Imagine that you just discovered the most beautiful secret of your self-potential. Imagine you've discovered a new level of existence, platforms above any high realm of living you've ever experienced. Imagine you've discovered it…and can't possibly reach it. And not only can you not reach it, but it's been taken away from sight. Beauty…gone.
Gillian put away her journal with a heavy sigh. It definitely wasn't helping. Her parents had been taking her to a psychiatrist again. But, to her dismay and her parents' confusion, Dr. Clark had refused to treat her. She had been forced to visit some ignorant, tragic woman every week who lapped up anything that bought into her new age techniques.

During her first visit Gill had almost walked out. Dr. Samson, or Suzy, as she insisted Gillian call her, was an older woman trying desperately to look 30 with hair bleached to a frizz, spider eye lashes, blue eye shadow and a VERY red lipstick.

And, apparently, suits were too old. She was wearing a hot pink track suit when Gillian met her.

Gillian despised Suzy, and had told her parents so on several occasions. But they were absolutely convinced that it was the best thing for her.

It was probable, Gillian thought, that she wasn't being completely fair to Suzy. After all, she was looking for unhappiness, almost. She just could imagine being happy or satisfied in this place when she knew there were greater things out there. And Suzy was possibly the most grounding and ordinary person she had met.

Gill had been doing worse in school than usual. Even her English teacher expressed concern about her slipping concentration and the constant dark themes in her writing.

She spent the majority of her time in the creaky, dusty attic, too. She had cleared out the area slightly to be her own safe haven since nobody was safe from Dudley anymore. During the task of cleaning the space Gillian had made a discovery: an old flute. It was in a tattery old brown leather case, but the flute itself was in impeccable shape besides the need to be shined. During her hours in the attic, Gill had been writing in her journal and, more often, learning to play the flute. She discovered that the instrument was fairly easy for her. She had had no trouble making sound and had worked out most major scales without aid within a week. She spent most of her time, now, making new songs that she logged away in her head.

Her songs were different than her writing. Her writing was always dark and painful, feeling lonely and outcast. Her music, though, flowed naturally from something deeper. Gillian just closed her eyes and a new world burst forth from the flame of colors that dances behind your lids, creating beautiful, incredible creatures, painting pictures of the impossible and the wondrously ordinary in a place beyond imagination. And Gillian played their songs, and when she opened her eyes she saw the places and creatures and people dance into life around her.

And as the weather turned, the attic began to swelter and Gillian was forced to take her music elsewhere.

Besides, she wanted to be prepared for whatever summer might bring.

You never knew when Harry Potter would be back.

Gillian sat cross-legged in the slightly wooded, undeveloped area behind the park, flute to her lips as she shut her eyes and began to drink in the sights as patches of sun and shade simultaneously warmed and cooled her skin in feathery kisses of wind.

As she blew the first note, the first note of summer and freedom and magic and peace, she a heard rustling and gasp behind her that wasn't from the otherworld. Her eyes flicked open and she spun around as the hazy image of a unicorn cleared form her eyes.

Standing behind her, looking awestruck, was Mrs. Figg.

Everyone knew Mrs. Figg. She was something of an oddity for the sleepy English suburb; a wild-looking old lady with far too many cats.

Gillian knew Mrs. Figg because her parents had learned about her as a sitter through the Dursleys. The old woman had sat for her and Piers many times when they were younger.

Now the old woman was staring rapturously at the flute in Gill's hands.

There was a long silence, during which Mrs. Figg's eyes never left the flute.

Mrs. Figg was the first to break the silence. "That," she said with a teary voice, "was the only magic I've ever known."

'Magic', thought Gillian, staring down at the flute. 'Magic…'