Bad dreams. Almost every sleep was now peppered by bad dreams. Nightmares of a hundred faceless boys and girls, men and women, pointing and laughing at him. Sometimes he would fall over, sometimes he would realise he was naked. Sometimes Dumbledore was there, calling him a coward. Other times every girl he knew would be taunting him from the arms of boys much smarter, braver and more handsome than himself. Draco Malfoy would sometimes steal his wand and sometimes it was Harry Potter. During the really bad dreams, Severus Snape would be standing over him in his grandmothers hat, deriding everything about him. Mum and Dad would turn away from him, ashamed of him…

But right now, Neville Longbottom was fast asleep, wrapped up safely in his bed sheets. The bright August sun shone through the glass window, bathing Neville’s bedroom in a hue of golden light. Neville Longbottom lay sleeping in his bed beneath dark red blankets, his face pressed into a pillow. Occasionally he would snort and snore and roll around as his alarm clock, embedded into the chest of a model Griffin that sat on his bedside cabinet, stretched and yawned loudly.

On the old tree that stood outside of Neville’s first-floor window, which had not yet began to shed its green leaves as summer gave way to autumn, sat a gathering of birds singing and chirping into the morning sun. A gentle, cooling breeze glided past them and through the open bedroom window. The curtains ruffled and Neville grunted in his sleep as the cold air met his face.

The clock struck half-past eight, and the model Griffin raised its head, opened its beak and roared loudly. Neville groaned and buried his head deeper into his pillow, but the Griffin ruffled its feathers and roared again, louder this time.

“Five more minutes,” Neville said sleepily into his pillow as his grandmother rapped upon his bedroom door.
“Early start Neville, remember!” she called.

The Griffin alarm clock, after roaring once again, stretched its wings and leapt from the bedside cabinet onto Neville’s bed. It climbed onto his pillow, held down around his head tightly by both of his hands, and crept slowly towards his fingers…

Neville yelped and bounded out of bed as his alarm clock clamped down hard on the pinkie finger of his right hand. He caressed it gently as the enchanted model Griffin its place upon the bedside cabinet, with a content look upon its face, having done its job.

Neville rubbed his sleepy eyes and blinked into the bright sunlight shining on him through his window. Yawning, he pulled himself off of his bed and reached for the bedroom door handle. He stretched his long arms as he walked down the hallway towards the bathroom, accidentally knocking a framed picture from the wall as he did so.

“What fell?” his grandmother called from downstairs.
“Nothing,” Neville called back as he hung the frame back on the wall while an irritated-looking wizard in the picture shook his fist at him. “Sorry,” Neville mumbled.

Ten minutes later, with his teeth brushed and hair combed, Neville stepped up to the tall wardrobe in his bedroom. He pulled open the doors of the wardrobe, to which he had attached a scarlet and gold Gryffindor scarf and a moving photograph of a mighty lion (which was currently asleep), and began rummaging for clothes.

He had removed his shirt before remembering to turn his photograph of his mother and father to face the wall as he always did. As he grasped it he saw that even they were both still asleep, his mother’s head resting upon his father’s shoulder. Nevertheless, after watching them for a long moment, he turned it to face the wall anyway.

As he turned back to the wardrobe he caught a sight of himself in the bedroom mirror. He saw how his stomach, flabby and overweight, bulged over his trousers even though they were loose fitting pyjamas. For a moment he stood straight, head held high and gut sucked in; “still fat”, he thought to himself. He was getting a spot on his chin, too.

Turning away from the sight of the mirror Neville reached for clothes as his grandmothers voice urged him to hurry up from downstairs. Neville arrived downstairs in his jeans and sweater as the clock in the kitchen struck eight twenty-five. His grandmother, a tall, thin and bony women with a stern, strict look on her face that Neville had rarely seen differ, immediately marched out of the kitchen, comb in hand.

“Did you comb your hair?” she said. “You haven’t combed you hair right.”
“Gran, I did-” Neville began to say as he squirmed beneath the rough tugs of his grandmother’s comb.
“There, that’s better,” his grandmother said. “Much more mature looking.”

Neville followed his grandmother down the hall towards the kitchen. The walls of the Longbottom home were covered in black and white photographs of squat, round-faced members of the Longbottom clan that had long since passed away.

Uncle Algie and Aunt Enid were still snoozing in their frames, each slumped in a cosy-looking high chair. Further down the hallway hung a picture of Alfred Longbottom, slumped over his writing desk while holding a bottle of Manticore Mead; beside him hung Cousin Stanley, a man with a long beard who was nursing a black eye after another long nights drinking with Alfred.

Before Neville had even stepped into the kitchen, the familiar smell of breakfast had met his nostrils. He could hear the sounds of enchanted pots and pans and plates scrubbing themselves clean in the kitchen sink while his grandmothers favourite singer, “Magical” Marvin Mim, sang old fashioned songs over the wireless.

Feeling suddenly ravenous, Neville reached for a loaf of bread but his grandmother suddenly snatched it out of his hand.

“No time for that,” she said. “No dawdling; the sooner we get there, the sooner we get back!”
It was then that Neville caught sight of the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, a newspaper whose front page was covered in large, imposing headlines and a black and white photograph of rather dishevelled-looking men and women that Neville did not recognise. The headline, written in an eye-catching black font, read: “UNDESIERABLES ARRESTED!”

Neville grabbed the newspaper with his right hand and dragged it across the table, so that he could read it. Beneath the headline was a black and white photograph of Auror’s from the Ministry of Magic wrestling with people whose faces Neville could not see. “Auror’s arrest suspected dark wizards, wand thieves” the caption beneath the photograph said.

“Now don’t you worry,” his grandmother said, from across the table while reaching to snatch the newspaper away. “I’ve already read that, none of your school friends were mentioned.”

Neville breathed a sigh of relief as his grandmother slid the newspaper away from him and threw it in the bin. Everyday since last week Neville had been going through the same routine. First the latest edition of the Daily Prophet will be lying on the kitchen table. The headlines will talk about some new arrests in the night. Neville will grab the newspaper, expecting to see a friend being arrested by an Auror, waiting for their name to be added to the list of captured “Undesirables”.

But it hadn’t came yet. Dozens of strangers, unknowns, faces Neville had never been before, yes, but none of his friends. Not yet. There were so many familiar names, too many, on the list of people being hunted by the Ministry of Magic. Muggle-borns, friends of Muggle-borns. Harry Potter, friends of Harry Potter. His school friends. People in school he only knew by sight or by name. People he had met before in Diagon Ally. People who knew his grandmother. People who had known his parents. People who had been kind to him. “Mudbloods“. “Blood-traitors“.

Ok - what pushed me out of it a bit was the lack of detail. Given the way everyone is talking and the lack of refining detail on where they are, what folk look like and what they're doing, it makes it hard to follow because I don't really know what's going on beyond the almost uninterrupted lines of dialogue. It could be ancient Jerusalem, it could be anywhere, anywhen. It all sort of jumps in without clearing up some things.

You could’ve said that magic was in the air, but nobody would’ve believed you.

The night was well underway as the white Smord cruised down the Road to Nowhere. The windows, halfway rolled down, let in the breeze as well as the perfume of downtown Strangetown. Sims, mostly those over eighteen, were scattered across the sidewalk, walking, talking, kissing, or just standing around.

The brightly colored lights and pounding music soon gave way to the darkness and silence of the suburbs. The various smells of food, cigarette smoke, and Sims dissolved into the scent of wet dirt.

The driver, a boy named Nervous, pushed a clump of black hair from his face as he steered the car around the blocks. The two backseat passengers, Loki and Vidcund, were chatting about the movie the three had just finished watching.

“I still think the ending would be better if the whole movie wasn’t just a dream,” Loki said, tweaking his blond Dalí mustache. “It’s kind of lame.”

“I disagree. I think it makes a very interesting point; if something that seemed so real can be a illusion, how do we know what’s reality and what’s a dream?” Vidcund pushed his blond bangs out of his face.

“Sometimes I wish this were a dream. Then I could bring down the gas prices a little,” Nervous commented, flicking the turn signal.

“That’d be great, if it’s a lucid dream,” Loki remarked. “Otherwise, you’d be walking down the street, and you’d look down and realize you’re naked.”

“Nobody would need telescopes to peep anymore,” Vidcund snickered.

Nervous smiled until he saw a glint in the side mirror. “What the hell?”

Loki glanced out of the window. “What’s that car doing?”

He’d barely gotten the sentence out before the car was jerked off the road. He clenched his eyes shut and braced himself as the car spun. Nervous yanked the wheel to avoid the other car.

Vidcund tried to shut his eyes, but they were frozen open with terror. He could have sworn he saw a flash of red hair from afar. Then, he and Loki were flung from the car into the circle of light at the end of the block.

—-

Getting his bearings while airborne was damn near impossible. It didn’t help that he could only see darkness for miles.

“How am I still moving?” he wondered as he felt himself jerk to the left. He could feel his blond hair whip against his face as he continued to fly down the dark tunnel. He tried to see if he could change direction again, or at least look around, but try as he might, he couldn’t even move his toes. He also couldn’t flinch when he floated toward a blinding white light and a cool gust of wind.

“There’s some blue-no, wait, they’re closing again.” A voice echoed from high above. He tried to identify the speaker, but he began to sink away from the light and deeper into darkness. Soon, he could only see the light from the stars—or whatever those blurry white spots were. More voices, echoing and overlapping, swirled in his head as he began to float again, this time toward a warmer light.

—-

“I’d grab that person’s flashlight,” Loki thought, “but I think I might fall off the ground.”

He’d had his eyes closed not because of the light, but because he wasn’t sure he’d want to see what was in front of him. He was certain that whatever it was, it would be in duplicate or in rotation or insane. Opening his eyes to see it might worsen the dull ache in his head.

He could hear approaching footsteps. “Is that Vidcund or Nervous?” he wondered. He wasn’t curious enough to open his eyes and risk his head exploding.

“There’s a witch in this ditch!”

Loki’s eyes flew open. Nervous!

To his surprise (and delight), his headache didn’t worsen. In fact, the pain left when he unclenched his jaw and let go of the grass to which he’d been clinging.

“Wait a minute…”

There was no flashlight. Loki was sitting in the grassy crater of a meadow. The bright blue sky was cloudless. Behind him, a cluster of trees huddled over a spring. Over the edge of a crater, he could see a dirt road leading to a town in the distance. To his right, lying next to the crater was a blond figure in a blue gingham dress and red shoes.

Loki scanned the landscape. “How long have I been out?”

“A couple of minutes.”

Loki looked up to find a young, black-haired man wearing a green and orange outfit that looked like a cross between a boy scout’s uniform and a kilt. He bore an unnerving resemblance to Loki’s adoptive brother.

“Nervous?” Loki barely managed to get out.

The young man cocked an eyebrow, confused. The feeling was mutual. “Oh. I guess you’re not Nervous,” Loki said sheepishly.

“No, actually, I’m pretty calm,” the youth answered. “My name’s Nereus. I thought you and your friend would be nervous; that looked like a brutal fall.”

“Yeah...Sure.” Loki looked around. A few feet away, the blond man began to sit up. He brushed his hair away from his face, revealing green tinted glasses, a long pointy nose, and a black-lipsticked mouth.

“Vidcund, maybe,” Loki said, wondering if this was another doppelganger.

Vidcund sat up and looked down at the surrounding patch of poppies. “Wasn’t it nighttime when we crashed?” He looked around at the green fields, the forest, and the seemingly medieval, yet bright, village in the distance. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

Then he turned around and saw Loki, sitting in the ditch with someone who appeared to be Nervous in a boy scout kilt.

“And curiouser still.”

Loki scrambled out of the ditch with the man and over to Vidcund. “Are you really Vidcund?” he asked hopefully.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Vidcund stood up. Both he and Loki turned to see the young man, staring at them with great interest.

"Remember to be at the restaurant with him by six whether he likes it or not," Damian says.

"Yes." I force myself to look at my brother's face instead of watching the city of Himmelburg pass by in the carriage window. The white bandages over his empty eye sockets create an unsettling illusion of blankness, unfriendliness. The constant monotone doesn't help.

"If you really don't want to explain why you decided to disappear, I could do it at supper."

I clench my fists. "Please don't. That's my responsibility."

"But you don't want to."

I wish I could tell him to get out of my head, but even if I dared, he could still be digging around in my mind and I wouldn't know.

He tugs on his stiff collar and leans forward slightly. "You know you won't be able to do it."

No, I can't look at him any longer. I bow my head and stare at the ruffles and lace on my skirt. It makes me look like a child, and my height doesn't help. Damian's plan to make me appear nonthreatening certainly works. It also has the unfortunate side effect of humiliating me, but that's not important.

"Stop complaining. Short skirts keep out of your way."

I sigh. This isn’t the time to be arguing about my clothes. "I'll tell him by tomorrow," I say, trying not to sound whiny or desperate. "Please—"

"We'll see."

I bite my tongue and resume gazing listlessly out the window. From the clothes the people are wearing and how well the buildings are maintained, I can tell that it's not a bad district, just bordering the bourgeoisie area. Still, why wouldn't Wilhelm use the dormitories provided by the conservatory? Aren't they free?

The carriage stops. I don't waste a moment getting away from Damian and almost trip on the steps leading up to the door. I take the slip of paper from my handbag and check the address again before ringing the bell.

A small woman with curly blond hair answers within seconds. "Yes?"

"Are you Mrs. van Pfeffer? I'm visiting Wilhelm Ritter."

She looks me over and dusts her hands on her apron. "Room 5. Come with me."

I quickly glance over what I can see of the ground floor, which is just the communal sitting room, but I don’t stop and look closely because it might seem rude, so I follow her up the stairs.

"Thank you for your help," I say. Mrs. van Pfeffer nods and scurries back downstairs. As soon as she's gone, I take a closer look at the hallway, and I lean over the railing of the landing to look at the sitting room. The wall panels have obvious chips and scratches, the furniture is worn out, and the carpet is thin and faded. Cheery little paintings of fruit bowls and the countryside hang on the walls. A grandfather clock sits at the end of the hall. The other end has a large window. The place is clearly old, but it’s clean and warm. Friedrich Ritter must have looked everywhere to find a pleasant but inexpensive place for his nephew to stay.

I knock on the door with the brass 5 on it. "Wilhelm? It's me." Hurried footsteps make their way to the door. It opens a crack. I can see only his eyes and glasses and a sliver of his body, just enough to tell that he's keeping his clothes clean. That's a good start. Eva will be pleased.

"Cut that out and let me in."

It was a dark and stormy night. No, it wasn't; actually the weather was quite fair, and it was only eleven p.m.

In the month that it first attained some measure of self-awareness, the blob of grayish slime that would be known as Gracie asked three questions.

The first is almost impossible to translate. "Will I hunt now?" would be a good start, but the blob was a long ways away from a formal concept of "I." It asked this question once per day, directed towards the larger blob—the mother blob—and it had yet to receive a "no."

Hunting was not difficult for the blob in those days. In its eyeless, earless manner, it sensed creatures as it moved, and it matched their shapes and movements such that they thought it kin. By the time they realized their mistake, it was within striking distance, and their mass was added to its own—first a squirrel, then a badger, then finally a whole deer. The day seemed no different from any other, until the blob returned to its home, and was forced to ask its second question.

Where is Mother? The larger blob had never moved before, and to what would be Gracie, it had seemed as fixed and permanent as a mountain. The only signs that it had ever existed were a barren stretch of dirt where no plants grew, and, of course, the smaller blob itself.

With no concept of time, the blob had no reason to stop searching other than to satisfy its hunger pangs. Had it bothered to count, it would have tracked twenty-six periods of light and darkness before it heard noises it should not have recognized, somewhere in the distance amongst the trees.

"This is pointless. We don't even know why the magic levels around here didn't go down for so long—we'll never figure out why they dropped now."

"It's a little late to argue," another voice replied. "Let's just take a look and get—hold on, I've got a weird feeling. I think something's watching us."

The blob didn't even question how it knew what the words meant. Somewhere in the back of its mind, these creatures were familiar to it. Almost instinctively, it shifted to match its memories . . .

For the first time in its existence, the blob screamed.

Pain. So much pain. Not just in the arms and legs and head, but in a place the blob hadn't known it carried inside—a place another being might have called the soul.

"What the hell was that?" the first voice asked, a water droplet of relief in the blazing inferno of pain. The creatures would think the blob one of their own kind. They probably wouldn't hurt it, and might even help it. Might . . .

The blob had its first truly intelligent thought in the moment before it blacked out—but even then, it was remembering something older.

Why me?