding she had just dished —not really her, but the Gryffindor girl— had been imbued with an undeniable bite. Yikes! It was safe to say Ron and the author had hated each other's guts right off the bat. At least, according to the scenario her brain had came up with.
To be honest, a part of her was opposed to the idea of it being her imagination's doing. She had been so transfixed by the book that it could be feasible her head had unconsciously felt compelled to fill in the small gaps the author purposefully skated over. That should be the only hypothesis up for discussion, but somewhere deep down she sensed she had already experienced this. It felt like an otherworldly echo tugging on her mind. Jean shook it off, discounting the prospect promptly. It was just a dream. Being a voracious reader, she was used to getting lots of dreams where she was able to indulge boundlessly in the fictitious universe she had fallen in love with. Nonetheless, this time around it all felt haunting and somewhat familiar.
Before her brain could spiral deeper, Ron gave her a defiant reply.
"You do it then if you are so clever. Go on, go on".
"Do what?", Jean wondered, utterly nonplussed.
She did not take long to understand what was happening when a white, filmy feather that had been sitting away before her parchment slowly flew up in the air. It swang loosely, though betraying a pattern. She darted her eyes over her classmates and realized that everyone, including her, were holding a wand. She did not have time to commit to memory hers as her professor finally came into view, commending her on her achievement.
"Oh, well done! See here, everyone? Miss Granger has done it. Splendid!", he gushed, enthusiasm and astonishment plastered all over his face. He had the stature of a dwarf and bore what seemed an electrified, carelessly trimmed beard. He stood on a towering, haphazard pile of books. A quaint character he was.
Jean would have smiled to herselfl, but that never happened. Miss Granger. Miss Granger. Why was she so profoundly perturbed by hearing her surname in a dream? Seeing as she related to the girl in endless aspects, it should not be frightening for her brain to mix up reality and fiction, but... She tried not to spin around the matter and continued watching things unfold. The next thing she knew, an explosion ensued, booming through all the corners of the room.
Right after that incident, the dream blurred again and in the blink of an eye, she awoke in her apartment. She rubbed her eyes maniacally and sighed, drinking up her her beloved sanctuary as the dreamed faded into nothingness. Her bedroom could not be considered the most sumptuous of all, but it was definitely cozy. Its arrangement was vocal of her persona. Textbooks were scattered across the desk and countless shelves of books and movies lined the walls, which where a light side of blue. Her cat would have been a part of it had she chosen to complete her studies in London, but she had never been one to play it safe when it came to her future.
She had taken the leap almost four years ago and had crossed the pond, moving to the United States. She had started her degree on a scholarship and had started working on weekends. She had managed to save up enough money and had moved out of the apartment she was sharing with other college students. Being an introvert, she preferred enjoying her moments of solitude at home, but that had not stopped her from befriending Gabrielle, a chatty, vivacious blonde girl she had met in her first year. In spite of Gabrielle changing her degree the next year they had remained as thick as thieves and now could not imagine her life without her. She had been the one she nearly stood up the previous day, all engrossed in the book she had taken home.
Jean cringed, reliving the entirety of her dream at the thought. Apparently, the book had made an impression on her. It was kind of scary how hooked she had been to it. She had not moved on from where she left off at the library. In fact, she had not even fixed herself dinner. After grabbing a drink with her friend, she had flopped down onto bed and passed out in a matter of seconds. What could she say? Exams had already taken control of her life as they did that time every year, and having another source to give her undivided attention to had tuckered her out. But after getting her beauty sleep, she felt her batteries were charged. And, honestly, she could have cared less if they were not. She sat up on her bed, turned a little and whisked the book away. She pulled up her knees, rested the book on them and was about to resume reading when she felt a faint beam of light seeping through the window shades. However, the uncanny curiosity she had for the Wizarding World overrode hunger and Jean returned her gaze to the book.
She huffed at the umpteenth remainder that the writer had not bothered to give the book a cleaner layout —chapters were not numbered or separated—, which meant she was on her own finding the spot she had left off. She had forgotten to bookmark it.
She crawled down her bed, leant on its edge and quickly grabbed a pen, after which she started numbering a chapter whenever the topic slightly changed. At some point, she even decided to bapstise them. The first chapter, where the Gryffindor started her narration, she named 'The beginning of the delirium'. She giggled and continued dubbing the different sections. When she found the spot she had stopped reading at, she sighed with contentment and jumped back into the story. She was only a couple lines into the page when a string of words oozed beside the right margin. Jean cowered away, hurling the book across the room.
"What the fuck was that?", she bellowed in undiluted terror as her eyes became watery.
Of course she had not forgotten about the book's terrifying antics, but she had relegated the memory onto the backburner for the time being, encouraged by its captivating plot. Suddenly, she was overcome with wariness, mirroring the same pangs of fear that had clutched her gut when the novel's words had first vanished into thin air. Her ragged breath gave way to a sense of uncertainty and nausea. She gulped several times, trying to gain back her composure. Wracked by apprehension, Jean padded out of her bed and paced up where the book had fallen. It was lying face down. Beads of sweat lined her forehead, her cheeks reddened. Her hand jiggled as she picked up the book and made her way back to bed.
"Come on, Jean. Pull it together", she encouraged herself, "It's just a book. It's right up your alley".
Bullshit.
She turned the book around so that she could read the sentence properly and gave a blood-curdling scream as new words emerged:
Please, do not ignore me. I know you you are there.
What on the face of fucking Earth?! This went beyond a sick joke. It was unhealthy and perverse. And, beyond everything else, how could words not just write themselves, but directly adress her? There was just no way all of this was taking place. And, yet, it was occurring.
Owing to the vested interest she had developed in the story, she had pushed aside the book's neglection, the fact that it was unedited and, most importantly, the absolute madness that had transpired the previous day. But this... This was the straw that broke the camel's back. Due to the uncontainable terror that bubbled inside her, hot tears had long been streaming down her face, marring her cheeks.
She focused her gaze again and braved another glimpse.
Please, reply. I am begging you.
Do not be scared. You should not be. I mean no harm.
"I would not be surprised if the book started clocking me on the head", Jean thought to herself mockingly, "Fuck! This is terrifying".
Seeing that her interlocutor would not cease, stubborn in their efforts —regardless of the main character's gender, now that she thought of it, she could not tell for sure if the author was a man or a woman. She did not know why she had assumed the author was a woman just because she herself was one—, she humored them with a reply. Who is this?, was the only reply she mustered.
By now, you will have been dubbed The Brightest Witch of Your Age. There is no way you are clueless as to who I am. The situation does not call for any teasing.
"What kind of nonsense are they spewing? I should be the one calling them out on the number they are doing on me. It's fucking up my head!", she complained, her fear getting tainted by rage.
However, she kept it together and did not fly off the handle. What did she mean 'witch'? The sender must have lost their marbles for good.
I am sorry but I really do not know who this is. What is your name?
"There", Jean thought, "Keeping it polite". She had never found herself in such a predicament, hence she did not know how she should proceed.
I am sorry if I have been rude. The book was intented to fall into someone else's hands. I actually am mortified you read my most intimate thoughts.
J: What do you mean it has fallen into someone else's hands?
Do not sweat it. You are good.
"Their most intimate thoughts...", Jean mused, "Do they mean it is more than just a story?".
Her features conveyed disbelief.
"Magic?", she considered, "Come off it, Jean! There is no way you are buying their crap", she chided herself.
That did not entitle her to be mean, though, which is why she went with the conversation. In all honesty, she was intrigued. Why will not they tell me their name? It is not like I am going to disclose their identity or anything.
"They sound scared", she observed.
She felt pity spark at the pit of her stomach.
Do not sweat it? That made me laugh out loud. I had not heard that expression in so long.
"Why do they keep talking to me if I am not the one who should have found the book? Whatever that means, that is?"
I was just trying to be funny to lighten the mood. I understand you were not expecting for the book to be charmed?
J: I just wanted to read a little
Where did you find the book?
"Straightforward, are not we?"
A rush of anticipation coursed right through her.
J: At my university's library. Kind of hard to miss.
Universities? Pardon my ignorance. Care to tell me where you are from?
J: New York. Where are you from?
"Why are they taking so long?"
Jean was overwhelmed with anxiousness. And the wors thing was she did not even know why she felt so disquietened.
J: Did I say something wrong? I did not mean to upset you.
Are you an exilee living in muggle New York?
J: Um, no, I am definitely not an exilee. What does 'muggle' mean?
I understand you do not have the fainest notion about my procedence. God. I am so sorry you got dragged into this mess. I was trying to reach out a friend. You see, I wrote this book as an outlet for everything I have gone through and for her to know my situation. I really needed her help. It was my last-ditch attempt to fix everything.
Muggle means someone or something who is not magical. Shit. Yoy must be thinking I am some demented person but I promise I am not. I wish I could obliviate you and that, as a matter of fact, you could understand what obliviate means.
J: I am sorry you could not reach your friend. I am guessing that if you could not text her you must be in a tight spot.
J: I do not understand how contacting someone through a book is possible but I will not press you on that seeing as you have got bigger sorrows.
J: Did you have a bad fall-out with her?
J: And for the record, I do not think you are demented. I must be. There is no way I am not dreaming right now.
At this point, Jean was being completely honest. She thought their interlocutor was an odd one, but she did not think they were nuts. In fact, she had stopped playing along and was now being sincere. Besides, they seemed to be distressed and desperate and mocking them would have been downright callous.
I just do not understand how we are even having this conversation right now. I specifically warded the book for only her to read. In the light of things, I see that I did not perform well that ward. And, no, I did not have a fall-out with her.
I do not have much time left. Everything is uncertain now. Considering I have ruined my last chance, I might as well tell you my name, as there is no way anyone will know me in your world.
My name is Hermione Granger. What about you?
I really am struggling with this editor. I have no idea how the layout will turn out so please do not be harsh.
Any theories?
