Harry Potter sat up in bed, awakened from yet another nightmare. This one was new, and it shook him to the bone.
He was one year old. He was smiling and cooing and laughing with his parents. Then the door burst open with a bang and his mother jumped up and ran. His father shouted at the intruder, yelled at Lily to run faster, screamed obscenities, but then his voice died after an inhuman screech of a curse and a heart-wrenching thud as his body fell lifeless to the floor. Lily had panic in her eyes; she knew she would not live through this. She carried the boy into the nursery, and set him into his crib.
Harry looked around, and saw a little girl, about his size, with his mother's hair and his father's eyes: his exact opposite. His mother silently mouthed the words to various protective spells and then the door was thrown off its hinges. The man waltzed in, not once taking his eyes off of Lily. Harry would never forget the look in his eyes. The screech, the flash of green light as bright as his own eyes, and Lily's stone-cold body collapsing to the floor. Since Harry was only an infant in the dream, there was nothing he could do to shield himself or the other baby. But when the malicious man raised his wand and grinned, Harry knew what would happen. Or so he thought.
The monster cast the spell, that screeching high-pitched voice forever burned into Harry's memory. He thought it would merely bounce off of his forehead and slam back into the man; that's what had really happened. In his nightmare, however, the curse hit him full on. His body burned and he thought he was going to explode. His head hit the soft cushion of the crib, but his eyes still worked. He saw the baby girl - his mind's personification of his long-lost sister - giggle and clap her hands. Voldemort smiled as he flew effortlessly over to the baby, lifting her up out of the bed. He saw the man grin and coo at her, before the pair left. The man who'd killed his parents had taken his twin sister, and was going to turn her evil.
When he had fully roused himself from the sleep-clouded replay of the dream, he stood up and shook himself awake. He poked his fingers into Hedwig's cage to wake her up and grabbed a sheet of parchment. He needed to write to Hermione.
The train ride to London was agonizingly slow. She had already wasted almost all of the muggle money she had left on her, and galleons would do her no good on this train. She found herself feeling claustrophobic, hungry, and utterly bored. Somehow, though, she had drifted off to sleep, only to live through the same exact nightmare her twin brother had just experienced. In her version, however, she had been the one to die. And she had, in reality, if you thought about it.
Their parents murdered, they were left alone. They were separated, she had never even known he existed. But now, Harry was famous. She, on the other hand, was a nobody. Not that she minded, but she wondered how exactly she had gone unnoticed. Obviously someone had come to their home and taken Harry away. Why didn't they take her with him? Why wasn't she allowed to grow up thinking she had a family, that there was someone like her? Her thoughts cleared instantly as a quiet bout of static came on over the intercom of the train, signifying the conductor was about the make an announcement. She shifted slightly in her seat, and waited for what he had to say. The calm, deep voice told the passengers that they were nearing the London station, so please begin gathering your belongings.
She felt the knot in her stomach tighten considerably, and silently hoped that luck would be in her favor.
"Stand up."
He made no attempt to get off the ground.
"I know you heard me. Now, STAND."
He pulled his knees into his chest and thought maybe if he folded himself in tight enough, he would disappear altogether.
It didn't work.
The footsteps pounded on the tiled floor. He squished his eyes shut so tight he was sure the lids would rip open and braced his body for impact.
The kick was well-aimed. It was en route to smash into his stomach, but for some reason, the blow never came. He allowed himself to slowly slide one eyelid open, just long enough to see what had happened. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.
His father, who had been towering above him, was now lying on the floor. From what he could see, the man wasn't breathing. He rose to his feet slowly, and checked for his father's pulse. There was none. Lucius Malfoy was dead.