Crisis

Thank you Neil Gaiman, thank you The Matrix - Ghost in the Shell - Death Note - Promethea - Harry Potter - and you.

6. The Spirit On Fire

Harry was thinking - trying to make sense of everything again. It was harder still when the woman began humming distractedly, staring out through her spectacles.

"While... you are away... my heart comes undone..."

"Who are you?" he asked, interrupting her singing.

She appraised him through her own rain-speckled glasses. "Well," she said, "perhaps you'd better call me Miss Finch."

"Is that your real name?"

"No. Not a bit."

"OK. Er. Miss Finch. Couldn't you just end the story?"

"Couldn't you just have a convenient landslide kill everyone?" she replied. "Or better yet, have the Vogons blow up the entire planet?"

"No - wait, was that a trick question?"

A van drove by; they saw their momentary reflections in its side.

"No." She fished in her jacket pocket and brought out a hairpin, which she stuck somewhere in the plastered-down hair on one side of her head. "There's an entire world in there, Harry, and it's bigger than you or me. Better too, I shouldn't wonder. Can you blame me?"

And the boy knew she was not talking about the wide, flat streets he had walked all his life, nor the places he had only heard about. Miss Finch lived in the places that would never appear on any map, the unplottable.

He turned to look at the end of the street and smiled. A memory told him there had been a tabby cat on the fence on Thursday; he'd left a bit of roast out for it, from Dudley's plate no less (which was a feat in and of itself).

"'S a funny thing about the hall of mirrors," said Miss Finch distantly. "You look at all the reflections and eventually you'll see different people. Bits of you and bits of others. As above so below and that sort of thing."

It had stopped raining; at least, water had stopped falling from the sky. The tree they were sitting under was still dripping determinedly. He took her arm and nervously coaxed her a few feet to the left.

Harry thought a bit more. "Then dreams don't end?" he challenged.

"Well, not unless Murphy grants them one -" She stared back at him. "Sorry. I was just -" Miss Finch folded her hands in her lap. "I still haven't attempted to wake up. To go on. If you really... have to know."

He touched his scar-less forehead again. "I see." There were still the Dursleys, Uncle Vernon, the Dursleys, no magic, the Dursleys, and no Hogwarts to get used to. But there was a school without Dudley in it. And however small that was, it could fill the shrinking part of him that still had hope and courage and action. After that, there was a world Outside.

The boy stood. "I think I need a cup of coffee. I'll see how Mrs Figg is -"

She raised her eyebrows. "You're only fourteen here, Harry. Tea's much better for you."

As Harry started to walk away he felt a tug on his sleeve and Miss Finch murmured, "That's why he didn't sleep. It was only partly the monsters. Mostly he was afraid that there would be a really wonderful dream and he'd still have to wake. Now you know."

"Who?" he said.

"Voldemort."

"Oh, him. It doesn't matter now," he said. "It's OK. So will you -" But he knew the answer already. Her face was devoid of expression; she stared at something he could no longer see.

"No," she said, "I don't live here. I don't think I'll see you again." She stood, a little uncertain on her feet, and walked away. The boy didn't try to see where she went.

Harry ended up keeping the notebook, though he had to surrender a few of the pages to Snowy when he lay it out to dry at Mrs Figg's house. He could almost look forward to school. He had no scar, no concerns... What could be worse after Draco Malfoy?

Somewhere where Time had never really stopped, they would be setting off fireworks and feasting; an entire world celebrating the end of Voldemort's tyranny and the triumph of the Boy Who Lived. But it wasn't his world any more. One half of the equation was gone from Miss Finch's story. Would it be enough for her to continue? He didn't know, and he wasn't sure what he'd like. It mattered less each day, anyway.

"Goodbye, Ron. Goodbye, Hermione," and he listed them, one for each couple of steps he took, until his voice grew hoarse. At last he ended with a soft "Goodbye, Tom Riddle." He frowned as his footsteps slowed; he tried to work out who he'd missed.

Then he knew. "Goodbye, Harry," he said.

The End