Hermione lay awake, watching the ceiling. She could not sleep, and not because she was leaving for Hogwarts the next day. Through all the excitement from the Death-Eaters, she had quite forgotten what Quinn told her.
Pondering the day over, as she often did when sleep was scarce, and came across that moment. She couldn't help but chuckle at the memory. It was pale in comparison to the sign blowing up in the sky. She couldn't quite recall what he had told her, and that was troublesome. She shifted in her sleep, several times. Groaning, unable to remember or sleep, and a headache awakening, she moved about. She took off her nightgown, perhaps it was too hot. No, she pulled it back on, as it was too cold. She tied her hair up, but that hurt so she put it down. She stood up and walked around her bed three times, and still nothing improved. Ginny woke up grudgingly. "What are you? Sleeping on an anthill?" the red head moaned, "have a rest, will you? I'm becoming rather fed up," she turned over without waiting for a reply and covered her head with the pillow. Hermione stood, watching Ginny's sleeping form for a quiet minute; the red hair seemed to trigger a sort of memory. Hermione smiled gaily when she recalled and lay down again, hands daintily placed on her belly. When it all came back, she couldn't help but chuckle.
'Oh! He mistook me for a fool. This make-believe is far too foolish to be truth!' she thought, biting her lip in a sort of eagerness. It was silly, now, that she believed him. Maybe it was his eyes and he looked serious and seemed to mean every word. Alas, she was not one to be jested. With a mine more at ease, she found her eyes closing and sleep overcoming her.
The night was a brutal one. Even Hermione, who imagined herself well at ease, dreamt of things no child would hope to see. Terrible things, they were. It is one thing to describe to you how terrible it was, but to actually tell you what happened; now that enforces the horror.
It began as any average dream would, with some strange place unbeknownst to the dreamer, yet as familiar as their own home. Here, it seemed to be a lovely garden. The grass was green, and Hermione could not feel herself, she raised a hand and found nothing. She was only watching. There were roses of an unnaturally lively red color and lilies of snow-white, tulips of rich velvet, and all these flowers arranged themselves in a sort of circle. The sky was not bright blue, but rather the color of ocean water. Clouds watched down curiously before passing. The flowers shivered in the light breeze and a sound of wind chimes accompanied them. Things remained in this nearly ideal abstraction for moments on end.
It grew darker, suddenly, clouds above head conjoined and gathered into a looming gray mass and glared down.
Movement was unnatural to Hermione, it was somehow delayed, and calm drops of water fell upon here and the sound of rushing rain replaced the breeze. The flowers grew, and abruptly too. They sprung up from the earth, growing farther and farther away until they appeared to be trees. Or, perhaps it was Hermione who grew shorter. One cannot be sure when her own feet refuse to move.
In front of her, glinting in with droplets of rain water, was a blade. It looked no larger than a butcher's knife and off the same curving shape, there was a few spots of blushing rust on the antique handle, otherwise it was in mint condition. She reached forward, and to her surprise she could see a hand stretch out. It was dressed in some form of deep-black armor that grew heavier with each new pelting rain drop, which was the size of her head. Grabbing the blade, she woke abruptly.
Sitting up, she saw Mrs. Weasley at the door. The woman smiled, "Up just in time, Hermione dear. Ginny!" she called sharply and Ginny started. She pulled herself out of bed, and Mrs. Weasley did not leave until Ginny was getting her clothing on. "Don't want to be late, now, do we?" she left and Hermione was left with a peaceful face and quaking hands. She was quit unsure about that dream, except that it reminded her of the conversation with Quinn yet again. Scarily enough, she started to believe him. Her common sense told her it was impossible, but everything was going for it.
He did say something about a few more of "them" arriving at Hogwarts. Until then, she would doubt their existence. She fumbled to grab her cloak when Ginny called her out of the daze.
Ginny had the suspicion that Hermione was not all there at the moment, and it was enforced when the girl put her socks on the wrong feet and her shirt both inside-out and backwards. "Hermione!" she called, and helped her get dressed properly. "We'll be late, I can already smell breakfast. We ought to get down before the boys eat I t all up," of course, Mrs. Weasley would never let such a thing happen, but it was a way to urge Hermione.
England was dressed in his favorite suit and awaiting the train at platform 9 ¾. He took a look at his watch before taking it off and placing it in his bag. He nearly dropped it when he looked at the foul mess inside. One of his bottles of ink had very well cracked. The inky fluid bled into his books, onto his wand, and onto his quill. He cursed and set his things down. He fished for the wretched bottle and cut himself instead. He thought he had found the bottle and pulled his bleeding finger out. He sighed and stood.
This was a poor decision. An elderly witch had spotted his cut and walked over. She pulled her wand and healed it, during which a clumsy oaf of a boy tripped off England's back and a very sharp crack lashed through the air. England stood erect and turned slowly, much like a horror film. The boy had picked himself up and ran away. The witch smiled at him and left. England, quite relieved that his finger was alright, was in a state of shock. He kneeled down and opened the bag, possibly too forcefully. The bag ripped at the mouth. Inside, the ink had caked on and England pushed his hand in once more. He pulled out his white wand and stared at it hopelessly. It was snapped in half. His oldest and most priced wand was useless. Feeling a small urge to cry, he set it down. He would ask one of the teachers to aid him in fixing it, but what if something was to go wrong on the train?
He dug through his bag, trying to find something that was not destroyed. The books were ruined, the wand was dead, the bottle was broken into minute pieces, and even the arrow was snapped.
England sat back hopelessly.
Wait… The arrow?
He shot back forward and picked up the arrow. His mouth was agape as he stared at the strange thing. He didn't recall putting it in there. It was as long as his forearm, the feathers at the end were soft and red (matted with ink), and the tip was made with some crystal. Had it not been for the crack along the spine and the inky stains, it would have been the most beautiful arrow England had ever seen. The crystal shone blue and purple in the light. He set it down gently into his bag and peered in, what else could there be inside?
To his surprise there was a small sack made of the finest leather. The train whistled, calling him over. He grabbed his bag and headed inside and when he was finally comfortable in the compartment he took a look at his objects again.
The leather sack held various instruments. A small bottle, filled with a sunny red liquid was first, and England didn't dare take it out. Besides that there was a small pipe, as to play music. This, he did pick up, but only after he analyzed the neighboring objects. There were some aged coins of gold and silver (not muggle nor wizard money, as far as he could fathom), a ring black as charcoal, and a blade. He rejoiced greatly when he saw the blade, it was the one he had searched for. He kept it in its leather case, though.
He picked up the flute when The Golden Trio walked in. Harry opened his mouth to speak, Hermione looked queer, and Ron was dizzy somewhat. The moment, the scary moment when England placed the darling flute to his mouth, these odd looks faded away. Hermione smiled, Harry laughed, and Ron continued telling his joke. They sat down and watched England intently, as children would watch a cartoon. England played a first note, it was not shrill as a whistle, not calm as an oboe, but miraculous. Such a sound rang through cabin, it was like a breeze through the woods.
England pulled his mouth away and looked tired suddenly. He spoke with the three children, and to his delight, the spell seemed to be broken.
Alright, England though, one problem down, some more to go.
