It was only a few weeks before summer ended and she would be thrown back into school that Gillian felt it was finally safe to leave her house again without her parents dogging her footsteps. She was nervous about the whole ordeal, still, but she knew it was important that she speak with Harry before he left. One year ago…

It was one year ago this very day that Harry had mysteriously flown off into the night sky with an odd assortment of people…and Gillian was going to let him get away this time.

As her parents dressed to go out that evening to a dinner party at her father's work, Gillian snuck up into the attic to find her flute, which she had left there the day her parents checked her in to the mental ward. She found the pieces, lying dusty on the floor, and lovingly polished them off while checking them for any bent keys, missing pads, or similar problems the flute may have procured during its span of undignified disuse on the attic floor.

Gently, and as softly as she could, Gill closed her eyes and raised the assembled flute to her lips, warbling out just one soft, sweet note, sharp and smooth and lovely. And, all at once, a flame flickered in front of her eyes. She stopped quickly. This was a good piece, and she tried very hard to hold onto it. This is what she needed to play for Harry, and she couldn't lose it. Too impatient and afraid of losing the song to wait for her parents to leave, Gill ran to her room, silently, and shut her door.

Breathing deeply, she took the flute apart and put the pieces into her cavernous pockets. She focused as hard as she could on that note and the lick of flame as she opened her window and crawled out onto the roof below.

It wasn't a far drop, but it could be dangerous. Positioning herself as finely as she could, she lowered body down and pushed off the side of the house. She landed catlike on the ground below, and checked quickly to see if anything felt sore. After she verified that all was well, she took off behind the house, crossing over to the backdoors neighbor's street so her parents wouldn't catch her in front of the house.

It was difficult to keep hold of the fiery note in the cool, licking fingers of the evening breeze as the sun sank, but she put all her will into that one note. It was exactly what she wanted to say to Harry, exactly what could help him, she was sure.

She was running, not even entirely conscious of her path, she was so absorbed in the note. She was very relieved to find that her feet had, indeed, brought her to the Dursleys' house of their own accord. The Dursleys' car was gone, meaning they had left for the same party her parents were attending. Her father worked under Mr. Dursleys at Grunnings. Dudley should be headed over to her house even now, to drink himself stupid with Piers on their parent's vodka. Which meant Harry would be alone.

She walked up and knocked tentatively on the door. Would he even answer? She screwed up her resolve and stood taller…even if he wouldn't answer, she would find a way to him. Knocking louder, Gillian made sure there could be no mistaking her presence. She heard footsteps inside coming down the stairs, and saw a dark figure pass by the doorside window. There was a long pause.

"He's seen me," thought Gillian, "and he doesn't know if he wants to answer the door."

"Harry, open up!" Gillian called out, knocking again, "This is important!"

A few more seconds of apprehension followed before the door opened slowly and Harry Potter stuck his head out, looking at her with a look of mixed apathy and curiosity, a combination hard to pull off. "Yes?"

"Harry," said Gillian, realizing this had suddenly become much more difficult than she anticipated. "Please…I'm Gillian. Um. Just, please…listen."

She took the flute pieces out of her pockets, fumbling with the zipper for a moment, her suddenly clammy hands working worriedly to put the instrument together. She looked up at Harry desperately to make sure he hadn't gone away.

Then, sitting cross-legged on the step in front of the half open door, she focused on the note as hard as she could, willing the fire to come through despite the heavy influence of Harry's dreary aura. To her surprise, it was not difficult to find the flame after she pushed through the cold wetness of the rest of it. And, inhaling deeply, she played.

Without warning, the flame burst like fireworks, crackling and spitting, ashes flying wildly into the air and raining down. It was not destructive, though…this fire was far more romantic. And Gillian saw, through the flames, the silhouette of a magnificent, orange and gold-feathered bird, it's wings spread majestically as it soared, soared, soared…

And Harry interrupted Gillian. He was laughing…or crying? She looked up at him and found it to be an odd mixture of both. It wasn't mirth or lament, but a sort of bitterness of a melancholic wit. She just watched him, his eyes screwed up and tears leaking as he sobbed and gasped and laughed all at once. Then, standing on instinct and warning, she put her arms around Harry just as he started to fall, and came to her knees with him in her arms, his head buried in the crook of her neck, and his hands clutching desperately at her shirt.

"Shh," she whispered, stroking his back with one hand and holding his head with the other, "it's alright…"

Harry looked up at her, eyes wide and bloodshot, but smiling. "Wow, you have really got the whole reborn phoenix thing wrong."

Gillian sat in a large, white armchair in a stiff looking room, looking interestedly around her. She picked at a snag in the knee of her pants and bounced her legs, unaware of her fidgeting.

Harry entered the room with two cups of tea, watching her with a look of wonder. "I've brought some tea," he said with an edge of unease, apparently unsure of what such a situation called for. Gillian jumped slightly in her seat before rising to take the cup from him. "Yeah…thanks."

They stared at each other for a moment, both at a loss for words.

"So—"

"I was wondering—" they began at the same time.

Gillian looked away bashfully, so Harry continued. "I was wondering what exactly you know," he said, nervously. "I…don't want to be rude or anything. It's just all very…strange. Sudden. Here I hardly know you, and thought you were a muggle, and here it turns out—"

"Oh, I am a muggle," said Gillian abruptly. "I mean, I think I am. Well, maybe. I don't know. Um," she seemed to realize that she was not speaking very coherently and seemed upset with herself for speaking up on the matter. "Well, the thing is, I'm adopted. And…well, Ms. Figg seems to think I might be a squib…"

"Oh," said Harry, "Oh, I'm…sorry…" he seemed to try to bite back the words as soon as he said them. "No, no I didn't mean it like that. I didn't mean it at all…I mean…"

Gillian saved him from his embarrassing apology and smiled warmly at him. He went quiet and, slowly, smiled back. Theys tood like that for a while, grinning g stupidly at each other, before they both realized what they were doing and looked away quickly.

"This is so strange," said Harry, partially to himself.

Gillian nodded. "I promise you," she said, "this all has been a lot more strange for me than it is for you. I had a normal perception of the world and my place in it, and then, suddenly, poof! Wands, and broomsticks, and Harry Potter, and magic…"

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, I had about the same problem a few years ago. It can be a bit…overwhelming."

Gillian looked taken aback. "How did you have the same problem? Have you always been a…you know? Um…magic?" she said, at a loss for words.

"A wizard," said Harry, helpfully. "And, yes. Sort of. You're born with magic, that is. But I didn't know anymore than you a few years back. It was all kind of thrown at me at once."

Gillian was surprised…how could you be magic and not know about magic? "How could you be magic and not now about magic?" she asked.

"Well," explained Harry, "it's really not that uncommon, what with muggle-borns and all—"

At this, Gillian's mouth fell open and she gaped at him…

"Muggle-borns? There are muggle-borns?"

"Oh," said Harry, "well, yes. About the opposite of a squib, you know?"

"Are you a muggle-born?"

"No," said Harry.

"The Dursleys aren't…!"

"No!" said Harry quickly, laughing a little. "No…of course not! My parents were…"

"Oh, right," said Gill. She had forgotten that Harry was an orphan like her. "Harry," she began, at last, "Why does everyone know you? I mean…why are you famous? And what's the whole…veil…thing…"

She looked up nervously to see if she had gone too far. Harry's brow had, indeed, darkened, and his eyes had gone glassy and distant. But he did not look angry. He looked like he was going to speak…