Gillian sipped at the chipped room of a tea cup, not actually drinking. She sat across the table from Mrs. Figg, who was staring at her with a fiery intensity. "So when did you first realize that you had the magic?" asked the old lady.
Gill puzzled with the question. The magic…well, she always knew that she wasn't ordinary, and she had always felt a little…powerful. But magic? Magic…like flying broom and conjuring silvery stags and using a wand…no. No, she wasn't magical like that.
"I'm not magic," she told Mrs. Figg. "Well, not really. I mean…" she though hard, "I think I'm just a little magical. Like, slightly more than most."
Mrs. Figg shook her head. "No, it was an irrational question. If you had any magic you would have been invited to the school. You're just more…aware of the magic around you."
"So how did you see what I was seeing? I thought it was just my imagination."
Mrs. Figg nodded. "I believe it was. But I'm also more in tune with the magic world. You just played...so perfectly. That sound was the musical equivalent to drawing a picture. For those of us who can interpret the sound…can understand it means something magical…I guess it just makes us all imagine that world."
Mrs. Figg closed her eyes and breathed in a raspy way, visibly upset. "But," she said, shaking her head energetically and smiling. "I leave that sort of thing to greater thinkers. I'm just a Squib so I can't really hope to understand magic."
"A squib?"
"Oh, yes. That's way I know about magic. My parents were. I'm not. Heck, my cats are more magical than me," she said, bending down to pet a plump tabby.
"What about me?" asked Gill.
"I don't know. I mean, if you're adopted then it's hard to say, isn't it?"
Gillian nodded, sadly realizing that her past was posing a real problem for the first time. She fingered the edge of her cup.
"Don't worry about it, hun," said Mrs. Figg reassuringly. "We'll figure it out."
Gillian nodded a little vacantly. She wasn't actually paying attention to Mrs. Figg anymore. Her mind had taken another journey, and was walking through a great stone hallway with torches and moving portraits and armor…Gill was far away at her mind's nighttime home.
She liked this place, she thought as she journeyed down the hallway, her mental self running fingers along the stones. Why do they have to hide this place from me?
"Gillian…?" asked Mrs. Figg worriedly from miles, nay, worlds away,
"What?" said Gill, jerking out of her mind and sharply back to the smell of stale dust and moth balls or Mrs. Figg's house.
"I asked if you would like some cake."
"Oh," said Gill, "No thank you. Say, do you know Harry Potter?"
Mrs. Figg looked at her. "Why? Do you?"
"Well, yes. I mean, no. I mean…I know he's…magic. But I haven't really met him."
"Well, I'm not saying anything. I've probably said too much already. That's between you and him," said Mrs. Figg. "You may get a chance to ask him some questions yourself, soon. He should be home today."
Gillian stood in front of the Dursley's house, flute parts tucked into one of the many pockets of her pants.
She didn't know what she would say. She just knew she needed to talk to him. He had been the focal point of her life for nearly a year now, and he didn't even know it.
So she waited across the street, knowing she looked terribly suspicious to neighbors and passersby, who didn't trust her already.
But she didn't care. She had to talk to him. After an hour, she sat cross-legged on the sidewalk.
She was getting tired, despite her nerves. She hadn't been sleeping well, lately. She dreamed to vividly to get any rest.
And Gillian had an idea. She felt into her pocket and took out the flute pieces, fitting them gently together. She knew this had to look extremely strange, but she didn't really care. The Dursleys weren't home, which meant that Dudley was away and Piers wouldn't be out. She didn't care about getting caught by anyone else; they wouldn't hurt her.
So, she started to play. She played softly, mostly just blowing a little air, so that no solid sound came out. She closed her eyes and tried to hear the notes changing in the breathy tones. She was seeing just the dimmest, blurriest image of people. They appeared to be in a car, and, although she couldn't see well, she was sure one of the shadowy figures was Harry.
Gill opened her eyes and put the flute down. A car…that didn't seem very magical. That probably meant that he was on his way home with the Dursleys. She probably wouldn't have long; she couldn't see the Dursleys making a long trip to get him. She stood up and started to pace.
So she continued to wait, her hearting jumping excitedly into her throat every time she heard a car engine, only to be disappointed as it passed by.
And then she heard an engine, and watched the car pull into the Dursleys house. Gill made like she had just been walking by. She didn't want them to think she had been staked out waiting for them. But she made sure not to walk too fast. She wanted to be sure she saw him.
And there he was. Stepping out of the car…and looking like he didn't even know he was doing it. Gillian slowed her steps a little more. She didn't really know Harry well, but she was sure she had never seen him look like this. He looked…removed. Like he didn't even know he was alive.
She got worried, and decided she would have to visit just as soon as possible. She went to the park, and sat on a swing, forcing herself to stay a little while, so as to not look suspicious.
About fifteen minutes later, she walked back to the Dursley's and saw that the car seemed unpacked and everyone was inside.
She went up to the door and knocked. 'Okay,' she thought, 'this is it. They probably won't want me to see him, but I've got to try...'
Gillian heard someone yelling inside, and the door opened, and Gill was shocked to see Harry standing there.
"Oh," she said. She hadn't expected to speak with him so soon. "Oh…hi Harry. Um—my name is Gillian. Gillian Polkiss."
She had expected some reaction when he heard her name and put together that she was Piers' sister, but Harry barely blinked.
"Um..." she was completely thrown off. She didn't know what to say or how to react to his complete….lack of reaction.
"Harry, who is it?" yelled Mr. Dursley from another room. Harry didn't even respond to him.
"Well, I was just thinking—I mean, we're kind of neighbors…no, that's not what I mean…uh…"
And when she was met with further silence, she gave up on finding any potentially tactful approach.
"Here," she said, suddenly grabbing hi wrist, pulling him out the door and shutting it behind him. "Listen," she said.
And she took the flute out of her pocket, sat in front of him and started to play.
But this was the first time her song wasn't beautiful. It was dark and disturbed, embodying screams and confusion and darkness and death.
She wanted to stop playing, but she fell entranced by the horror, and as she closed her eyes, she saw…a veil…and she heard screams around her, felt fear, and a terrible, burning pain in her chest as she fell…into the veil…and…
"Stop!" Harry screamed, and hit the flute out of her hands, grabbing her arm, chest heaving.
Gillian was startled…too confused to be scared of Harry.
"Harry…I know," she said.
And Harry threw her wrist away and turned his back on her. "You don't know anything," he snarled.
But Gillian was sure that she heard a sob in his voice.
She did know.
She knew about wizards.
She knew about Harry.
She knew about Voldemort.
She knew about Sirius.